I went cold. “But we all picked our pieces weeks ago! The deadline’s tomorrow!” I stared at him in disbelief. “There isn’t anyone who hasn’t chosen yet!”
He nodded sadly. “I do believe that’s the case, yes.”
I couldn’t speak for a second, my tongue desert dry. “But…but I have to do the recital,” I told him. “Professor Harman, I need to play for the panel—for the New York Phil scout.” Then realization hit and my stomach flipped over. “I don’t have the credit without my recital. I won’t graduate!”
He took off his glasses. “I know. I checked before you came in here. Your performances have been excellent and your essays are fine. It’s…unfortunate that you’ve neglected your presentations so completely.”
I couldn’t do them! I couldn’t stand up in front of everyone and—That’s not my fault either!
His words seemed to come from a great distance away. I was falling into such a deep state of panic that I barely heard him.
“You’re an exceptional musician, Karen. I’m truly sorry there isn’t another way.”
I could feel nausea rising inside me; I had to get out of there. “Excuse me,” I said as I sprang to my feet and ran for the door. I hit something heavy and warm with my ankle and realized I’d kicked the coffees over, but I couldn’t stop.
I left his door banging behind me and ran for the bathroom, pushing past students arriving for class. Crashing into a stall, I fell to my knees and vomited into the toilet bowl.
On the rare occasions I’d been sick, I’d always felt better afterwards. This was different. This wasn’t something inside me making me ill, something that could be got rid of. This was everything outside me squeezing inwards, crushing me until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
I’m not going to play for the New York Phil. I’m not going to play for anyone. I’m not going to graduate.
My dreams of being a musician were gone, in the space of a few minutes. My whole life had changed.
I sat back against the cold wall of the stall. I wasn’t crying. I was too far gone for tears.
Screaming inside my skull was: How am I going to tell my father?
***
I stumbled out of the bathroom at some point—I don’t really remember. People asked me if I was okay, but I couldn’t speak and just sat down on the steps leading up to the next floor. Normally, I’d have been worried about inconveniencing people, but it didn’t even occur to me that I was in the way.
People muttered and whispered around me. I was still on the music floor, so most of them were musicians. People I knew, people I’d trained with, but they’d never seen me like that and it was freaking them out.
Somebody fetched Natasha, and I remember her arriving in leotard and pointe shoes and walking me very carefully down the stairs to the main door, one step at a time. I could feel a crowd of musicians watching our retreating backs, waiting until we were out of earshot before they started guessing at what might have happened.
It’s difficult to find a private place at Fenbrook—the stairs are like highways and the corridors are never empty. Natasha took me outside, into the freezing air. It wasn’t snowing, but it felt like it might start at any moment.
Natasha was speaking, and I picked out the words “panic attack,” but as with Professor Harman her words seemed to be coming from a long way away. I didn’t feel like I was having a panic attack. I wasn’t hyperventilating; I barely seemed to be breathing at all.
Her hands were on my shoulders and she kept telling me to look at her. I was looking at her, although she was sort of blurry. I kept thinking how cold she must be, in her leotard, and I wondered why she looked so scared.
And then I don’t remember anything at all.
***
I woke to a triangle of faces, one of them with long red hair. I focused, and saw Natasha, Clarissa and Jasmine. I seemed to be lying on my back, looking up at them.
“Hello,” I said.
“How do you feel?” asked Natasha. I could see the relief in her eyes, and immediately felt awful for whatever I’d done to scare her.
“Okay. I think.” I tried to sit up, and they immediately pushed me back down. I was on some sort of sofa that didn’t look like the furniture at Fenbrook. Where was I?
“Are you you?” Jasmine asked. “Are you back?”
“Back?”
“You went a bit catatonic for a while,” said Clarissa. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Catatonic?”
“Maybe I should slap her,” said Jasmine. Clarissa caught her hand.
“I’m not going to graduate,” I said suddenly, because I realized they didn’t know. I told them what had happened and watched their faces fall. All three of them took turns hugging me, but it didn’t make it any better.
When they eventually let me sit up, I saw there were thick black curtains all around us, and I wasn’t on a sofa but a chaise-longue. “Where are we?” I asked.
“Backstage in the main hall,” Jasmine told me. “When you passed out on the steps, we thought we’d better bring you somewhere quiet.” She nodded at the chaise-longue. “That’s for Julius Caesar.”
I could tell they all wanted to say something to make it okay, but there was nothing they could offer, no Plan B they could suggest. Flunking students weren’t allowed to repeat a year at Fenbrook—competition for places was too fierce. I had no options, other than to start over at a different college—and my father would never allow that. After Boston and Fenbrook, he wouldn’t want the humiliation of me trying—and possibly failing—for a third time.
It was all my fault, me and my stupid shyness, sitting there failing presentation after presentation. I’d known I had a problem, but I’d thought I could rely on my playing to make up the lost credit. Now the one weapon in my arsenal was being withheld from me.
