Chapter Twenty-Seven
TEN YEARS AGO
CELIA, CAN I speak with you?”
Dr. Kendrick’s question cuts through the noise of ten students packing up their belongings.
His Composition Forum class just ended, and I know that he knows it marks the end of my day—aside from the mountain of homework I have to do.
Senior year has proven to be no less brutal than all the semesters before it.
I can feel the eyes of my peers on me as they exit the classroom.
Everyone is nosey as hell, including Oliver, who can’t seem to help himself this time.
He’s basically avoided me since we took our bow together on stage at the end of our junior year.
Fine by me. It’s easier to ignore him than to tiptoe around each other awkwardly all the time.
Today, though, Oliver and I hold each other’s stare for longer than necessary. A whole thirty seconds pass during which I raise one eyebrow—in question and defiance—while his face ices over completely. He’s the first to break when he trails after the others. I don’t watch him leave.
I pretend that my palms aren’t sweating and that I don’t know what this is about as I weave around chairs to where Dr. Kendrick half sits on a table near the front of the room in a green sweater and black dress pants.
My throat dries out immediately as I try to fix my face into a calm, pleasant expression.
This is only our second week back after the winter recess, which means that it’s been over a month since I submitted my packet for the student comp competition.
All composition majors were required to submit a fully orchestrated work—for any group size, in any genre of music—intended to be performed by our dance program.
During the last semester, I spent hours and hours and hours meeting with the dancer friends I made, getting their input on the kind of choreography they want to perform in their final year, writing and rewriting ninety minutes worth of music, and implementing Dr. Kendrick’s feedback whenever he sent me notes.
The prize of the competition is conducting your own work while the best of Juilliard’s dancers perform at Lincoln Center.
In a prime-time evening slot. For thousands of people, including industry scouts and talent agents.
There is only one winner.
“Did you have a nice break?” he asks, once the door to the classroom closes and we’re alone.
I paste a smile on my face. “I did, thank you. Did you?”
“Yes, yes, thank you. Time always seems to pass too fast but too slow at the same time.”
I nod slowly. As much as I genuinely like Dr. Kendrick, I wish he’d skip the platitudes here. My skin is itchy and hot under my black sweater.
My heart starts racing just as he takes a deep breath and says, “I wanted to talk to you about the comp competition. One-on-one, before the email goes out and the announcement goes up in”—he pauses to look at the watch on his wrist, which I notice is a Rolex for the first time—“about ten minutes.”
I hold my breath. I can’t help it.
“You didn’t get it, Celia,” he says, and the gentle kindness in his voice does nothing to soften the enormous blow that hits me square in the gut. “It was a very tough decision this year. More than it ever has been. May I speak to you candidly, in confidence?”
It takes all my effort to squeak out a “Yes, sir.”
“You’re well aware that your entire cohort is very talented this year.
” He clears his throat and shifts his weight on the table.
“Ultimately, it came down to two of you. The faculty committee was evenly split. For a while there, I didn’t know if we’d ever make a decision.
But my dance colleagues made some valid points regarding the talent of their students, and eventually convinced everyone that a more traditional ballet would be best for this performance. ”
“Who?” Even though I know the answer, I need to hear him say it. “Who won?”
“Oliver,” he replies, and I could swear a glint of regret flashes in his blue eyes for a second.
The deepest breaths I can make myself take. The count of my pulse in my ears. The soft fabric of my jeans beneath my fingers. I focus on all of it so I don’t cry.
“Thank you for telling me.” My voice holds steady; no warbling yet. “I know—Oliver, he… well, yeah.”
I can’t bring myself to say he deserved it, even though it might be true.
If he wrote a ballet, then he wrote it for Anya, the fourth-year ballerina who all the major companies are circling like hawks.
Last year, when I saw her perform with him, I knew I was watching a future star. Apparently, he saw the same thing.
Then there’s his dad. Rumor has it that the faculty is courting Robert Barlowe to do a special guest lecture at the end of the year.
Anthony told me he heard Dr. Costa and Dr. Adams talking about it last week.
Of course the school would give Oliver the big slot if it earned them brownie points with his famous father.
The disappointment is barreling through me so hard I can feel myself crumbling. All those dreams of me being in the pit at Lincoln Center, of being celebrated by New York’s arts patrons and industry professionals, of my family seeing me make it—it’s gone, all gone, just like that.
