Love in B Minor

by Elodie Nowodazkij

  That evening in my apartment while we were baking the cookies, I asked her why she decided to come here to learn French, why she decided to go on this adventure. I still remember her answers. “Because where better to learn French than in France?” she first said but she didn’t sound truthful. I kept on looking at her. And she bit her lower lip, tracing imaginary designs on the counter as if she was reminiscing. Then she stared right back at me. “Because sometimes, you think leaving is easier. That you can leave your worries and your sad memories behind and start fresh. It’s like when you make New Year’s resolutions, this idea that you can be a new you.”

  “I take it you don’t believe in it.”

  “I do. I do believe in becoming better and stronger and leaving your past in the past. But to do that, you have to be ready. I’m not quite sure I’m ready yet.”

  There was so much sadness in her voice. I took her hand in mine across the counter and I opened up too. “I think there are parts of you that you don’t want to change. You said earlier how much you love your family and your friends. And I saw you standing up to this guy. You were strong. Starting fresh doesn’t necessarily mean forgetting who you are; maybe starting fresh is taking what you love about yourself and learning to smile at everything that makes you happy. Maybe it means not being afraid to be happy.”

  “It sounds like a song.” She laughed and then leaned in, whispering, using a very self-deprecating tone: “Time is money, money is power, power is pizza, and pizza is knowledge, let’s go!”

  And I laughed at her ability to quote Parks & Rec, before kissing her and finally ordering the pizza.

  I don’t even bother to hide my smile.

  “Are you done looking at her picture and daydreaming?” Grégoire shoots me a death glare that he believes has me shitting in my pants. He couldn’t be more wrong.

  Linda—the director’s assistant—who wears piercings like a statement chimes in. “Should I call the next dancer? We still have twenty-five girls to see.”

  “I thought it was twenty,” Steve mutters while Dimitri yawns loudly.

  “I’m ready.” I cross my arms on my chest. Telling myself I will give them all a fair chance and that if one of them is better than Jen, she’ll get the role.

  But they’re not.

  The rest of the auditions are pretty much the same over and over again. Even though I’m impressed by all the talent that showed up, I’m not impressed with them. I don’t get lost in the way they move. I don’t believe them, the way I believed Jen.

  Then, there are some who are clearly not dancers and just wanted to see who was auditioning. I’m guessing that’s Grégoire’s doing. Putting a hint or two in some non-specialized press so some groupies show up. One was disappointed it was us, though—she was expecting One Direction.

  Oh well.

  Another stripped instead of dancing.

  And then jumped on the table, screaming how much she wanted to become famous.

  I’m worried about that one. I asked one of the security guards to double check on her and make sure she got home okay.

  After the last one exits the room, Grégoire stands up. If he thinks that by towering over me, he will be more convincing, he’s wrong.

  “Before deciding, I’d like to make sure we’re all on the same page, and I want to hear Olivia and Lucas sing the song from the video.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.” I don’t need to raise my voice to sound pissed. “This song doesn’t need a second singer.”

  “You mean it doesn’t need me as a second singer,” Olivia chimes in. Her light brown eyes flash with anger and pain. “You know I could make this song great. You know how much Benji meant to me too.”

  “You didn’t even know the song was about him.” I’m tempted to say she thought it was about her, but humiliating her in front of the others isn’t my style.

  Dimitri raises his hand. “I understand you guys have issues, but two things. One, can we hear Olivia sing that song with you before making any decisions? Two, Jen was clearly the best. She blew us all away and she would be great on video.”

  Grégoire smiles his I-know-I-won smile. “Not only do I think it’s a great idea to listen to the both of you sing that song, I also believe that Benji’s grandmother would like to see you two sing something for your best friend. Together. Like old times.”

  I have to hold on to my chair to not jump on him and beat him up. Bringing up Benji’s grandmother now? It’s lower than I thought he would ever get. Who is to say she would even recognize us? She’s got more bad days than good ones.

  But Olivia surprises me for the second time in less than half an hour. “I want to sing. But I understand if you don’t want me to. I get it. I screwed up. I fucking screwed up.”

  “Oh yeah you did,” Steve whispers. He wasn’t even a band member when it all went down, but he was one of the few who helped pick up the pieces.

  “But even though Grégoire was being an ass, he was right about Benji’s grandmother. We could sing together one last time. For him and for her.”

  Part of me wants to say yes. Before we became somewhat famous, it was always the three of us. Olivia, Benji and I. Olivia and I met at the American School of Paris. Benji didn’t go there. His grandmother didn’t have enough money to afford the tuition, and they lived on the outskirts of Paris, but Benji liked to play soccer close by our school at night. He used to bet with the rich kids he could beat them and he usually did. We were fourteen and became inseparable. Especially when we found out we both loved music. Olivia always wanted to sing and even though she admitted her voice wasn’t the best, she brought passion and commitment. Olivia and I booked the music room every night at school and we would sneak Benji in. It was the three of us living our dream.

  “We could remember him that way and make people remember something other than his last month.” His spiraling-down hell. She’s not saying it but it’s in her eyes.

