Chapter 4 Jamie #2
I am tempted to not “wait up,” but me and Marigold’s rivalry has always been sustained under the pretense of civility. We’re friendly rivals, not enemies. Competitors, but not in mortal combat.
Allegedly.
So, I stop long enough for Marigold to catch up; then we start off down the hall together. And if I lengthen my stride just the slightest bit, forcing her to power walk to keep up…that doesn’t make me a total asshole, right?
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Celia just emailed me,” she says. “Capstone project. It’s a duet. You and me.”
A duet. A freaking duet, and I just spent an hour in that practice room with Celia, and she didn’t think to tell me. She just sat on that information like a goose on the golden egg, probably internally cackling to herself the whole damn time.
There’s only one explanation. Celia planned this because she thinks there’s something I can learn from Marigold—and what better way to teach it than forced proximity?
The sheer condescension gnaws at me like a hungry animal.
“Are you serious?” I manage, after a silence that stretches on maybe a beat too long.
She makes a face—at least she feels the same way I do about all this. “Yeah. So I guess we’ve got a few weeks to make some tolerable music together. Yay for us.”
This has got to be a joke. As much as I’d like to tell myself that Celia has no idea how much Marigold and I despise each other, the Parker piano program is too small to hide even the faintest animosity.
We’re all up in each other’s business, all the time.
I know enough details about Zoe Harrison’s breakup with that guy from the drama program last semester to write a book about it, and I’ve never even met the dude.
Or maybe this is a Stockholm thing. Maybe Celia thinks she’s gonna foster collegiality or something ridiculous like that.
I get her point: We want to represent Parker as best we can. Parker hasn’t had a student make it to Stockholm in ten years. Alumni, sure. But it’s different being twenty-one and representing your school on the world stage. Not saying it counts for more, but…it doesn’t not count for more.
Even so, helping Marigold Gensler become a better antagonist for me two months from now seems like a really stupid idea.
“This is bullshit,” I say.
“Yep.”
“We should try to talk her out of it.”
Marigold lifts a brow. “I’ve been Celia’s student for three years now, and I’ve never managed to talk her out of anything she’s set her mind to. Have you?”
Fair point.
“This is gonna be a shitshow,” I inform her. “Feels like she’s punishing us.”
For some reason—out of everything I’ve said—that makes Marigold’s face fall.
I have no idea why; we can hardly stand to be in the same room together for a single class period, and that’s with a dozen other people present.
How are we going to manage a duet? It’s ridiculous, and I shouldn’t have to feel like an asshole for pointing out the obvious.
I just wish she wasn’t quite so good at that poor lost Little Match Girl face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Marigold decided to have those soulful brown eyes and soft lips just to fuck with me, because the only thing worse than hating someone is being attracted to them, too.
She’s still standing there like maybe she can change my mind through a brokenhearted gaze alone, so I give her a tight smile and say, “Well. Like you said, no talking Celia out of anything. So, I guess I’ll see you in practice. Text me your schedule.”
And I stalk off to my next class before she can stop me.
Usually I’m pretty good at focusing. I’ve always been like this: Even if I can’t focus on literally anything else, for some reason a switch just clicks in my brain when it comes to piano.
I hyperfixate. I could—and do—stay up until four in the morning sometimes, just practicing the same six measures of a piece until they’re flawless.
Piano’s been my obsession for so long, it’s hard to imagine life without it.
I don’t know how Shrishti managed it—just extricating herself from this life so cleanly. I know her better than anyone…and maybe she grieved the loss of this path for a little while, but not for long. On the other side of Parker was joy and freedom, whereas for me…?
The other side of Parker is being left alone without even music to distract me. Just me and my own shriveled heart, alone in our misery.
But right now, I can’t pay attention in my Piano Literature class because I’m circling the drain on that whole conversation with Marigold.
Was I maybe a little too much of a dick this time?
Every interaction with this woman feels like a careful calculus of how far I can push her without, you know, actually causing some kind of harm.
A part of me wants to think there’s no limit there, because being rich and having life handed to you on a silver platter has a way of insulating you from ever experiencing real damage.
Like, who cares if some guy at school is brusque with you when you can spend the weekend in your Upper West Side palace with an IV pumping nepotism and opportunities directly into your vein?
On the other hand, all she did today was exist as a pawn of Celia Chen—which is Celia’s fault, not hers. Marigold has somehow convinced Celia that she, a student just as experienced as I am, can teach me something…whether I want to learn it or not.
I don’t need Marigold’s fucking help, though. I can win Stockholm without Marigold Gensler dragging me along in her wake.
With that decided, I try to make myself pay attention to what Professor Sinwar is saying, but it’s too late.
My mind is fractured and stuffed with cotton.
Instead, it runs through a list of aggressively random things like whether blueberries would be cheaper if I moved to Jersey—even though I have no intention of moving to Jersey—and if I should maybe try to have a houseplant again.
The day ends eventually, thank god. I grab a falafel sandwich from my favorite spot in Washington Square and eat it on my way back to the dorms, where—as usual—Ken is fiddling around with one of his compositions and barely even glances up when I come in.
I message Shrishti.
Me: Do you think I’m a dick?
Luckily for me, she must be done with her day, too. She texts back almost immediately.
Shrishti: Did someone tell you that you’re a dick?
Me: Not in so many words. Just answer the question.
I watch that typing ellipsis appear and disappear like eight times. Wow, Shrish, really appreciate that quick and confident response.
Shrishti: You’re kind of complicated. You’re hard to read a lot of the time. And sometimes you’re a little too quick to say exactly what you think. Like it wouldn’t kill you to have a filter.
Me: Brutal thanks
Shrishti: BUT. You are also a really good guy. We all know you’re not exactly neurotypical. And you’re a great friend. People just need to take the chance on you and get to know you a little better. So no, I don’t think you’re a dick.
Shrishti: Not at heart, anyway.
That sounds like the kind of thing someone brainwashed by a cult leader would say if the cult leader asked whether they’re too cult-y.
She’s basically implying that people have to put up with me being an asshole for some undetermined period of time before they get to know The Real Me, who is (according to Shrishti) a freshly baked cinnamon roll.
But sure. Maybe it’s time to turn over a new leaf. Maybe, for once, I’ve gotta be the bigger person.
I take out my phone, and I text Marigold Gensler:
Are you free Wednesday? Let’s do this.