Dr. Kendrick’s face softens into a sympathetic smile. “For what it’s worth, Celia, I loved what you did with Bloom. The rhythm section alone was astounding. It was clear how you took the input of the dancers to create something just for them. You should be very proud.”
“Thank you,” I reply, even though what I want to say is—so what?
So what if it was good? No one is going to see it now, because all the dancers are going to be cast in Oliver’s dumb program where someone is probably going to die because he writes about sad, miserable people.
All that work, all those sleepless nights of mine, all the missed dates with Anthony and parties I skipped at Rebecca’s Upper West Side apartment, were for nothing.
“Chin up,” Dr. Kendrick says lightly. “You know where to find me if you ever want to talk.”
I think I mumble another “thank you” but I’m not sure.
The frustration and disappointment are taking over my brain and I know I need to get out of there.
I give an awkward little half-wave as I hustle out of the classroom.
My eyes prickle and my nose burns. The tears are coming and I refuse to cry in front of my department head.
Out in the hall, I gulp down a shaky breath. I head straight for the stairs. My heart is beating so fast I’m afraid I might flatline. My vision is tunneling.
My dorm—I just have to make it back to my dorm.
The day gets even worse when I hit the lobby.
Oliver is there. Standing with Anya—willowy, graceful, perfect ballerina Anya.
She’s smiling as he talks to her, but then his gaze finds me somehow, even though there are dozens of people in this big space.
When we lock eyes and I have to register that cold face of his, my stomach bottoms out.
He smirks—actually fucking smirks at me—and I want nothing more than to evaporate into nothing, but I keep moving, putting a wide berth between us. If he tries to talk to me right now, I’ll lose it.
I’m already losing it. My bottom lip quivers when I burst into a cold January afternoon.
It’s practically dark out, the exterior campus lights already on even though it’s only 4:00 p.m., as I hustle across campus.
By the time I make it into the dorm building and into the safety of the elevator, the hot tears are trickling down my cheeks.
I wipe them away, afraid to be seen crying by any of my peers.
My phone dings in my back pocket. It’s a text from Anthony: you ok? where are you?
He knows, then. That means everyone does. Even though Anthony and I are established as a couple, I don’t want him around right now. I’m crushed that I didn’t win the competition, but I’m also humiliated that I lost—to Oliver, of all people.
As soon as the elevator lets me out on my floor, I shove my phone in my pocket, his text unanswered.
It’s not until I’m in the privacy of my solo dorm room that I let the floodgates open.
I throw myself on my bed and cry—because all that hard work was for nothing, because I lost, because this will disappoint my family even if they lie and say they’re still proud.
I composed something original, something true to me, something that I thought others could resonate with.
It was a story of finding yourself over and over again in your life.
Just like I saw my own family and community do; whenever they got knocked down, they picked themselves up and started over again.
It was hopeful—I was hopeful—but I didn’t play the game.
I didn’t write for a specific star; I wrote for the whole dance program.
Oliver played the game, and he won. Through ugly sobs and heaving breaths, I promise myself I’ll never make that mistake twice. If I ever get the chance to play again.
FAMILIA GROUP CHAT
TODAY 1:45 PM
Madre
1:45 PM
Hi hija, any news on when you’ll be home? We miss you
Rosa
1:51 PM
seriously it’s been like 2 months
Amanda
2:02 PM
it takes as long as it takes you guys!
Padre
2:17 PM
Si si but we do miss you
TODAY 6:11 PM
Celia
6:11 PM
i might get to come back in a couple of weeks
Madre
6:15 PM
Wepa!
Rosa
6:18 PM
for good??? omg
Celia
6:48 PM
yeah I think so, we can finish things up in the city
6:49 PM
there’s a meeting I need to be in next month
Amanda
6:56 PM
well if it’s for a MEETING then ok
Rosa
6:57 PM
by ‘meeting’ she means she wants to sleep in her own bed and hang out w us
she’s tired of professor pendejo lololol
Padre
7:01 PM
Girls
Celia
7:04 PM
he’s actually not a pendejo at all
Amanda
7:05 PM
he really isn’t. you should see him
Rosa
7:06 PM
ok who kidnapped my sister? who is this?