  I thought it was the best time of our lives, but now when I look back, I see the little things I brushed aside before. How Benji struggled with the fact his only family—his grandmother—was forgetting about him, calling him by his dad’s name. A dad he’d never even met. How Benji tried so hard to fit in. How he sometimes looked at Olivia like she hung the moon.

  He never told me he had fallen for her, but if I’m being entirely honest with myself, I knew he had. He never told me how much he was hurting. But I should have known. The alcohol, the drugs. They didn’t come with the beginning of the fame, they were there before, they were just much easier to get once we hung out in certain clubs, got our pictures taken, became somewhat famous. Benji was drowning and I didn’t even see it.

  “Okay.” My voice is strong and sure even though I feel miserable.

  “What?” everyone says at once, more surprised than I thought.

  “Let’s try it. Let’s see how it works. With the vocals. But it’s just that one song. For him. For Benji.”

  “Tomorrow at the studio?” Olivia asks and she sounds so hopeful, even desperate. I look at her more carefully but she’s got a blank mask on.

  “Okay.” I cross my arms behind my head. “Now, do we all agree that Jen should get the part?” I turn to the side to challenge Grégoire to disagree, but he doesn’t.

  “Let me announce it tomorrow,” he replies instead. “I’d like to give an exclusive to Fran Gaves. She runs the top gossip blog in the US and she started developing one in France.”

  “I’d like to tell Jen first,” I reply. And not because I want to talk to her soon again.

  “What if she blabbers to the press?”

  “She won’t.” I can pretend to be sure of something I’m definitely not. Because who am I to say she’s going to keep it to herself? I spent one night with her and even though I hate feeling that way, I do need to make sure she’s not like Olivia. That she won’t use me.

  Grégoire sighs, dismissively. “Fine. I need you all to come to a pa
rty tonight and she can’t join until it’s been announced. I’ll meet Fran at the Cloche Du Roi restaurant at twelve thirty and I’ll get her to release the news by two thirty so we hit the evening buzz on social media in the US.”

  “I’ll tell her tomorrow morning then.” I grab her paperwork and check for her cell phone number. Or maybe I should pass by and tell her. I enter her address just in case. “You need to make sure she actually accepts before announcing it anyways. I’ll bring her the contract.” I’m pretty impressed with the way I still appear professional even though what I’m really wondering is: Will she agree to see me? How about going out with me? How about how her face fell right before we said goodbye earlier today like something was bothering her?

  “It’s settled then.” Grégoire stands up. “The party is in Club D on the Champs-Élysées. You all need to show up, including you, Olivia. We need to get the crowd wondering about a possible reunion. When you left for your solo career splitting up the band, a lot thought you might come back for some songs, but with all the drama…” He glances in my direction, pursing his lips, waiting for me to explode like I usually do when he brings up Olivia, but I’m not going to. If we sing that song in Benji’s memory, we need to at least not be at each other’s throats.

  For Benji.

  “I’ll be there.”

  And when I leave the hotel by myself—I refused Grégoire’s suggestion that Olivia and I come out together—I smile at the photographers, sign a few autographs, discreetly looking behind the crowd, on the sidewalk, in the restaurants. Chances are slim she stuck around for such a long time, but I still look. Because seeing her again had to be a sign. I’m not sure what type of sign, but a sign that our story can’t end with a one-night stand.

  Benji would not only agree, he would approve. He always believed in signs. And tarot cards, and looking into the stars.

  None of the psychics he saw told him he was going to die at eighteen from too much heroin.

  CHAPTER 20 – JEN

  The excitement of the day is slowly waning off. Alisha and I found a plaque on the Boulevard Saint Michel that I hadn’t photographed yet. One about Jean Montvallier-Boulogne, a twenty-four-year-old who died in 1944 during the Liberation. Paris has endured so much throughout the centuries; maybe that’s why it seems so resilient. Maybe that’s why it’s so fascinating.

  We ate in the small Greek restaurant in the 11th arrondissement, and we talked about the company, about her dreams, about important things but not dangerous ones. Dangerous topics like my past, and my demons.

  I didn’t confide to her about my past. I didn’t tell her how much seeing Lucas again scares me, because reality is usually so much more screwed up than all the fantasies in my head.

  As soon as I’m back in my apartment, I get comfy: large sweatpants, a sweater from the School of Performing Arts, big fuzzy socks. I take out my cell phone and put it to charge. Right away it beeps with a voice mail.

  I sit down at my computer.

  It’s almost ten p.m.

  Four in the afternoon in the city. I turn on Skype, but my parents are rarely on. Em isn’t either. She’s either taking a power nap after waking up at three in the morning to prepare sweets for their new bakery, or she’s gone to see Nick.

  I could google Lucas now. I could check all the stories, check what his past with that girl is, and what happened to his friend, but I don’t. Because I want him to tell me—I don’t want to take away his decision to tell me. And I have a feeling, even though he seems grateful for the spotlight and success, there are a few aspects that destroyed him.

  I click on Mom’s profile and call her cell phone. “Hi, honey.” She actually picks up, which has me all sorts of confused. She’s usually busy at this time.

