Chapter 8 Jamie #2
“But that hasn’t stopped you from treating me the same way you treat everyone else.”
I exhale and try to digest her words slowly instead of defaulting to defensiveness this time.
Obviously I’m well aware that I haven’t been the kindest to Marigold—see the long list of reasons I just enumerated for her.
But does it really come across like I think I’m better? Because of Iowa, of all things?
I’m not sure. And I’m hardly the best judge of anything social, as Shrishti has reminded me approximately one billion times.
So in short…maybe.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I don’t think I’m better than you. But I’m definitely better than those assholes.”
It earns me a tiny, quick uptick of Marigold’s lips, at least. I find myself, inexplicably, hoping to turn that into a real smile. Just this once.
“I know you think I’m the same way, but in reverse,” she says.
“But I don’t. Look down on you, that is.
Jamie, you’re the best pianist in this department.
If you got your training at Iowa State instead of Juilliard, well, clearly the program at Iowa is fantastic.
How could I possibly think less of you for being good? ”
My teachers at Iowa State were fantastic.
Easily as good as whomever Marigold studied with at the Juilliard high school program.
Maybe better. And they were passionate about music, and about me.
When I got into Parker, my main instructor threw me a surprise party.
Everyone was there, even my parents, even Adam.
We ate Costco sheet cake and I played a duet with my teacher and Adam sang Broadway tunes, hip shimmies and everything.
They were so fucking proud of me. And I was proud to be with them.
“Good,” I say. “But you still haven’t addressed the whole part where you gossip about me behind my back. Especially the part where, despite what you’re saying now, you called me a serial killer. Not to mention the whole Hillbilly University thing.”
Her cheeks pinken. “I’m sorry. That was unkind of me. I resented you, so I said some pretty mean things, and I shouldn’t have.”
“You resented me? You’re the one who stood me up.”
“I told you, I had a family emergency.”
“Right. Your grandmother died. Or your dog had to go to the vet. Whatever the standard excuse is these days.” Not to mention, she hadn’t even texted me ahead of time.
She let me know two hours after our date was supposed to start.
As if I were an afterthought. As if she’d forgotten I existed entirely.
Her lips press into a stark line. “It was a family emergency, actually. My mom had lupus. And that was the day we found out she was going to die.”
Her words hit me like a bullet to the chest. Abruptly I feel like I can’t breathe, my lungs shriveling inside me. Fuck.
“Fuck,” I say out loud. I swallow hard, then swallow again, but nothing helps the way my throat feels as if it’s swollen shut. I feel vaguely nauseous, disoriented and adrift. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
Not that her mother had died, but that she’d been so sick. That Marigold had seen it coming for months, known how it would end, watched her mother waste away until finally there was nothing left.
And there I was, selfishly hating her for no reason at all.
Worse, not for no reason. Not to Marigold. To her, her mother was dying, and for some reason that personally offended me. Me, convinced her family emergency couldn’t possibly be real, because everything in Marigold’s world revolved around me.
“I mean it,” I press on, because words don’t feel like enough, but they’re all I have. “I was such a dick. I can’t imagine what you must have been going through…. I’m so sorry for putting extra stress on you. I should have just talked to you. If I’d known…Jesus Christ.”
She looks down at her hands, her pianist’s fingers twisting and knotting together until the tips turn red. “Yeah. Well. It was a long time ago now.”
Not that long ago. And it had clearly hurt her enough that she’d held on to it for this long. But saying as much would only make her feel worse, and that’s the last thing I want.
“Can we start over?” I blurt out. “I mean…I get it if you aren’t okay with that. But if you’re willing to try it…me, too. Besides, it might help if we practice together for Stockholm. Our capstone duet was killer, after all.”
She gives me a tiny grin again. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay. We can give it a go. No promises I won’t decide to hate you again after all. Deal?”
She leans forward, far enough to reach her fist over. I bump it back with mine.
“Deal.”
I clear my throat and resist the urge to fidget, even if I can’t help shifting my weight back onto my heels. “I was going to go out tonight,” I venture after a bit. “There’s this jazz club…. You can come, if you want. Xinyan Yang is playing. Might be good to scope out the competition.”
Xinyan Yang is a Juilliard student. It occurs to me now that Marigold might even know her, having been in Juilliard’s Pre-College program during middle and high school. She’s one of the only other young people going to Stockholm this winter.
I’ve never heard her play in person, but I’ve seen enough of her videos to know she’s incredibly good.
“Xinyan plays jazz?” Marigold says, somewhat dubiously.
“Guess so.”
“That’s intimidating.”
“Or maybe it’s a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none kind of deal.
Could happen.” Why am I trying to reassure her?
Speaking of competition, Marigold Gensler is my competition, too.
I shouldn’t be reassuring her. I know we’re supposed to be practicing for Stockholm together, and that this was my idea.
But maybe it’s a bad one. Objectively speaking.
Marigold’s hands keep twisting in her lap. I want to reach over and disentangle them. My own hands drive even deeper into my pockets.
“Okay,” she says at last. “Let’s do it. It’s a…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to.
We both know how that one goes.