14. Phoenix St. Pierre #2
Birdie was the one who never gave up hope. Even after the collapse of Sophomore Summer, he never stopped trying to chase after our teenage dream.
So it’s difficult to walk into a practice room at a nearby music school in Greenwich and see my brother on a stool with a cello between his legs.
I know for a fact it’s not where he wants to be.
Shades are drawn closed, the room dark and gloomy. Birdie is too absorbed in the music and doesn’t hear me enter. I recognize the piece he’s playing. Shostakovich’s Cello Concerto No. 1. It grates on my nerves, and my pulse quickens under the ominous, unyielding, ruthless tone.
The hairs on his bow break as he plays with measured, compressed aggression. My heart hammers just watching him. His trained arms move quick, precise, intense. His fingers crawl up the fingerboard like an arachnid, and his body and head rock into the pulsating crescendo.
He is immaculate.
Spectacular.
A gift to music.
All things his music teachers told him growing up. It was true.
It still is.
I rub a hand against my mouth and wait in agitation for him to finish—but it doesn’t take long.
He breaks a string on the cello.
“Fuck,” he curses as I hear the snap.
I step farther into the room, and he shifts on his stool when he sees me. His plaid flannel is tied around his waist. His black buckled leather jacket covers the music stand. He was playing Shostakovich by heart. Sleeves of his white button-down are rolled to his elbows.
“Well, you’re here now. Make yourself useful and help me restring this thing.” He digs into his backpack.
“How about I go get a pair of sheers?” I ask him, my voice taut. “Because you told me you’d rather cut off both your testicles than have to play Shostakovich again.”
His jaw tics. He doesn’t look at me. “I was drunk.”
“You were honest.”
Birdie’s grip tightens on the neck of the cello. “If you’re only here to cut off my balls, you can go.” He points the bow at the door. “Exit stage left, man.”
I take a deep breath and roll out the strain in my muscles. I came in too hot. I blame Shostakovich. That piece makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
I walk over and grab his backpack from him, so he can work on loosening the pegs to remove the broken string. “How long have you been here?” I ask.
“A couple hours. Not long enough.” He focuses on the cello. “Before you ask, this is for a gala next week.”
“The Manhattan Symphony?” I ask.
He nods.
My brother is not a full-time member of the orchestra, but our parents love to parade him out to galas and events.
He’s also on just as many sub lists as me, but not to pay his bills.
He made it out of Berklee with no loans, and Nothing Personal earned out their two-hundred-grand advance during their last tour, which Riot Records thankfully paid for (does not always happen).
Their second album, Draconian, sold enough that they’re now making royalites. He doesn’t need a side hustle.
My brother reached a place we would’ve killed for—he’s in a successful rock band that’s gaining momentum to become something big.
I know without asking that this gala wasn’t his idea.
“Tell them no,” I say. “They can’t keep trotting you around like a show pony, Bird. You have to end this.”
His jaw tenses again. He’s not blinking as he works on the string. “Maybe I want to do this.”
“Maybe you want to jump off a cliff too,” I snap at him.
“Sounds fun.” His hands deftly remove the broken string from his cello. “Schedule cliff diving next week?”
“Birdie—”
“It’s our last name, Phoenix,” he cuts in.
“St. Pierre. Papi will keel over before we end his legacy.” He extends a hand, palm-up.
But I catch sight of his fede ring first. Our grandfather gave him the ring.
Because he’s the St. Pierre with promise.
The gifted one they all believed would honor our last name in the orchestra world.
No one ever put that amount of pressure on me. At times I think my unwillingness to listen to our parents made them cling harder to Birdie. He’s the son they can control when they’ve lost faith in controlling me.
They don’t want two fuckups for sons struggling to pay rent every month. I get it.
But I don’t want this for my little brother.
I place the new steel core string in Birdie’s outstretched palm. “Maybe Papi should just croak then,” I say.
Birdie glares. “You don’t mean that.”
Yeah, I don’t. Guilt chews at my insides even saying it.
Our grandfather is a benevolent old man who has an illustrious history as a world-renowned conductor. He’s the one who encouraged our dad to foster our musical abilities when we were toddlers.
“I’m not just doing it for Papi,” Birdie says as he finishes restringing the cello and picks up his bow. “Mom and Dad also deserve to have the money they spent on us mean something.”
Our parents racked up so much fucking debt sending Birdie and me to the best music schools, hiring the best private tutors, buying the best instruments.
It weighs on both of us. They’re nearing retirement age, and they’re nowhere close to being able to afford to leave the Boston Symphony.
Not to mention, Mom has arthritis in her right hand.
Playing viola is now physically painful.
I harbor just as much guilt as Bird, but I’m also not the one they drag out to these events. I’m not the one in a popular rock band who’s living a dream he had since he was fourteen. Birdie shouldn’t have to strain his life or his time for them.
I’d rather it be me.
I hate that it isn’t.
“How’d it go last night with that bonehead?” Birdie asks, repositioning the cello against his chest. “Tell me you cut him down to size. Sledgehammered his ego.”
I scrape my tongue over my back molars. Yeah. I just masturbated to the mental image of Tom. Recalling my morning shower has confined my entire body in a straitjacket. I can’t move a muscle.
Birdie freezes, his eyes widening in horror. “No. Tell me you do not like Tom—”
“I don’t like Tom,” I snap. “I like his music.” Because I definitely did not just picture pushing him up against a wall.
“You have the look,” he accuses.
I glower. “The fuck, Bird—”
“Man, you are turning red.”
I scrub my throbbing temples with two fingers of both hands. “I am too tired for this shit.”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” He springs up from his chair, places the cello against it, and yeah, I wanted him to desert the instrument but not for this fucking reason. “You are not falling for that rich fucker.”
A groan scratches out of my throat. “I’m not falling for him.
He’s my bandmate. I barely like him. And maybe you can jog my memory—but weren’t you the one who said you’d tell him to drop to the floor and blow you?
So don’t come at me for finding him somewhat hot.
” Somewhat, right. I struggle not to roll my eyes at myself.
Birdie narrows his gaze intensely like he’s reworking an intricate puzzle or playing a 7 against 5 polyrhythm on his cello. “Is it the money?” he asks. “Because if you’re trying to find a sugar dad—”
I shove his chest.
He pushes my chest just as hard. I sway back but don’t stumble. “For fuck’s sake, Birdie,” I snap. “No. I don’t want his money.”
“You just want his dick,” Birdie reasons. He’s not even trying to incite me—this is just who Birdie is.
“If I argue with you, will you even believe me?”
He shrugs. “Probably not. You’re a shade of crimson I’ve never seen on you. The face doesn’t lie, man.”
“Great. Glad we have that cleared up.”
He outstretches an arm toward me. “Look, if this is just sex, I get it. I’ve slept with more annoying people than Tom Cobalt. Fuck each other until you see shooting stars. Take him in the mouth. Take him in the ass. Invent new sex positions together. It’s the other stuff I’m worried about.”
My muscles tense. “The fuck does that mean? Other stuff?”