Chapter 8 Jamie
Jamie
Marigold’s apartment looks exactly how you’d imagine.
It’s not a penthouse, but it’s large enough that I can’t imagine what the difference would be.
It’s bigger than my mom’s actual house, with high ceilings and tall windows that gaze out toward Lincoln Center like watchful eyes.
It seems like a newer building, but there is something about the interior that reminds me of history.
Maybe it’s the tiled ceiling and the Georgian wall paneling.
Maybe it’s the fireplace that’s set opposite the sofa in the living room.
Or maybe it’s the taste of money, spicy and acrid as clove grit beneath my teeth.
Orchestra salaries don’t pay that much, not even for principals, and not even at the Phil.
Marigold’s paternal grandfather had been a famous composer with his fingers in every metaphorical musical pie, and he went on to be concertmaster of the London Philharmonic.
And thanks to some humiliating googling, I also know that her mother’s father had been some big dude on Wall Street back in the eighties and was basically dripping in cash.
So the fancy place made sense, even if the job titles didn’t.
“Wow,” I say, because I’ve got to say something considering Mr. Gensler’s generosity in inviting me to stay here.
I really did think about saying no. But then I remembered how soul-sucking it would be to stay in the dorm all break long, especially with the practice rooms closed.
What a hit that would be on my practice hours with the competition coming up.
At least here, there’s a piano. A black full grand, in fact, occupying the position of privilege in the living room. I can imagine myself playing there, backlit by the city skyline on some crisp midnight like a rich person in a movie.
“Sorry about all this,” Marigold says. I have no idea what she’s apologizing for. I shoot her my best confused look, but she doesn’t bother elaborating, just flushes an even deeper pink.
“Let me show you to your room,” Mr. Gensler says, clearly enjoying playing the role of hotelier as he leads the way up a mahogany spiral staircase and down a lushly carpeted hall to the great Manhattan luxury: a guest room.
This one in particular is done up in shades of red and burgundy, giving it the feeling of a duke’s chambers, or maybe something out of Versailles.
If I lived here, I wouldn’t have to bother practicing; I’d probably wake up every morning with beautiful music flowing from my fingertips automatically.
A week ago, this would have made me hate Marigold even more.
Now, I have no right to hate her. She stole that from me the second she let her father invite me here. I’m not allowed to repay Mr. Gensler’s generosity with hatred. That would be villain shit, and I refuse to be a villain.
“Dinner is at seven,” Marigold says abruptly. “It’s Shabbat, so don’t be late.”
She spins and stalks out of the room without saying anything else. It’s Mr. Gensler’s turn to look embarrassed, scrubbing one hand back through messy hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “She’s been…she’s been going through a lot lately. I’m trying to be patient with her. If you could be patient, too…it would mean a lot. To Goldie and to myself.”
“Of course,” I say, but I’m now wondering what Marigold could possibly be going through. What kind of horrible thing could go wrong in the life of someone who lives in a place like this?
It takes me the rest of the day to muster the nerve, but somehow, after dinner, I manage it.
I knock on Marigold’s door, then take a quick step back, putting a polite amount of space between us by the time she opens it.
“Hi,” she says. “What’s up?”
I gesture awkwardly over my shoulder, down the hall. “I was wondering if we could maybe…talk?”
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. I’m not good at this kind of conversation. I’m not good at any kind of conversation, come to that, but—as Shrishti would say—time to nut up.
“About what?”
“Can you just…can we just go into the living room? Please.” I’ve been rehearsing this in my head over and over, but my imagination didn’t think to include the part where I had to convince Marigold to speak to me in the first place.
Of course, once we’re there—sitting on opposite sofas, separated by the coffee table and a truly massive flower arrangement that threatens to obscure Marigold’s face entirely—I can’t think of what I’m supposed to say.
I’d planned it out, vaguely, but the memorized words stick in my head like treacle.
They seem wrong, now: awkward and insufficient.
“So,” she says. “What’s up?”
I shift on the sofa, trying to get the stupid camellias out of the way. I kind of regret it once I’ve done it, though, because it gives me no excuse not to look Marigold in the eye, when I’d much rather stare in the vague vicinity of the floor.