  “Hey. Where are you?”

  “Running errands. I finished work early and I’m going to surprise your dad with dinner.”

  “You sound good.”

  “You don’t.” There’s shuffling in the background, honking. “You sound sad, is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know.” The words tumble out. I didn’t mean to be blunt. But hearing concern in my mother’s voice is disconcerting and I wasn’t prepared for that.

  “Your dad and I have been talking a lot these recent days. And we know it hasn’t been easy for you either. And we know we haven’t been there.”

  I’m going to cry at my computer. I’m going to lose it right here and now. There’s so much sadness in me I don’t know what to do with it. “I…” My voice cracks. “I know it was hard for you too.”

  “Yes. It was and it still is. And part of us will always miss your little sister. Part of us will always wonder if we could have done anything differently, tried another course of chemo. Anything. But… Wait, honey, let me get in the car.” A door opens and closes. Probably our usual driver picking her up. “What I’m trying to say is that we didn’t forget about you. It’s just we were both grieving in different ways, and part of us didn’t want to bring you down with us.”

  “But I wasn’t there.” This time I can’t stop the tears from falling down.

  “You were. You were there. You called every single day. We didn’t know that it was going to happen when it did. Baby, you tried everything. You postponed your entry into the ballet company until they gave you an ultimatum and Mia told you to go.” Mom sounds like she actually believes what she’s saying, that she actually believes I’m not guilty of abandoning them.

  “I wanted to be there. If I had known…”

  “Again, you were there. In every phone call, in every video you sent, in every little thing you did even when you weren’t close by, you were there.” She clears her throat. “You came back as soon as you could. And Mia knew you loved her.”

  “I miss her. I miss her so much.” And I continue to cry, tears I haven’t let myself feel in a very long time.

  “I know. And I want you to be able to talk to me about it. To me or to your dad. Or to a therapist.” She pauses and I’m not sure if it’s so she doesn’t cry too, or if she’s thinking about the way to phrase her next sentence. “Are you doing okay otherwise? With everything?”

  And I know what she’s asking between the lines. She wants to know if I used anything again, if I went down the dark path because I couldn’t cope.

  “I’m doing okay. I was thinking about calling Dr. Archer to see if he could refer me to someone in Paris.”

  “That could be a good idea. And honey?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Your dad and I will be there for your next show. And we will call you next week, okay?”

  “Okay, Mom. I love you.”

  “We love you too.” And she hangs up. And my heart’s fuller than it’s been in such a long time. I don’t know what brought them to talking about the situation more, or how they started working on it, but hearing Mom like this gives me hope that maybe everything will be okay. For months, I was scared they would split up because I’ve read this happens a lot in those situations. People not able to connect and to grieve a child together, and I wondered how they would do without each other. My parents fought so much for their own relationship, they fought so much for my sister, and for me.

  Maybe, I can tell Lucas about what happened to me and he won’t freak out, he won’t leave me behind.

  Maybe I can take a chance.

  But before, I need to write to Dr. Archer and get that referral.

  CHAPTER 21 - LUCAS

  The club is full. It’s one of those clubs that’s full of fancy lighting and modern furniture. The type of club that tries hard to pretend it’s not cool but overdoes it. The type of club I hate.

  The music is so loud I have to lean in to listen to Steve and I only make out a few words he’s slurring. He’s hammered. Or maybe I’m hammered.

  I lean in even closer, my ear almost touching his mouth, and laughter bubbles within me. Because that’s funny. He’s blabbering about that Alisha girl, and how she won’t
return his calls.

  “You have to ask Jen about her. See if she has someone maybe or…”

  “I thought you didn’t grovel after girls. That they came to you, not the other way around.”

  “Come on, please….” He sounds whiny, and it’s very unlike Steve to sound whiny.

  I laugh and down another shot. I haven’t texted Jen to tell her but I did try to call her. She didn’t pick up. Maybe it was too late. Maybe it is too late. Maybe I drank too much. And I drink another shot.

  The beginning of the evening was pretty tame. I told myself I’d only make an appearance, have a few drinks and then go home early. But I made the mistake of listening to some girl talking about how she met Benji before he died, and what a great guy he was, and how sad it was he died. It wouldn’t have been as hard if she didn’t finish with: “We saw it coming though. He was really going down a dark path.”

  I didn’t see it coming. I had staged an intervention two months prior to his death and I thought it had worked okay. I thought it was going to be easy for him to stop using drugs. One stern talk from all of us. Support and a quick stint in rehab and all his problems would be gone. But it wasn’t easy and I didn’t see it.

  The music changes and I force myself to pretend to be happy, to pretend to not drown in my thoughts and memories.

  I stand up and get to the middle of the room where people grind against each other. I sway my hips from side to side, then raise my fist up in the air and jump. I don’t care what people think. I’m here to pretend to have a good time.

  “Oh hey goodbye!” I sing at the top of my lungs. Olivia dances close by and then, she trips and I catch her. Cameras flash and I give them the finger. Because intoxicated me is clearly the bigger person. “I got to go,” I tell her.

  And she smiles. “Do you want me to come with you?”