Chapter Twelve
TWO DAYS AND four peanut butter sandwiches later, I break.
I blame a picture that Rosa sent to the family group chat.
It’s an enormous platter of sashimi from a new place that just opened around the corner from the apartment she shares with Hector.
It overwhelms me with homesickness—for my family, yes, but also for the sheer convenience and choices I took for granted in New York.
What I wouldn’t give for a take-out order of anything other than sandwiches or eggs.
After interrupting Oliver’s yoga session, the two of us have been orbiting each other like moons physically unable to get close.
The studio is our planet. We take turns sitting in there, the soundproof door to the den firmly shut, as we try to work out some kind of beginning to this score.
The learning curve of a setup different than my own has me further behind than I’d like to admit.
It was during one of my solo studio sessions that I noticed the shelves on the wall behind me.
In a brainstorming moment, I spun my chair around and browsed the built-ins, noting the variety of books, metronomes, and various odds and ends that fill up the space.
On the center of the top shelf was Robert Barlowe’s first (of several) Academy Awards.
This does nothing to quell the impostor syndrome that manifests as burning anxiety.
Chris’s late-night email reignited that fire—we owe him something worthwhile, something good, like, yesterday.
Problem is that Oliver and I are doing little more than coexisting in this house, let alone working together.
Aside from polite good mornings and “You can have the studio now,” Oliver and I don’t really speak to each other.
In fact, I don’t really say anything out loud at all.
The family group chat remains in constant rotation, but text threads are different.
When Oliver is cloistered away in the studio, the house is practically silent.
The soundproofing on that room is remarkable.
On more than one occasion, I catch myself tiptoeing on the stairs or in the kitchen, as if my very presence is an affront to the placidity of this place.
Even my outdoor strolls around the property are so different from my walks around New York that I might as well be on a different planet.
I’ve discovered a few short walking paths that weave around the house and yard but haven’t been brave enough to take the ones that lead up the hills and into the woods.
Out here, there are no honking cars, no one blaring music through open windows, no strangers yelling into megaphones about god knows what.
It’s just me, the birds, and the bugs—which serve as a deterrent from staying outside for too long.
At the very least, I’ve finished reading and digesting the script. The printed pages are filled with in-line notes and tabs that mark dialogue that resonated with me. The visualization of the story is there in my mind, even if I can’t seem to get it out of me and onto the keyboard.
But this afternoon, I’m not thinking about music, or Chris’s email, or Maine’s foreign silence, or any of the characters in Lineage.
I’m thinking about how hungry I am and how much I don’t want to eat another fucking peanut butter sandwich.
When I trudge downstairs and head directly for the studio, visions of pasta, steak, and Cheetos dance in my head.
I don’t even bother to knock before I wrench open the studio door. “Can we go to the grocery store?”
Oliver’s fingers drop from the electronic keyboard that feeds directly into the main computer monitor before he swivels around in the chair to face me. He eyes me over the rim of his glasses, gaze snaking over my body. “Now?”
“Yes. Now. If I see one more peanut butter sandwich, I’ll scream.
” The first installment of my contract payment hit my bank account and I am hungry.
After many exploratory Google Maps searches, I’ve learned that the closest store is not within walking distance to the house.
I need the car—and by extension, Oliver’s driving skills—to get there.
He sighs as he stands, his hands roaming over the front of his khakis to smooth out wrinkles.
One thing I’ve learned about Oliver in the last few days is that he is the type of person to wear khakis unironically.
He usually looks like he walked straight out of a J.Crew advertisement, complete with linen button-downs and boat shoes without socks.
Here, he’s less Professor Pendejo and more classic East Coast WASP.
I, however, am much more casual. It’s technically still summer here in Maine, but the days are much cooler than the concrete jungle we left last week.
I find myself pulling sweatshirts over my jeans and tank tops or wrapping a cardigan around my sundress frequently.
Today, I’m wearing a simple gray T-shirt and old denim cutoff shorts.
I’ll definitely need a jacket once the sun sets.
When we’re back in the SUV, Oliver deftly navigating us out of the attached garage, guilt starts to simmer in my chest. I was short with him today, essentially demanding that he take me grocery shopping.
After all he’s done to get us this far (not to mention, having access to the house to begin with), he didn’t deserve my impatient outburst.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier,” I say as I adjust the sunglasses on my face. “I’m just in the red, and I’m not known for being calm when I get to this point.”
“In the red?”
Oh, right—he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“It’s a system my sisters and I made up based on hunger levels.
If you’re in the green, you’re good. If you’re in the yellow, you need to get some food in you in the next thirty to forty-five minutes.
One hour, tops. If you’re in the red, shit starts getting dangerous. It helps us avoid unnecessary fights.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up. “And you’re in the red now.”
“Yes. Not your fault, though, so I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
I fall silent as he drives us down the main road into town.
This is the first time I’m actually seeing Boothbay Harbor proper; every day since our arrival has been spent at the house, which is surrounded by dense woods, allowing for ample privacy.
Now, I’m finally seeing the charm of an East Coast fishing town.
It’s undeniably cute, with its sloping lawns and white houses with blue shutters that dot the highway along the water.
It gets even more adorable the farther we drive into town.
The homes give way to businesses, of which there are many—everything from multicolored shanties advertising a local fish fry to art galleries make up the main drag.
It’s still tourist season here, so there are plenty of people meandering on the sidewalks in the abundant sunshine.
When I roll down the window, I find the air is tinged with the smell of salty ocean and fish, far more than it is at the house.
Oliver pulls into the parking lot of a local grocery store and cuts the engine. “I’ll get this round of groceries,” I tell him before hopping out of the car and shutting the door. “It’s the least I can do.”
