Chapter 3 Marigold
Marigold
“Sooooo, don’t get mad,” Cessy says, which is the first sign that I need to start gearing up for some righteous anger.
It’s a Sunday morning, the last dregs of a too-short weekend, the two of us huddled up in her bedroom in our suite sharing grainy coffee from Cessy’s cheap French press.
It’s finally getting cold outside, New York weather skipping autumn and speeding straight toward the marrow of winter.
The sky outside the window is a steely gray, threatening an early snow.
“What did you do?” I say.
“Excuse you, why do you have to say it like that?” Cessy rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I really am the innocent party, you know.”
I snort. “ ’Kay. Sure. So, what totally innocent thing did you do, that I shouldn’t get mad about?”
She makes a face, but she’s still grinning as she flops down onto her dorm bed next to me. “I asked Shrishti out again.”
“Cessy!”
“Shh! I knew you would react like this! But listen, we were both in a bad place last year. She was about to drop out, and I had that whole drama with my parents, and it just wasn’t a good time for either of us to be in a relationship.
But that doesn’t mean we weren’t still good for each other.
And now we have a real chance to figure out if there’s something there, now that things have kind of chilled out for both of us. ”
“Chilled out,” I echo flatly.
She shrugs. “I mean, you know, as much as anything ever chills out at Parker.”
It’s none of my business, really, what Cessy does in her romantic life.
I like Shrishti. She might have terrible taste in best friends (aka James Larson) but that doesn’t make her a bad person.
She and Cessy seem great for each other…
if you ignore the mutual professional jealousy and piss-poor communication ability.
“Well, Shrishti isn’t at Parker anymore. Do you really think that’s going to make such a big difference?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. Parker was like ninety-nine percent of our problems last year.”
You’d think that being in totally different fields—Cessy in dance, Shrishti in viola performance—would have eliminated any whiff of unhealthy competition.
But instead, I’d had to listen to Cessy’s long resentful monologues every time Shrishti won an award when things weren’t going nearly so well in Cessy’s own career.
Or complaints about Shrishti rubbing it in her face by (apparently) existing as a person whose family encouraged her music career while Cessy’s parents still hadn’t come to a single one of her Parker performances.
“Ri-ight,” I say slowly. “I mean…yes. Sort of. But it was also only a problem because both of you made it one. You’re still the same people.”
Cessy huffs out a heavy breath. “Can’t you just be supportive for five minutes? I really want to give this another go. I miss her. Okay?”
Shit. “I’m sorry. Yes. Of course. I thought you were cool with me making fun of you a little…I’m sorry. I misread things.”
“It’s okay. And yes, I’m always cool with you making fun of me a little. Just…not so much. You know?”
“Yeah.” I shift closer to her on the bed until our arms and thighs are pressed up alongside each other, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her in close.
“Well, if you want to give things with Shrishti another try, then obviously I’m with you.
You’re right, things are different this time. ”
I bite my tongue to avoid saying I hope it works out. Somehow, I think that’d come across a little too passive-aggressive for the vibe.
Cessy tips her head against mine, her long black hair tickling my cheek. “Cheers. Because I still fully plan to marry this girl one day.”
“Oh-kay,” I say, and Cessy laughs and elbows me in the ribs, hard enough I almost topple off her bed.
Later, I realize this is probably the first time in two months that I’ve felt kind of…
normal. Not like a girl with a threat hanging over her head, an open question as to how much longer things can keep going on like this, how much longer she can keep faking like everything’s okay and her body and mind aren’t falling apart.
I know I have Cessy to thank for that. And maybe that should be my new challenge to myself: try to be more grateful for the good things in my life.
Like Cessy, and piano, and Levain double chocolate chip cookies.
More of that; less multiple sclerosis and Jamie Larson and the crushing weight of Stockholm bearing down on me, more imminent every day.
It’s a thing, I tell myself that night as I curl up in bed, cozy under all my layers of blankets. I’ll be a nice person now. A thankful person.
It’s a thing.
Three Years Ago
First day of Piano Performance I.
Ever since arriving at Parker, I’d been a seething ball of nerves.
It felt like my skin physically itched, desperate for some kind of energy outlet.
I’d been in conservatories before—I was at Juilliard—but this was different.
This was college. I wasn’t a high schooler anymore.
I no longer counted as some teen prodigy.
I was at Parker, and I would be expected to hold my own against juniors and seniors and grad students.
So I really needed to pull myself together and actually focus if I wasn’t going to decompose into a slurry of dread.
The small auditorium was filling up fast. I had somebody to my left who was already deeply engaged in conversation, as if they’d known that person for years. My right seat was empty. But not for long.
“Is anybody sitting here?” a masculine voice asked.
I looked up. The boy standing over me was…
well, gorgeous was the first word that came to mind, even if on some level I was aware that was a pretty hyperbolic thing to say about anybody.
But seriously, this guy could have been a model.
Especially with that artfully tousled bronze hair and those dark blue eyes. He was wearing a Mountain Goats shirt.
“It’s all yours,” I said, and he allowed me a small smile as he dumped his backpack on the floor and shoved it under his seat.
“So,” I said after several seconds of unbearable silence. “Was she a good wife?”
For a second the boy looked confused; then he caught on and glanced down at his shirt, laughing lightly. “Oh, yeah. That song’s stuck in my head just about twenty-four seven.”
It was a set of lyrics from “No Children,” which had to be the bleakest Mountain Goats song—and also my favorite.
“Horrible song,” I said, grinning, a beat before he said, “Fantastic song.”
I arched a brow at him, and he grinned back at me, infuriatingly unflappable. “You like it enough to have it memorized.”
“Oh, I never said I didn’t like it. I mean, the whole thing is basically about the beauty of mutual hatred. Incredibly based.”
