Chapter Twenty-Four
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
I brING MY BATON down to the music stand.
Thirty-two musicians sit in front of me, tucked beneath the floor of the stage, and lower their instruments.
Above us, the dancers beam at each other, then at me, before falling into a line to take their bow.
The burst of applause from the audience swoops through me. I have to hold in tears.
This is the greatest moment of my life so far.
It’s also the culmination of months of work that started on day one of my junior year.
I met with Linnea just as Dr. Kendrick suggested; in her cozy, cramped office, we talked about Alvin Ailey, Martha Graham, Bob Fosse, and how a composer might go about writing music for dancers who are suited to modern choreography.
In the weeks that followed, I met with four dance students every week to discuss our ideas and work out motifs that we wanted to expand on.
Under the guidance of Dr. Kendrick, I wrote a thirty-minute contemporary symphony in the vein of Philip Glass but rooted in my own musical upbringing, which is to say I utilized a lot of rhythms from salsa, merengue, and bachata.
Tonight was the performance for the student comp collaborations. It could not have gone better.
Dr. Costa takes the stage to announce the intermission, which is our signal to get out of the pit so the next group can prepare.
Everyone in the orchestra smiles and whispers their congrats to each other as we file up the short stairs into the backstage area.
I’m met with a whirlwind of girls in pink tutus and guys in cream-colored leotards.
They could not look more different from the funky, bright colors worn by my modern dancers.
This troupe is the next group to go, heralded by Oliver, who wrote a ballet for the dance program.
He was given the closing slot, which has annoyed me since the day Dr. Costa posted the program outside the Peter Jay Sharp Theatre.
But tonight, I find that I don’t care, not after everything went so perfectly for my performance.
Everyone in my group is buzzing with energy.
It’s so busy and lively backstage that it takes me a while to find my way to the dressing rooms they reserved for our group.
The series of interconnected rooms are filled with muted chaos: dancers and musicians everywhere, whispering their excitement to each other, some half dressed as they peel off their costumes and pull on their hoodies.
There are instrument cases on the floor and ribbons strung up on lights and flower arrangements on every flat surface—gifts from parents, friends, partners.
In the center of it all sits the largest bouquet. There are so many flowers bursting out of the glass vase that it’s like an explosion of color. This one is mine, and they’re from Anthony.
I run my finger over the card and smile: Celia—No one does it like you. Break a leg out there, gorgeous. Love, Anthony
“Are those from your parents?”
I whirl around at the soft voice I’ve come to know well. Oliver is standing right behind me, dressed in his concert black suit, his white conductor baton tucked into the crook of his arm. When I tuck a stray curl behind my ear, his eyes track the movement.
“No, actually,” I reply. “They’re from Anthony.”
Surprise flashes across his face, so brief I almost miss it. “Oh. Are you two…?”
“Something like that.”
Anthony and I have been on a few dates at this point.
The first time, when he invited me to go see an off-Broadway show that was generating a lot of buzz, I thought it had been a friendly thing.
But then he held my hand when we walked into the theater together and all through the show.
I liked the way his fingers felt in mine; I liked the rough calluses from his cello playing, the way they softly scraped against my skin.
It’s too early to put a label on it, but it’s clear that we like each other. Plus, Anthony is a great kisser.
Oliver’s face settles back into that cool, familiar mask. “Ah. Well, I just came to say well done tonight.”
“Thank you,” I reply, ignoring the pleasant rush of warmth I feel at being on the receiving end of a rare Oliver Barlowe compliment. “Good luck. I know yours will be amazing.”
He blinks. “We’ll see.”
The house lights flash, signaling the end of intermission.
The volume in the dressing room picks up then drops dramatically, as Oliver nods to me once before disappearing through the door.
I follow him and watch as he heads down the stairs into the pit.
At least sixty of our peers trail after him with their instruments in hand.
Of course he wrote for a full orchestra.
I tuck myself away in the darkness of the backstage area to let the dancers take their places.
It’s a flurry of tulle and pink shoes and long, elegant limbs as they line up in the wings.
There are at least ten of them on this side, a combination of girls and guys, and I can see there are even more on the other side.
For the next hour, I get to watch and listen as Oliver’s creation is brought to life.
The dancers are astounding, so much so that they take my breath away several times.
There’s one in particular—a ballerina named Anya in our year—who is simply devastating to watch.
The way she moves with such emotion is otherworldly.
From my place in the shadows, I know I’m watching a future superstar.
While my collaboration was a celebration of music and movement, Oliver’s is the opposite.
It’s a tragedy. Anya’s character dies in the climax of it all while her lover watches from upstage, unable to get to her in time.
The swell of the music is hauntingly beautiful.
For what must be the hundredth time since arriving at Juilliard, I have no choice but to admit to myself that Oliver is very good at what he does.
The audience bursts into applause as his show comes to a close. As the dancers line up for their bow, Dr. Costa appears at my side. I wipe a tear from my eye and clap with enthusiasm.
“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” he asks.
“It really was,” I reply. “Like a contemporary Tchaikovsky.”
He smiles down at me. “And yours was wonderful, too. Unlike anything I’ve seen in the student comp programs.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“And here comes your counterpart,” he says, just as Oliver emerges from the staircase. “Are you ready to take your bow?”
My heart skips a beat as I nod. Oliver jogs over to us and even in the low lighting, I can see his face is flushed, his eyes bright. We’re riding the same adrenaline high.
“Okay, you two—go!” Dr. Costa urges, then pushes us together and forward toward the stage.
We step forward together, but something in me urges me to stop, like my subconscious is telling me to slow down, to savor this moment. I grab Oliver’s upper arm and pull him toward me. He freezes, then looks back at me, eyebrows raised in question.
In a flow of dancers and musicians, we remain still as we look at each other, forcing everyone to move around us.
The audience is still clapping and backstage is still chaotic but this moment between us—it’s peaceful and still.
It’s a blip in time for the two of us to relish our hard work over the last two semesters.
Even more than that, if you count the years we spent practicing and studying and developing our craft.
When I smile at him, he does the same.
I reach down and thread my fingers through his.
With his hand in mine, I pull him out to center stage.
The lights are so blinding and hot that I can’t pick out any faces in the audience, but I can hear them loud and clear when nine hundred or so people stand up and applaud us.
I glance up at Oliver to find his smile has transformed into something wonderful.
Like he can’t believe that we’re here, and all these people are cheering for us.
I know this, because I’m feeling it, too.
We take our bow together. It’s only when we run offstage and I spot Anthony in the wings that I let go of his hand. When I look back to say congratulations, Oliver is nowhere to be found.
FROM: Chris Ross
TO: Celia García , Oliver Barlowe
DATE: Saturday, October 3 at 5:52 AM
SUBJECT: post-prod
hey—we are almost done shooting. we’re on schedule if you can believe it. it’s time we start thinking about orchestra recordings. NY phil maybe? whoever you want to work with, if you want to go to boston or wherever that’s fine. when will you be ready for this? needs to be dec or jan
wrap party will be next week here in nyc which is mostly for cast and set crew.
i always host a postproduction dinner when we shift gears and you’re both invited.
these dinners are always a little more civilized than the wrap party.
good time to get away from computers and talk shop, etc.
we’re looking at november most likely. can you make it?
i hear you’re working up in maine so lmk.
no rush. i’ll have my assistant send the details once we confirm everything.
everything from you has been great so far but my schedule frees up a lot when shooting is done. if you want to talk through anything we can jump on a zoom
c