“Listen,” I say. “Obviously, we have some history. But if we’re going to be living together for the next two weeks, we should probably talk about it. Just…get it all on the table and over with.”
“Bold of you to think we can resolve our issues in one conversation.”
I shrug. “What else are we going to do? Seethe and avoid each other all break long?”
“I mean, it’s an option.” But then she sighs and leans back against the sofa cushions. “Okay. Let’s talk, then. You can go first, since this was your idea.”
An idea I’m regretting more and more with every passing minute.
“Fine. My issue with you is that you’re privileged, you’re rich, you had an easy route to music thanks to your parents, and I know you talk shit about me behind my back.
” Artists gossip, after all. Especially at Parker.
I don’t know how in hell Marigold thinks it won’t get back to me, the things she says to everyone.
How I’m snobbish and rude and probably, her words, one of those Midwest serial killers.
Kinda of-a-theme, given her calling me a hillbilly back at that party.
“And you’re elitist. Not from New York or London or Shanghai? We might as well be inbreds.”
She cringes. “Ouch. Brutal.”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
I cross my arms and raise my brows at her. “Well? It’s your turn.”
She’s put off by how straightforward I was.
I don’t have to be an expert in facial expressions to tell that much.
But it is what it is, and I’m not sure what the alternative would have been.
Sugarcoat and live with the resentment? Two weeks isn’t that long in the dorms, but in a New York apartment, it’s basically a millennium.
And I’ve never been a very good liar.
“As long as you’re ready for it,” she says, and I spread my hands to either side as if to say Give me everything you’ve got.
Marigold sighs and pushes herself up, bracing her elbows against her knees so that she’s tilted toward me, holding my gaze.
“Well, let’s start with the fact that you’re a major asshole,” she says.
“I swear to god, I could tell you that I like your shirt and you’d take it as an insult.
You’re the most defensive person I’ve ever met, and trust me, with my friends that says a lot. ”
I open my mouth to retort, but she purses her lips and waves her hand in a sharp sideways motion, a kind of “slitting-throat” gesture. “No interrupting. I let you talk, now it’s my turn. So be quiet and listen.”
I purse my lips, swallow my words, and try not to wonder if maybe this is Exhibit A of Marigold having a point: that my immediate urge was to justify myself.
“You’re an asshole,” she repeats. “You take everything too seriously, including and especially yourself. You look down on people you think don’t play piano as well as you do.
You’re judgmental, you decide what you think about someone before you even know anything about them.
And if you think I’m elitist about New York, you should hear yourself about the Midwest. It’s like you think you’re some kind of salt-of-the-earth regular dude who’s all humble and unpretentious, but everyone born on a coast is bougie aristocracy with no grounding in the real world.
Which is hilarious, because you are probably the most pretentious fuck in this entire department. ”
She drops back against the sofa again once she’s done, cheeks pink and her chest heaving slightly with the effort of being that…passionate. Passionately spiteful, anyway. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard her say the word fuck before.
“Been holding that in for a while, have you?” I say at last.
“You have no idea.”
“Am I allowed to respond now?” I ask, and she shrugs, then nods.
“Okay. First of all, I don’t look down on people who don’t play piano as well as I do.
I obviously have my own issues. Anybody can play technically well if they practice long enough, so that doesn’t make me, like, the best pianist alive or whatever.
I can practice until my fingers fall off, and I still won’t play as well as you. ”
One of her eyebrows lifts, but she doesn’t say anything, so I keep going.
“And I can’t speak to how I’m perceived when it comes to Midwest stuff.
But yeah, I probably do have a chip on my shoulder about it.
Do you know how hard I had to work to get here?
Or how people act when they find out where I’m from or where I studied?
Like people go What conservatory were you at, as if normal people all go to conservatories, so I say Iowa State.
And I’ve had people literally turn a cold shoulder on me.
I mean, physically turn away from me mid-conversation like I’ve just proven myself irrelevant.
” I make a face. “Of course, half those people have come crawling back now that I’m doing well here.
But it doesn’t change anything, and I’m never going to forget. ”
Marigold parts her lips, then hesitates, like she’s choosing her words carefully. Then: “Was I one of those people?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll give you that much.”