I thanked them all, then stood up and pushed my way out through the curtains.
“Are you going to be okay?” asked Clarissa.
“I just need to be alone.” I climbed down off the stage and walked through the eerie, empty hall, not looking back.
Outside in the hallway, Vincent—another cellist, who’d once had a thing with Natasha—was standing clutching my cello, having retrieved it for me from Professor Harman’s office. He helped me strap it onto my back, and I could tell he wanted to speak…but couldn’t find the words.
“What are you going to do?” he asked at last, as I pushed the doors to the street open.
I hesitated on the threshold. “I honestly have no idea,” I told him, without turning around. And then I left Fenbrook, possibly for the last time.
Chapter 4
Standing outside in the street with the freezing wind whipping around me, I felt broken inside. Empty, as if something had been ripped violently out of me.
I considered going home, but the empty apartment felt like it didn’t belong to me anymore. I’d lived there while I was attending Fenbrook, and that was over.
I wound up going to Harper’s. I ordered a coffee and then sat there not drinking it, half-hearing the chatter around me. A mixture of students and civilians, and every one of them had things to do that afternoon: classes to go to, music to learn, boyfriends to see.
I had no life left. My entire existence for almost four years had been about music; it was only when that was taken away that I could see how little else I had. Even my friends were Fenbrook students. How long would we stay in touch when I was back in Boston, working whatever job I could find?
I had…nothing.
I pulled my phone out of my bag and it sat in my hand like a lead weight. I tapped the shortcut for my father and then sat staring at his name on the screen, trying to work up the courage to press the Call button.
A girl’s voice behind me. “He hasn’t even chosen yet. I keep telling him, and he’s like,”—she did a fair imitation of an Irish accent—“Ah, I’m not gonna bother. I’m droppin’ out anyway.”
The words had to rattle around
in my head a few times before I could be sure I’d heard correctly. Then I twisted around in my chair.
I recognized the girl from some of my classes. One of the non-classical musicians—a drummer—her hair dyed violently pink, a spiky-ended bar through her nose.
“Are you talking about Connor Locke?” I asked breathlessly.
For a second, she looked like she was going to tell me to mind my own business, but then her expression softened. “Yeah,” she said.
“He hasn’t chosen his recital piece yet?”
She shrugged. “No. Why would he? He’s going to be kicked out any time.”
Air filled my lungs. It felt like the first time I’d breathed since Professor Harman’s office. I grabbed my cello and ran.
***
When I burst into Professor Harman’s office, he was on the phone. I was panting, having run up the stairs lugging the cello.
“Connor…Locke…hasn’t…chosen yet,” I told him, trying to get my breath.
He blinked. “I’ll call you back,” he told the person on the other end, and hung up. “Well, yes. I just checked the list—he’s the only one who hasn’t. We weren’t really expecting him to. So?”
“I want to team up with him.”
He blinked a few times. “You want to do a duet for cello and electric guitar?!”
I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“With Connor Locke?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head slowly. “Karen, I can’t really discuss another student with you, but you must know that Connor’s on the verge of being kicked out. It’s really just a question of whether he drops out or we give him a push. It’s only a matter of time.”
“But if I can keep him in?” I said desperately. “If I can keep him in until graduation and if we can do a great duet—I could still graduate…right?”
He took a deep breath and then sighed. I could tell he wanted to say no. But strict rules cut both ways.
“Yes,” he told me. “In theory, if he doesn’t flunk out, and if you score highly enough in the recital…yes, you’ll graduate.”
“I want to do it,” I said.
“Karen, I honestly admire your spirit. I know you didn’t take the news well, but…what makes you think you can even convince Connor to do it?”
“I have to try!”
He took a long look at me and then sighed. “I think you’re wasting your time. But if you really want to do this, I need both of you in here at 9:00am tomorrow to give me your choice of music.”
I nodded and ran.
***
I was halfway down the corridor before I slowed to a walk. My mind was buzzing with excitement. The tiny sliver of light I’d glimpsed in Harper’s had widened to a crack. Maybe one big enough for me to squeeze through, if I could tease it open.
There was so much to do. I had to find Connor and get him alone. Sit him down and talk to him.
I slowed more. Talk to him…. Talk to a guy who drove me crazy every time we met. Who was arrogant and loud and brash and only interested in women if he thought they’d drop their panties for him.
And it wasn’t just a one-off conversation. If he agreed to do it, we’d be rehearsing together constantly for months.
If he agreed to do it. This was Connor I was talking about. Connor who showed up for classes when it suited him. Connor who hadn’t intended to even submit a choice for the recital, much less rehearse for it.
I stopped in my tracks.
Was I seriously hitching my entire future to the least reliable guy at the academy? He was about to flunk out, and I needed him to be the best.
I leaned back against the wall and then slid down it to the floor.
It came down to a simple question: Was I prepared to go through hell with Connor to get my life back?