He leaned back in his seat, one elbow propped up on the armrest between us, close enough I swear I could feel the warmth of his body heat.
“Well, now I guess I have to figure out if you’re just the kind of person who likes dark songs, or if you’re the kind of person who takes them a little too literally.
Please let me know which it is before I get too invested. ”
“Nah,” I said. “You’ll just have to risk it and find out.”
He chuckled. God, that smile was beautiful. He could be anything he wanted—except he was here, at Parker, in my Piano Performance I class. And he listened to the Mountain Goats. That was two points for him in the first two minutes. He was on a roll.
“I’m Jamie,” he said, reaching a hand across to shake mine. His palm felt callused, as if he was used to hard work.
“Marigold. Well, Goldie. I still can’t believe my parents came up with Marigold and thought, Ah yes, there’s a good one.”
“I like it,” Jamie said. “It’s poetic, somehow. It suits you.”
I made a face. “Well, thanks, I guess. Maybe when I’m older, it won’t sound so ridiculous on me.”
“You carry it well.”
“I do try.”
I wondered if he could tell from the flush on my face that I found him attractive. Or maybe he was used to girls thinking he was hot. With a face like that, people were probably falling all over him at all times. And here I was, just another statistic standing in line.
“What do you think of Parker so far?” I asked, desperate for a distraction.
“It’s huge,” Jamie said bluntly. “I came from a small town. Being in New York is a massive culture shock. But everyone here has been really nice. And so far I’ve had great classes.”
“Who’s your primary teacher?”
“Celia Chen.”
My eyebrows shot up. “No way. Celia’s mine, too.”
“Lucky us.”
“I mean, I sure as hell hope so. I heard she’s a shark.” Specifically, that she had extremely high expectations for her students. But she also had a reputation for pumping out some of the best performers in the school. And maybe if I worked hard enough, I could be one of them.
“Yeah,” he said. “But that’s probably a good thing.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could get the words out, the teacher was already standing on the stage, ringing a little bell to get our attention.
Everyone almost immediately shut up, all of us turning toward her as if the next words from her lips would somehow determine our entire futures.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Elke Schulz, and I’ll be your professor in this class. I assume you have all read through the syllabus, but just in case, I’ll briefly go over it with you now.”
Great. The worst part of every first day. I sat there and pretended to be completely invested in attendance policies and class participation grades, but it was getting increasingly hard not to yawn by the time Schulz wrapped it up.
“Today, I thought we could all introduce ourselves the best way that classical musicians can—through performance. Each of you will come onstage and play a brief song for the class. I hope you’ll see this as an opportunity to express yourself and show your unique character through your performance, and that by the end, we’ll all know each other a little better. Who would like to go first?”
The room was utterly silent except for the rustling of clothes and papers as everyone tried to find some random occupation for their hands, hoping somebody else would speak up so they didn’t have to.
But then, beside me, Jamie raised his hand. “I’ll go.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Mister…?”
“Larson. Jamie Larson.”
“Thank you, Jamie. Please join me on the stage,” she said, gesturing toward the waiting baby grand.
I made room as he shuffled by me, tucking my feet beneath my chair. He walked up to the stage with the kind of easy confidence I envied, like he already knew he was good. Like all he had to do now was prove it.
I was far enough on the house left side that I had a good view of his hands as he rested them atop the keyboard. His fingers were long and elegant, settling over the keys as if caressing a lover.
Then he began to play.
His music was beautiful. It was technically perfect, but it was more than that—it resonated through the hall as if it were played by an entire orchestra, like a powerful ocean tide dragging us out to sea.
I caught myself sitting too still, almost not breathing, captivated.
God, I thought. If I could play like that, I’d never stop.
I lost track of time. Jamie’s piece felt both too short and also as if it lasted a lifetime, burrowing somewhere deep inside me, ready to live there in my warmth.
I clapped along with the rest of the class, and when Jamie finally settled back in the seat next to me, I leaned over and whispered, “That was amazing. Seriously.”
“Thanks,” he said back, his cheeks pink as if he’d just run twenty miles in the cold.
I let a few others go first, trying to psych myself up. It would be impossible to follow a performance like Jamie’s. No matter how well I played, I’d always be second best.
But at last, the number of students remaining dwindled to five, and I couldn’t justify waiting any longer. So I volunteered the next time Schulz turned toward the audience.
My body felt stiff and awkward as I made my way to the front. The piano in front of me no longer felt like an old friend, but a threat. A challenge.
I closed my eyes and breathed, trying to mimic a meditation I’d learned in therapy once.
I imagined myself as a mountain, grounded deep inside the earth.
Observing things that happened around me—observing my unsteady breath—but untouched by them.
Steady. Accepting myself, my solid base and snowy peaks.
When I opened my eyes again, it was better. The piano was made of a soft black ebony, the kind that I knew would feel cool to the touch. I settled my hands atop the keys, smoothing my fingertips over their slick surfaces.
It was time.
I played the Bach-Busoni Chaconne, a transcription of Bach’s original violin partita for the piano.
It was elaborate, Bach’s partita extrapolated with cadenzas and tempo changes and polyphony.
Allegedly the piece was written as a requiem for Bach’s late wife.
And I felt that as I played—the joy in celebrating her life, the devastation of her loss.
The piano and I bled together into one instrument.
I took its lead, rather than the other way around, letting the music pull me along with it, musicality developing only as I went along.
When I was finally done, I felt breathless, as if that piece had stolen something from me—as if I’d traded a part of my soul at the crossroads and knit it into the chaconne.
I only realized that the audience was clapping when I stood and gave my awkward little bow before rushing offstage, back to the safety of my seat and Jamie Larson’s smile.