Chapter 17 Orion
Orion
“So,” I whispered to Harper that Monday in chem, “shall we volunteer to be locked in the supply closet together? I think I’m out of beakers. Are you out of beakers? Let’s go get some beakers.”
Harper laughed and blushed prettily. “We have plenty of beakers.” She tucked a curl behind her ear, not looking at me. “But if there’s anyone I’d risk a panic attack for, it’s you.”
I put my hand on my heart and pretended to almost fall off my stool. “Bennett. That was the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Hush,” she said, glancing around. As usual, Langford was late to class. “I’m working on it.”
“I can see that,” I said, a warm feeling flooding my chest. I’d had this feeling for girls before. They typically originated below the belt and rose no further. But this girl…
Kissing Harper Bennett had been more than anything I’d been prepared for.
From the moment we touched, something in my heart shifted.
Came awake. I’d spoken of physical anticipation, but when we kissed, another hunger had finally been sated.
As if I’d been starved and deprived, waiting my entire life and finally, finally found her.
And she’d found me. I was exceptionally good at hiding my broken pieces, but no one was looking either.
Not my parents anyway. But Harper looked.
She saw me. Past the money and the jokes and the mask of fine so that when we finally kissed and touched and shared each other’s breath, I felt found too.
But this was uncharted territory. I had no bloody idea what I was doing. I’d never cared for anything deeply except survival, and when things got rough, I turned to jokes and laughs. To fix whatever was broken before it got uncomfortable.
She doesn’t want that. She wants real.
And honest. And I was a cheating bastard who’d just turned in a proposal for the NoSci, with help from my father’s envelope.
My theory was that the right blend of polymers could bond to ions in asphalt and make potholes close on their own.
It was only a theory, and if by some miracle it passed round one, I’d still have to do all the work.
But self-adhering potholes was not what prestigious awards were made of.
Father can’t say I didn’t try.
“What do you have going on today?” Harper asked, pulling me from my guilty thoughts.
“First lesson with Wolfe after school, right before crew practice.”
Our first regatta was the next day (the school took a holiday on Tuesday for it) and the entire Academy was hyped the way most schools prepped for football. American and European football.
Harper eyed me up and down. “You seem nervous. Regatta or Wolfe?”
“Wolfe. He’s going to rip out my guts via my fingers.” I leaned in. “Despite the covert status of our relationship, are you coming to the regatta?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “And I was thinking—”
Langford blew in the door, muttering apologies, and immediately began the day’s lesson.
“You were saying?” I whispered.
Harper blushed again, looking uncharacteristically bashful. Shy, even. “Nothing.”
***
“I don’t have a lot of time,” I said, joining Professor Wolfe in the empty auditorium where Advanced Piano was held. “I have crew practice in forty-five minutes.”
“Ah, yes, the infamous Castle Hill regattas,” Wolfe said, rolling the r. “I’ll keep our inaugural lesson brief.”
Today he wore a long black coat, black pants, and shirt. He had no detectable odor of liquor hanging around him, and his eyes were clear blue lasers, scanning me up and down.
“First things first,” he said, indicating I should sit at the baby grand. He then laid a piece of music on the rack in front of me. “Can you read this?”
I scoffed, even as my insides twisted. “Of course.”
“Play.”
I obliged, because my brain—for whatever reason—decoded notes with ease. I took a mental picture of the page, set my fingers on the keys, and did as Wolfe commanded.
The piece started with a fast, repetitive series of three notes with my right hand—the music had me envisioning sunlit water rippling along a creek bed. Eventually my left hand joined with a harmony, but Wolfe snatched the sheet music off the rack.
“Stop, stop, stop. What did you just play?”
I shrugged. “Didn’t catch the name.”
“Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit.”
“Okay.”
“How would you describe what your right hand was doing?”
I frowned. “Repeating notes: A, C sharp, and F sharp.”
“Rapid triadic ostinatos,” Wolfe said. “Do you know what that means?”
“Not really,” I said, my neck heating. “I told you, notation isn’t my thing.”
“So you have facility with the music but no language for it.”
“I guess?”
“Have you played this piece before?”
“No.”
Wolfe cocked his head. “You weren’t reading the notes, you were watching your hands.”
“I took a photo of the page.” I tapped my temple. “Up here.”
The professor’s eyes widened slightly. “I see.” He dragged a chair beside my bench and sat, crossing one leg over the other. “Change of tactic. Tell me about yourself.”
