Chapter 7 Marigold #2
“Oof,” Cessy agreed. “Yeah, that’s pretty bad. But you explained, right? You told him it wasn’t on purpose?”
“Of course I did! Not that it made any difference. He’d already made up his mind at that point.” And I was over making excuses for him, frankly. If he wanted to spend the next four years nursing a seething resentment for someone he’d had twenty total interactions with, that was his problem.
“Well, fuck him, then,” Cessy said. “Hope he likes being lonely, if he’s gonna hold all potential friends or lovers to the same insane standards.”
“You’re such a girl’s girl,” I said, already grinning, and she nudged me in the arm with one elbow and said, “What’s the point of being anything else?”
I went on. “Seriously, though, I wish he’d get a grip. Like, why are you acting like you’re so amazing—you were probably literally born in a barn and think you’re going to be Glenn Gould? Be serious.”
“Goldie,” Cessy started, but I was too angry, too righteously offended at this point to stop.
“I mean, I’m sure he was top of his class at University of Hillbilly or wherever, but this is New York. You can’t just skate by on middle-class white-boy privilege; you have to actually, you know, be good.”
“Goldie.”
Fuck. He was right behind me, wasn’t he? Because apparently I lived in a bad movie, where I couldn’t even shit-talk someone without them conveniently overhearing.
I didn’t even want to turn around. I couldn’t look at him. Maybe if I just stood there long enough, staring at Cessy in silence, he’d go away.
No such luck.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Jamie said. “But looks like my University of Hillbilly training was every bit as good as Juilliard. We both ended up in the same place, didn’t we?”
I finally made myself turn—but he was already walking away, and I wanted to disappear, I wanted to die, I never wanted to be in the same room as that man ever again.
“Well, you fucked up,” said Cessy sagely, and…
Yeah. That just about covered it.
Present Day
“Did it occur to you that you might want to ask me before inviting somebody to stay over at our place for winter break?”
My dad and I are sitting at the kitchen table on a Sunday morning, half-empty coffee mugs and banana bread crumbs between us. He’s been scrolling through the phone, reading the New York Times Arts section like he does every Sunday, but he looks up for this, a line creasing between his eyebrows.
“Are you talking about that boy from your school?” he says.
“That’s exactly my point,” I say. “You don’t even know his name.”
“You’re doing your capstone with him. It’s Jamie, no?”
Fine. He does know Jamie’s name. But I refuse to let that deter me from making my actual point. “Yes. Jamie Larson. The one you said could come stay here with me, alone, all winter break. Without even asking me if that was something I’m okay with.”
That line between my dad’s brows deepens. “Is there something I should know here? Is he…do you feel unsafe being alone with him?”
“No,” I say almost immediately. “No, of course not! Jamie’s fine. He’s not…no. I’m not worried about that. It’s just that I kind of hoped to spend the break practicing for Stockholm, not hosting guests.”
My father takes another sip of his Americano and gives me one of those disappointed dad looks that never fail to make me feel as small and slimy as a snail.
“He’s your capstone partner, and he’s going to be alone all break.
It would be miserable for him to sit alone in that dorm room.
Not to mention he’d have to play on a keyboard and not a proper piano, since the practice rooms will be closed.
I’m sure he wouldn’t expect to be constantly entertained here.
But if you really don’t want him to come, you can tell him we’ve changed our minds. ”
Ugh. The only thing worse than Jamie coming would be having to look him in the eye and rescind my dad’s invitation.
“You’ve kind of put me between a rock and a hard place, here,” I say.
“This is a good opportunity for you to do some chesed. It’s your chance to show him what kind of person you are,” my father says.
“Are you the kind of girl who opens her home to a lonely classmate during the biggest secular holiday of the year? Who gives her competition the best chance possible of succeeding at Stockholm, even if it makes it harder for her to win?” He taps his fingers against the edge of his coffee mug. “Or are you some other kind of girl?”
Dad 1, Goldie 0.
I guess Jamie is staying with us over winter break after all.
Yay, me.
