chapter SEVENTEEN
Over the next three Fridays, I sit in my office and listen in on three more of Asher’s sessions.
He continues his lesson on listening to the music.
They listened to “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele, a popular song about giving your heart to someone and having it “played, to the beat” and the week after it was “Apologize” by One Republic.
The man has a tone for the melodramatic.
Today, they’re listing to “Wonderwall” by Oasis and I’m bemused he chose a song about a man who needs saving.
I don’t tell anyone Asher’s class is my favorite and while there are other things I should be doing, I find a way to make sure I’m in my office so I can mock participate from the small space in the back.
When Asher’s classes are done, he hangs back for a few minutes, doing God knows what.
I sit in my office practically holding my breath listening to the stillness of the adjacent room until he decides to pack up and head back to wherever it is he comes from.
If I were a dreamer I’d hope he were standing there, conjuring up the courage to walk into my office and apologize, even profess his love to me.
But I am a realist, and I know what happens when you start dreaming: you get your heart broken.
The reality is he never enters my office, and I’m grateful for that.
Feigning indifference is exhausting enough without having to be in direct contact with him.
Today, after Asher’s class is complete, and he has left the vicinity, I make my way down to the first floor to accept a shipment we are expecting.
When the shipment arrives, I open every box and make sure they are all filled with the exact books I requested and the precise quantity is here.
When I’m satisfied with the delivery, I tell the man from UPS he can leave, and I bring the boxes into the supply room, myself, to ensure they are where they are supposed to be.
I lock the door to the supply closet and walk the hallway back toward the stairwell when I hear my name said from inside one of the offices. No one is calling my name. Instead, it’s being said in conversation.
“We played Heinz Hall together. They gave her a solo that would have blown you away. It was incredible.”
That is Frank. If I didn’t know his voice, I know he is the only person here who played in the Pittsburgh symphony with me. It is against my better judgment and everything I stand for but for some reason I feel compelled to stop, step closer, and listen in.
“I saw a few clips on YouTube. She was very good.” Asher’s distinct masculine voice echoes through the wall.
Why isn’t he back on his merry way to his dark fortress ruling the city?
And “very good”? I was magnificent! The term good shouldn’t even be an adjective allowed to describe how well I played.
“How is she doing as assistant director?”
“She is possibly the one person who cares about this place more than you do,” Frank replies and is followed by silence.
Damn Asher really knows how to take his dramatic pauses.
He’s the kind of person who makes you want to say something just to fill in the void.
“I’m glad you informed me of her accident. ”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Well, I’m glad your office told me. I had no idea.” Frank’s tone takes a nosedive into the melodramatic. “Talent like Emma Paige should not be wasted. She’s remarkably brave to have gone through what she has.”
I fight an urge to kick the wall.
“What was she like? Before the accident, I mean?”
Frank chortles. “You mean because she’s so serious? You think it has something to do with the accident?”
I assume Asher is nodding his head, since I can’t see or hear his response.
“What was Emma Paige like a year ago?” Frank asks himself out loud. His seat creaks back and forth and that’s the only sound I hear from a few seconds.
“Fire.” He finally states. “She was fire, like a bolt of lightening striking down on the stage. Emma was fierce, and she had this confidence about her that as soon as she walked out on stage, you knew you were going to hear magic.
“She wasn’t cocky though. No, she was kind and shared the accolades.
It made it hard for the rest of us to hate her.
” Frank laughs at his own joke and then his tone comes back down.
“Emma was . . . is . . . very special. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone as genuine as her. Don’t let the frown fool you.
He continues. “I spoke to her a few times about playing again. Apparently it would take a miracle to get her to lift a bow. Praise be the person who gets her to try.” Frank’s words are followed by more silence and I’d kill to see the expression on Asher’s face.
“Well . . . needless to say, she’s doing an outstanding job. ”
Asher lets out a loud breath accompanied the sound of his chair rubbing against the floor as if he leaned back in his seat. “Let’s hope so.”