I’m pleasantly surprised to find he doesn’t argue with me.
He just shrugs and continues toward the entrance to the store.
There’s a bit of an imbalance between us here, one that I’m determined to rectify as much as I can.
I’m living in his family’s house rent free, using the technology and instruments purchased by his father’s success, and the man has no choice but to drive me around.
My financial woes may not be solved forever, but the least I can do is pay for groceries and gas.
When I pull a green shopping cart from the stall inside the store, I hesitate, wondering if I should go it alone and find him at the register.
This is one of those gray areas we struggle to navigate—we’re roommates, yes, but we’re also colleagues, not to mention our uncomfortable history.
I’m no stranger to coexisting with roommates, but with Oliver, it’s different.
He’s so quiet and reserved, unlike most of the people I’ve shared a home with.
Does he like to shop alone? Does he want some space? Do I?
Damn. I knew this was going to be hard.
He’s wandered a few feet ahead of me at this point, but he glances back to where I stand near the entrance, white-knuckling the shopping cart. His brows knit together as he stares at me. “You okay?”
I take this as a sign that he wants to shop together, so I push the cart toward him. “Yeah. I’m good.”
And so, we shop together, wandering through the tightly packed aisles, collecting an assortment of groceries as we go.
Every item Oliver deposits into the cart unveils a new layer of his psyche; I never would have guessed he eats pre-popped popcorn or that he prefers Double Stuf Oreos like me.
He likes the expensive jelly with the French name.
We both prefer sourdough bread and Honeycrisp apples.
When he deposits a package of Haribo gummy bears in the cart, I can’t help but comment on it. “I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.”
His eyes slide to me, then to the gummy bears, then back to me again. “We all have our vices,” he replies with a small shrug.
I offer him a smile, which he only half returns before he turns around and continues down the aisle. There is a strange sort of comfort in knowing that Oliver has a weakness. Even if it’s something as tame as sugar.
Though this grocery store is small, it’s decently stocked, except for the one small section labeled “ethnic foods.” To Boothbay Harbor, ethnic means big-brand mild salsa, ramen noodles, soy sauce, tortillas, and British tea bags.
With a sigh of resignation, I grab a few items that I can use to make some iteration of comfort food before steering the cart toward the deli counter.
When we get to the liquor section, I’m pleasantly surprised to see him load not one, not two, but three bottles of wine into the cart. I add another for good measure, and then we head to the cash register.
It’s not until we’re back in the SUV, the trunk full of groceries and my bank account with a considerable dent in it, that I dive into the trail mix I just bought, my mood considerably lighter than when we left the house.
It’s this good mood that ignites an idea in me, so I turn toward him, watching his sharp profile as he turns back onto the main drag.
“I have an idea,” I say, my tone light now that there’s a promise of food variety in my life. “I’ll make dinner tonight. How’s baked trout sound? I can use some of that fresh dill we just bought.”
The change in his expression is almost imperceptible, but I catch it—the way his mouth flattens and his jaw tenses. “I can’t.”
“What?” I ask, not bothering to hide my stunned expression. “Why not?”
“I don’t like seafood.”
“Wait—what? Like, you don’t eat any fish? Not even shrimp?”
His frown deepens. “I’m allergic to shellfish, so I guess I just never developed a taste for any of it.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or scream.
Considering I just spent a lot of money on a variety of fresh, locally caught fish, I’m inclined to do the latter.
He said nothing as I loaded up in the meat-and-seafood department.
He said nothing when I paid for enough fresh fish to feed a family of four for several nights.
Didn’t even think to mention it, even though we’re currently residing in a fucking fishing town.
I force my voice to be calm as I ask, “Why didn’t you say anything when I bought all that stuff ?”
He’s quiet for so long that I wonder if he’s just going to ignore my question entirely.
I shove a handful of trail mix into my mouth and fix my eyes on the world outside my window, seeing nothing as we cruise down the road.
Fine—this is fine. We can barely talk to each other about what to eat, and somehow, we’re supposed to work closely together and turn something in to Chris this week? Great. Just great.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he finally says, quietly, almost like he’s embarrassed.
I turn to gape at him. “Why wouldn’t it matter?”
“Never mind,” he mumbles. “Forget I said anything.”
I want to argue with him. I want to press him on why he won’t answer, or actually, I want to ask him why he barely talks to me at all except for that one time we texted all weekend.
I’ve seen him hold lengthy conversations.
He was so good in that room with Chris, John, and Damian.
He is a functional, capable adult—I know this because I’ve seen it.
I also know that I’m still in the red, and that this snack is barely tiding me over until I can sit down and eat a proper meal. If I open my mouth right now, I’m going to say something I’ll regret later. Instead, I just sigh and start to pick through trail mix in search of chocolate.
At least we bought wine. We’re going to need that.
FROM: Dr. David Kendrick
TO:
DATE: Monday, August 25 at 8:16 AM
SUBJECT: Welcome back
Hello students,
I hope you all enjoyed your break. It was a pleasure to see so many of you at our summer concert series. The talent in this group is immense.
I like to think of your sophomore year as the true start of your composition coursework. In this class, you’ll be challenged to think about music in ways you never have before. I have no doubt in your abilities and look forward to seeing you rise to the occasion, as all Juilliard students do.
My office hours this semester are Tuesdays and Thursdays from 3-5 p.m. Feel free to come by any time during these periods if you have questions.
If you’d like to get a head start, please visit the Lila Acheson Wallace Library and start at our collection of Iannis Xenakis’s works.
Best,
Dr. Kendrick