Chapter Three
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
THE AIR HAS an unseasonable chill to it for early August, so much so that I’m grateful I grabbed a cardigan out of my closet before leaving my house.
Well, technically my parents’ house now—in just a few days, my official residence will be the very same dorms I just passed.
Butterflies fill my stomach at the thought.
Despite the tour I did in the spring, not to mention all the daydreams that have occupied my mind since I was, like, twelve, I still can’t believe I made it. I’m going to Juilliard.
Which is why, when I got that email from Dr. Costa, I literally screamed and then planned my outfit.
A social event just for those of us who could be here early?
There was no way in hell I was going to miss that.
This is my chance to make a good impression with the faculty before everyone else settles in.
If there’s one thing I’m good at—besides percussion—it’s being social.
The thick gray clouds overhead threaten to ruin the black dress and green cardigan my mom ironed this morning.
As I step toward the door to the school’s main building on West Sixty-Fifth, a crack of lightning illuminates the glass facade, followed immediately by a rumble of thunder.
Rain starts to fall in earnest just as I duck inside.
Gracias a Dios, I made it without ruining my hair and clothes.
I stare at the Post-it note I’ve had clutched in my hand the entire walk-train-walk commute here: “Juilliard School, room 105, first floor.” I didn’t trust my phone to pull up the email from Dr. Costa, so I came prepared with my own instructions.
Which is a good thing because there’s, like, no one around.
I pause in front of the big staircase and pretend to adjust the purse on my shoulder (Dooney all the students are wearing some combination of jeans, T-shirts, and shorts.
There’s a fleeting moment of self-consciousness when I realize this, but I shake it off as Chloe tells us about growing up in France and studying vocal performance at the Paris Conservatory (she’s a soprano with big opera dreams).
My mom always told me it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed.
More students trickle in. After a while, everyone relaxes enough to start on the food.
Rebecca and I are standing near the snack table, cookies in hand, when someone new enters the room, causing a flurry of activity.
We exchange a brief glance before craning our necks to see who is creating such a stir.
My heart rate picks up as I consider the possibilities—is it a famous Juilliard alumnus? Maybe the dean of the whole school? Some kind of celebrity? It’s impossible to tell because the professors flank them right away, blocking them from view.
“Any idea who that is?” I whisper to Rebecca.
She shrugs. We both wait. The chocolate chip cookie is really good.
Eventually the crowd parts enough and I see him—a guy, definitely around my age, wearing a full gray suit complete with a purple paisley pocket scarf.
His light-brown hair is messy, almost as if he just rolled out of bed or never learned how to brush it.
My brows pinch together in confusion before I can stop myself.
Who is this person? Why is a freshman wearing a full formal suit? Did he sleep in it?
Most importantly, why is everyone so excited to see him?
Aside from the over-the-top outfit, he looks young. Like, so much so that I’m wondering if he’s one of those child prodigies starting college at sixteen or whatever. But then, what sixteen-year-old wears a suit to an informal social hour? What eighteen-year-old does that?
Most of my questions get answered when Rebecca dusts her hands off and whispers, “Oh. That’s Robert Barlowe’s son, Oliver. I heard he got accepted into Harvard, Yale, Berklee over in Boston, all of them. Guess he chose to come here.”
“Robert Barlowe, like the composer with two Oscars?” I murmur back, but no one is paying attention to us anyway. “I didn’t know he had a son.”
Rebecca’s eyes widen as she looks at me. “How did you not know that?”
A bunch of pieces click into place then: First, that most of these students know each other, or at least know of each other.
Blake and Rebecca had mentioned going to the same music camp in the summers growing up; Chloe and Anthony’s parents are both professional dancers, so they were always in the same circles.
This world—it’s small, and I’ve only just discovered it. I’m an outsider looking in. Literally.
Oliver Barlowe looks over in our direction, and I watch as he and Rebecca exchange head bobs to say hello.
So they know each other already, too. Oliver’s gaze flicks to me.
I fix my face into the most pleasant, chill smile possible as we stare at each other.
His expression remains completely blank until his attention is pulled away by Dr. Costa, who is animatedly asking how his dad is, where they spent the summer, and who knows what else.
That’s how it goes for the rest of the night.
Nearly everyone flocks to Oliver, who is so soft-spoken that I can’t even hear him talk despite my best efforts to eavesdrop.
I do get to spend some time talking to Dr. Kendrick, our main composition professor, and manage to impress him when I tell the story about the famous salsa musician Ruben Rivera playing at my family’s club over the summer.
At the end of the evening, when people are starting to say their goodbyes, I find myself standing near the now-empty snack table, alone and unsure of myself.
The night wasn’t a total bust—I did meet my peers and get some face time with the professors—but Oliver’s arrival sidelined everyone, including me.
Even now, he’s standing in the middle of four people, arms crossed, silently watching the conversation move around him.
It’s like everyone has already decided he’s the star. The world is orbiting around him.
I feel someone’s arm loop through mine, and I startle slightly before looking to my left. Rebecca is there, the two of us now linked together. She glances at Oliver, then back to me, before she says, “I think you and I are going to be good friends, Celia.”
She says my name the right way. I didn’t realize how much tension I was holding in my shoulders until they relax of their own accord. I squeeze her arm and smile at her.
“Me, too.”
When I look back toward Oliver, I find his eyes on me. He doesn’t smile. Neither do I this time. We never say a word to each other that night.
DEADLINE EXCLUSIVE:
Chris Ross to Make TV Debut with Lineage Ordered by Limelight & A24
BY LISA MORRISON, TV EDITOR
MARCH 20
Limelight, in partnership with A24, green-lighted Academy Award, BAFTA, and Golden Globe winner Chris Ross’s first ever TV show, Lineage, a prestige drama about a wealthy New York family that controls one of the largest media empires in the world.
Golden Globe winner Luke Tudor (Today & Tomorrow) and three-time Emmy nominee Erica Stewart (Clash) are attached to star.
Speaking exclusively to DEADLINE, Ross said, “I’ve wanted to do TV for a long time, but it had to be the right story.
Lineage is perfect for this format. It gives us more time to explore these characters and their dynamics.
” Adam Simmons, who recently won his third Academy Award for best original screenplay with Underneath, wrote the script.
Ross will serve as executive producer and showrunner, teaming up with longtime collaborator and fellow Academy Award winner Gustav Schneider* on the music.
Limelight ordered up eight episodes. It’s expected to stream in the spring of next year.
* EDITOR’S NOTE: At the time of this article’s publication, Schneider was set to compose the score. He has since dropped out, citing scheduling conflicts. Ross has not yet named a replacement.