I push off the wall I’ve been glued to and make my way down the hall and back up to my office. My teeth are rubbing together fiercely.
Let’s hope so.
Let’s hope I don’t ram his cello up his—you know where I’m going with this. Alexander Asher is making the douche with a flute look like Romeo.
I swing open the heavy stairwell door like it weighs as much as a feather and huff my way into Lisa’s classroom.
She’d asked if I would swing by her beginner’s class; she still hasn’t gotten an intern, and it’s starting to cause her problems. Eight kids, all between the ages of seven and nine. It’s even younger than I was when I started to play.
By the time I get to the room, the students are all in their seats.
It’s the fifth lesson for them, so they know where to go.
Lisa begins by showing each child how to hold the instrument properly.
Walking from child to child, she rests the violin under their chin, explaining they should maintain control with their jaw and shoulder.
It’s an awkward posture for a child to hold.
By the time Lisa has gotten to child eight, the first four kids are already losing their proper hold. I can see why she asked for assistance. She instructs them to grab the bow with the right hand and starts to talk about up strokes and down strokes.
I see a young boy struggling with the instrument, squirming in his seat like he has ants in his pants. Walking around to his spot in the room, I take a chair and sidle up next to him.
“Hi,” I whisper.
The young boy just stares at me. His eyes big and brown, darker than mine. I look down at my paper and his seating placement to find out his name. “Are you Charlie?”
Charlie nods. His face is set in a frown.
“My name is Emma. Do you mind if I help you?” My voice is soft, so as not to disrupt the rest of the class.
When Charlie nods that it’s okay, I place my hands on the violin, resting it properly on his neck.
“Relax your neck. You’re very tense. You’ll hurt yourself this way.
Rest your head right here.” I pat down and he rests his head a bit.
“Very good, Now, place your left hand right here.” I move his hand in place, noting it’s very stiff.
“If you hold your bow up in your right hand, it will help relieve the tension in your left. Does that make sense?”
Charlie nods, but I don’t think he entirely gets it. He’s still very young. In time, the instrument will seem like second nature to him. Until then, it will take practice.
He takes the bow, placing his thumb on the base and the other four fingers to rest at the top.
“Good job, buddy.” His finger placement is great except for the pinkie. “Don’t hook your pinkie like that.” I think for a moment, trying to make this lesson relatable to a seven-year-old. “Do you like Peter Pan?”
“Like Jake and the Neverland Pirates?”
Who the hell is that? I look up to Lisa, who is assisting another child. She gives me an assuring nod that this Jake is, in fact, just like Peter Pan. She would know, she has two children of her own.
“You see this guy?” I pinch Charlie’s pinkie with my thumb and pointer finger. “This is Captain No-Hook. Can you say that?”
Charlie lets out a laugh. “Captain No-Hook.”
A smile crosses my face. “Yeah, Captain No-Hook. Don’t let this guy hook your instrument.”
“Does that mean I’m a pirate?” His eyes light up with the question.
I nod and continue to smile. “Yes. Now don’t let Captain No-Hook hook your violin.”
Charlie looks at his fingers carefully and tries very hard to keep them in place. To my surprise, he does it correctly. I just taught him how to properly hold an instrument. I look over at Lisa who is nodding and smiling. My face blushes a bit. Yeah, teaching is pretty cool.
I stand to see if any of the other kids need help when a commanding figure in the doorway catches my attention. I almost trip over a backpack when I catch the intense stare of the one person I don’t need seeing me right now.
Asher.
He is looking through the partially opened doorway, his brows creased and his head tilted ever so slightly. His lips are pursed but not the way he does when he’s mad. This time, he looks thoughtful.
He’s different. Something about him has changed, and I’m afraid to find out what it is.
I lower my chin and go back to helping the students. After a few minutes I risk a look back at the doorway to find it empty. I don’t know exactly how I feel about that.