Capstone recitals are held in the largest auditorium at Parker.
They’re a bit of an Event, really—the school sells tickets to the public and lets Parker students attend for free, which means it’s a full house every time.
I peer out from backstage, scanning the faces of the audience.
This part never fails to make my gut twist—even after years and years of studying piano performance, I haven’t gotten over the stage fright.
The performers before us have just finished their piece and bowed out.
Celia Chen has taken their place onstage to introduce us with lists of accolades—every competition Jamie or I have ever won, every award and grant we’ve received.
It’s all white noise buzzing between my ears, language gone meaningless in the face of seething anxiety.
“You good?” a voice murmurs from over my shoulder, and I turn to see Jamie standing there, looking (unfortunately) extremely hot in his tux.
“All good,” I say. “You?”
He shrugs, and his gaze slides away from mine to scan the gathered crowd. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem fazed at all by the size of the audience. His expression stays fixed in the neutrality of perfect indifference. “It’ll be over soon.”
God, if only that level of confidence was contagious.
Applause punctuates Celia’s speech; it’s time.
Jamie heads out first, with me trailing after. He’s all smiles for the crowd, not a hint of the nausea that creeps up the back of my throat. It’s just a capstone, but my cheeks are pink nevertheless as I dip into a shallow bow before heading for my instrument.
Fantaisie-Tableaux was written as a musical translation of poetry—each of the four movements represents a different poem.
The first by Lermontov, then Byron, Tyutchev, and finally Khomyakov.
During our capstone prep, I’d printed the poems out and taped them to my dorm mirror, so I could read them every morning as I brushed my teeth, an attempt to drive the heart of that poetry into my bones.
The first movement—first poem—is named after a Venetian gondolier’s song. The poem depicts a gondola slipping through cool water, the echo of a love song from long ago.
I hum along in my head as I play, dipping over the keys and letting my eyes fall shut.
I think of my mother, that time we rode the swan boats in Central Park.
The way she tipped her face toward the warm summer sun, heedless of how that same sun was poison to her body.
How even a few short hours in sunlight could leave her bedbound for days as lupus inflamed her joints and organs.
It’s worth it, she used to say. What, should I only go out at night?
I wish I could drag myself back in time and say Yes. Yes! Stay inside. Stay with me. Don’t risk it. Don’t ever leave me.
The next poem, Byron’s, is about the night itself.
And heedless as the dead are they / Of aught around, above, beneath; / As if all else had passed away….
The way her body looked in those final days, white and frail.
She couldn’t play, but she could listen to music, her head turned on its pillow toward the sound, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich and Florence Price like old friends embracing her.
I like to think that even after she’d slid into unconsciousness, she could still feel them buoying her up, holding her close and warm as she went into the dark.
Into the third poem, and grief. The nadir of the piece. The black void of its soul, consuming. But not for long, not forever. The final movement draws you back to shore—ebullience, joy, victory. I let the music surge up inside me, rescuing me, catapulting me into the sky.
The last notes play, and silence falls. The air feels heavy around me, and at last I float back down, down toward the earth. I suck in a shuddering breath and realize only now, as the audience begins to clap, that my face is cold with tears.
Jamie is already standing, staring at me across the stage with one expectant brow raised.
I pull myself to my feet—slowly, against the now-impossible drag of gravity.
I fight the urge to scrub my hand against my damp cheeks, reminding myself that nobody in the audience can see my wet face anyway—instead, I force myself to smile and bow again.
I don’t see it coming, so I startle slightly when Jamie’s warm hand closes around my palm.
His fingers are long and strong where they interlace with mine, squeezing once as we both tip into another bow.
My heart is beating so hard, a percussive beat pounding in my ears and almost drowning out the applause.
I wonder if he feels the slight shudder that rolls through me.
I wonder if his world, too, has suddenly shrunk down to this: the stage, the glow of the lights, and the press of his skin against mine.
I know that in a moment, the spell will break—he’ll step away, and we’ll return to the same simmering resentment we’ve shared for the past three years.
But for now, I smile, and I squeeze his hand back.