Chapter Two
I STARE AT THE email from my agent for longer than necessary.
My phone screen starts to darken, but I tap it to keep it from going to sleep.
Reading her response over and over again only solidifies the fears that started curdling in my stomach as soon as Rebecca and I hugged goodbye on the sidewalk with a promise that I’d be in touch tomorrow.
If I’m honest with myself, my email to Ann was my last-ditch effort to find a way forward in this career in a way that doesn’t involve Oliver Barlowe.
But now it’s clear there is no other way.
To keep at my passion, at the one thing I know how to do, I have to take this job.
Turning it down would be putting the final nail in the coffin of my forever dream.
Even though I’m lying on my bed, my stomach drops. I toss my phone on the opposite pillow, let out a heavy sigh, then pull myself to sit. I force myself to take a drink of water from the bottle on my desk. I should not have had a third martini.
Now that my decision is made, even if only with myself, a whole new set of fears takes root somewhere in my gut.
I stare at my humble home studio shoved against the wall next to the bed while my pulse pounds in my ears.
So far, I’ve made do with what I could afford (and had space for); this primarily consists of a powerful computer with the software needed to orchestrate, a full keyboard plugged into said computer, and a handful of sound mixers, most of which I acquired secondhand from friends.
Thankfully, every job I’ve taken has granted me access to professional recording studios to create the final product.
But to compose a full score on my home setup? It would be impossible.
When was the last time I wrote for a full orchestra? Oh, right—two years ago, when I was hired for a luxury perfume commercial. But that was for a reduced group. No more than twenty-five musicians.
When was the last time I wrote music for dialogue? Well, if you counted ad jingles… all the time.
When was the last time I touched an instrument other than a keyboard or drums? God, it’s been years.
When was the last time I even played the drums, my first love and the reason for my entire existence in the musical world? It’s been at least a month, when I sat down at my father’s club and pounded away on the house drum set.
That in itself is a problem—as a New Yorker, space and privacy are limited in the best of times.
Outside of my parents’ compound in Washington Heights, I’ve never lived in a place where having a drum set wouldn’t get me promptly kicked out of the building.
Although, if I don’t take this job with the show, I might have no choice but to leave this building anyway.
I start to pace. Every creak of the hardwood floors underneath my bare feet is an echo of my own heartbeat as I wonder if I even have the talent to pull this off. Even through the fog of three strong drinks, the reality of my situation becomes clearer with each step.
I am so unprepared for this.
But then again, Oliver is involved. Could we pull it off? Could we work together after the last time we saw each other and all the years since?
There’s only one way to find out.
Within minutes of opening my eyes the next morning, I text Rebecca that I’m in.
She responds right away, the chime of the notification cutting through the rare moment of quiet, if you can call it that.
My upstairs neighbor is already vacuuming, and my downstairs neighbor is watching Good Morning America on full blast. Still in bed with the muffled ambient noise of other people’s lives as the soundtrack, I rub the sleep out of my eyes and stare at her text.
Rebecca
Hell yeah! The crew gets into NY Monday to prep for the next leg of the shoot. I’ll set up a meeting with Chris asap. Monday? Can you come to the Limelight offices?
I don’t need to look at my calendar to know I’m wide open.
Celia
Tell me the time and address and I’ll be there
A thought occurs to me then, just as the response bubbles ripple on my phone screen.
If I’m going to meet the great Chris Ross and convince him that I’m good enough to do this job, I should probably meet with Oliver first. It’s been nine years since we last saw each other. Our parting wasn’t exactly pleasant.
Rebecca
Perfect. I’ll make sure Chris sees your portfolio. Will send you mtg deets over the weekend.
My fingers hover over my phone screen. I know what I need to do.
To start this professional relationship off on the right foot—to start over, really—I absolutely need to make some sort of peace with Oliver.
Yet I can’t ignore the dread that’s only heightened by the fact that the guy who lives above me has transitioned from vacuuming to running on his treadmill.
The heavy thunk thunk thunk of his feet isn’t an even rhythm. It drives my percussion brain bonkers.
I haul myself out of bed and brush my wild postsleep hair out of my face. Standing in the center of my small studio apartment, clad in my underwear and old Juilliard T-shirt, I grip my phone while my heart pounds. My palms are damp with perspiration by the time I type out a response.
Celia
Great. Can you send me Oliver’s contact info?
When Rebecca replies with a number I don’t recognize—of course, with the original 212 New York area code—I decide that’s the perfect time to set my phone down and brush my teeth.
So I do—I brush my teeth, fix myself a cup of coffee, then fold and put away the clean laundry that’s been sitting in a basket for three days.
I look around my apartment in search of something else to do that’s not the one thing I don’t want to do, but there’s nothing.
I cleaned last week. My sheet music is organized and filed away under my desk.
Even my kitchen pantry is tidy and neat.
Underemployment will do this to a person.
After finishing the last bit of coffee, I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath. My phone is where I left it on my desk. No new emails, no messages.
It takes me several tries, but finally I craft a message that’s worth sending:
Celia
Hi, is this Oliver Barlowe? This is Celia García.
He leaves me on read for hours.
During that time, I go on a long walk, headphones in, and pretend I’m not looking for new messages every time I change songs.
To soothe my nerves, I listen to the very first score that made me fall in love—an action-adventure blockbuster from my childhood—even though it was written and conducted by none other than Oliver’s father, Robert Barlowe.
The soaring French horns send goose bumps skittering across my skin despite the anxiety coursing through me.
By the time my phone dings with a new message, I’m home, showered, and double-checking that the portfolio and media kit on my website are current (they are). I jump at the sound. I force a deep breath before looking at it.
Oliver
Did Rebecca give you my number?
My face contorts into a frown. Yeah, there he is. Another text comes in from him.
Oliver
Hi, by the way. Good to hear from you.
I frown even harder. Is it good to hear from me? Sure doesn’t seem like it.
Celia
Yeah Rebecca gave me your number. I thought we should connect before this potential meeting with Chris Ross.
There. Let him understand that this outreach has a purpose, and that I would never text him if it weren’t for this job we’re meant to do together.
He leaves me on read long enough that I consider double texting him just to be annoying, but I distract myself by scrolling Instagram.
Oliver
I hear the meeting is happening Monday. We don’t have a lot of time. What are you doing tonight?
I set my phone down and stare at the blank wall behind my computer. He’s right; we should meet sooner rather than later. But the fact that I’m going to have to give up a Friday night—probably the first of many—to work with Oliver Barlowe is a hard pill to swallow.
When I tell him that I can meet him, I let out a groan.
At least I washed my hair today.
FROM: Dr. Riccardo Costa
TO:
CC: Rachel Hill
DATE: Monday, August 5 at 4:13 PM
SUBJECT: Invitation—Optional Freshman Social, Thursday August 8, 6:00 p.m.
To our incoming freshmen,
I trust that this email finds you well and that you are enjoying the last few weeks of summer.
Ahead of the official move-in date, I and a few other faculty members wanted to invite you all to an optional social gathering, to be held Thursday, August 8, at 6:00 p.m. We will convene in room 105 of the Juilliard School main building, located on the first floor.
This will be an opportunity to meet some of your peers in an informal setting.
We will provide snacks and drinks and hopefully some good conversation!
If you are not yet in New York or are unable to attend, please do not worry.
This social is entirely optional. If you plan to join us, please email my admin assistant, Rachel, cc’d here so that we can plan for food and beverage.
On behalf of the entire Juilliard music faculty, we look forward to welcoming you all at the new-student orientation later in August.
My best,
Dr. Costa
Head of Undergraduate Music
Assistant Dean of the Music Division