“You want my life story?” I laughed shortly. “Don’t see how that’s relevant—”
“As pertains to piano. When did you know you had a gift?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I could always play.”
Wolfe narrowed his eyes. “For this to work, we’ll need to be honest with each other. But since being emotionally vulnerable is new for you, we can quid pro quo, Clarice. I’ll tell you something terribly personal about me, and you do the same.”
“Is that appropriate, Professor?”
“God, no, but that’s never stopped me before. But again, only piano-related. Fair?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. But if I overstep, feel free to report me to the proper authorities. Get me sacked. Put me out of my misery.”
I chuckled. I was growing to like Wolfe, entirely against my will.
“Once upon a time,” he began. “there was a boy with such genius that he was overwhelmed by it at a young age. Too many people told him how great he was until the pressure to be great was too much. Sex, drugs, and alcohol relieved the pressure. He became a devil, believing they’d leave him alone.
But it backfired. The drama of it all only made them want him more while draining his bank account.
So now I’m forced to pop my head out of whatever den of iniquity I hole away in, play a few concerts, teach at institutions that are far too proud of themselves, collect a few quid and disappear again.
But in all the years I’ve never come across a you. Which is to say, a me.”
“I’m nothing like you,” I said.
“True. You’re probably better, but it’s all locked away for some strange reason that mystifies me. So I ask again, when did you know you had a gift? The truth this time, if you please.”
I opened my mouth to joke, to deflect, to tell this bloke he was off his bloody rocker. But what was I here for if not to get somewhere?
“Around the time I started to learn to read,” I said. “So, almost two?”
His brows shot up. “That’s early.”
“I guess. But I remember it well because I didn’t struggle with music the way I struggled with reading.”
“Why is that?”
“I have ADHD,” I said. “My brain doesn’t like sticking with words, and words are… It’s hard to explain. But musical notes make patterns. I’m good with patterns and with listening. Then I just…memorize.”
“You memorize entire pages of music at once.”
“Something like that,” I said. “And I can memorize chapters in books, if they’re read aloud to me. I can read them myself, but it takes longer.”
“You’re an auditory and spatial learner,” Wolfe said, nodding. “I had a stutter as a child. A speech therapist taught me the different modes of learning,” he said, answering my questioning look. “And did you hide your struggles?”
“We hide every struggle in my family,” I said, shocked how easily that popped out.
“I had a feeling. Repressed emotional household. I had one of those too. To this day, my mother believes my boyfriends are just very affectionate friends.”
I chuckled.
“Have you ever composed anything original?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said slowly, thinking of how I used to make up songs on the spot. As if the piano keys were singing to me and my job was to help them release the music. But that was nonsense talk. I cleared my throat. “It’s been a while—”
“Good.” Wolfe tossed the Ravel sheet music aside. “You’re going to compose a piece for the spring concert and your Juilliard audition.”
“I’m not auditioning for Juilliard, for one thing,” I said. “And for another, that’s madness. There’s no possible way I can compose something good enough.”
“I doubt that,” Wolfe said.
“Well…bloody good for you,” I said. “But I’m going to embarrass myself. Why can’t I play something from the repertoire? I thought you were supposed to be helping me. To dig deep? Tap, tap, tap, and all that rot?”
“And I will,” he said. “But if you can play from rote memory, it’ll take ages.
You’re too good at hiding behind your talent.
The audience won’t know the difference, but I will, and it will drive me mad.
The fastest way to feeling the music is to write it yourself.
To let it move through you, and write it down. ”
Write it down. Fucking hell.
“I can’t. I mean…I’m not a composer.”
Wolfe shrugged. “What do you love?”
“Sorry?”
“What do you love?”
“My family. My brothers. Rowing.”
“Boring.” He waved a black-nailed hand. “What else? Do you have a significant other?”
“Y-yes.”
“Do you love her? Him? Them?”
“Her, but it’s new.”
“Perfect. First love. Young love. New love. The ideal subject.”
My face felt hot, and that twinge of nerves came back. Part of me wanted to get started immediately and part of me wanted to slam the door on this madman and never come back.
“I told you, it’s not…that.”
“Sure, sure, but she might have potential. What’s her name?”
“I can’t say. She’d rather we not go public.”
Now Wolfe’s eyes widened. “Forbidden love, secret love, illicit love… And how do you feel about that?”
“Is this therapy hour?”
“Yes. Music is therapy. Art is therapy. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”