I knew instantly. It wasn’t even a choice. If I gave up now and didn’t at least try, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
I got slowly to my feet and started going through the timetable, trying to remember which classes Connor was in so I could track him down.
An hour later, I was pacing nervously outside the lecture theater. According to the timetable, Connor was inside, in the same music theory class I would have been in had I not been racing to Harman’s office when it started. Ironically, the first class I’d missed since I’d started at Fenbrook.
I started rehearsing what I’d say to him. Eager and happy? “Hi Connor! Can we go somewhere and talk?” No. Too light. Serious? “This is something that affects both of us.” No. People who overheard would think I was pregnant. Straight to the point? “I need you to team up with me for the recital. And rehearse really hard. Oh, and you have to graduate.” That would scare him off.
The doors banged open, almost hitting me in the face, and I stepped back and started searching the crowd for Connor, feeling my breathing getting faster and faster—
He wasn’t there.
I recognized the fuchsia-haired girl from Harper’s. “Hey! Do you know where Connor is?”
She frowned at me. “What’s your interest in him?” She looked me up and down. “You don’t look like his type. No offense.”
“It’s not—I just really need to talk to him.”
She shrugged. “I’m pretty sure he’s sleeping off a hangover.”
I had a flashback to him singing in Flicker. Knowing him, that had been just the start of his night. Great.
“Any idea where I could find him? It’s really important.”
She considered. “He’s playing The Final Curtain tonight. I guess you could catch him there, if it’s really important.”
***
“The Final Curtain?” asked Jasmine that evening. I’d called the girls together for a crisis meeting at my apartment.
“It’s a bar,” I said authoritatively. I only knew because I’d Googled it.
“You’re going to a bar?” she asked doubtfully.
“We’re going to a bar,” I told her. “I’m not going in by myself.”
“I thought you hated this guy?” said Natasha.
“I do! But if it means I graduate….” I looked around at the others. “I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I? I mean, I have to take whatever chance I have?”
They all looked uneasy. “What?” I asked.
It looked like no one wanted to speak. Clarissa finally took the plunge. “You’re right, it’s just…you’re very….”
I went cold inside. “Very what?”
“Exacting,” said Natasha.
“Intense,” said Clarissa.
“Occasionally a pain in the ass,” said Jasmine, and everyone gasped in shock. “About music,” she said quickly.
“I think we just mean…the two of you are so different. It’s difficult to imagine you and him working together.”
It went very quiet.
“Hey, maybe it’ll be good for you,” said Jasmine brightly. “You can…you know. Learn from each other.”
I nodded politely, but I had no idea what she was talking about. What on earth could I learn from Connor Locke?
***
Apart from Flicker, I didn’t go to many bars. OK, that’s an exaggeration. I didn’t go to any bars.
Now, standing in the bitterly chill air outside The Final Curtain and watching the gum-chewing guy on the door look us up and down, I was starting to feel a long way out of my comfort zone. This is not what I do!
Seeing me hesitate, Clarissa and Natasha pressed in on either side of me, and Jasmine skipped up to the doorman and gave him a winning smile. He gave us another cursory glance and then pushed the door wide. The sounds of wailing guitars smacked us in the face, together with a woman’s haunting, soaring voice. We were bathed in golden light and the heat of dancing bodies.
I stepped inside.
***
It was bigger than I expected, but packed with so many people that the walls were sweating despite the cold outside. It was a mixture of college kids and blue collar workers, getting drunk on
shots and beer and bouncing to the band playing on stage. I looked around in shock—there must have been a few hundred people there. I hadn’t realized Connor was playing places that big.
There was enough of a mixture of fashion that Natasha, Clarissa and Jasmine just about blended in. I, in my jeans, boots and sweatshirt, looked decidedly underdressed. And hot. I shrugged off my thick, winter coat, debated, then took off my sweatshirt and hung the whole bundle over a bar stool. That left me in the strappy top I’d been wearing underneath, which showed more skin than I was used to.
“Anyone see the target?” asked Jasmine. She was working her way through the 24 boxed set, in between episodes of CSI. Her dream role was a part in a police drama.
I searched the crowd. “No,” I said, worried. What if he didn’t show up? I looked at my watch—I needed him on board and in Harman’s office in less than twelve hours. Could he be in his dressing room? Did they even have dressing rooms, in a place like this?
“I’ll do a sweep,” Jasmine told us. “You three work the bar.” And she was gone into the crowd, male heads turning to follow her.
Clarissa sighed and led us off to the bar to get beers. I made the mistake of standing between them and that left me feeling short and graceless. They had confidence and style and legs that went on forever, and I had…what, exactly? Music. And that was in danger of being ripped away from me.
At that moment, the band finished their last track and the room erupted into applause. As they launched into their Facebook, Twitter and buy-our-music plug, I suddenly saw him waiting by the side of the stage.
He was in the same tight jeans he wore at Fenbrook, but he’d stripped down to a black vest. A cherry red electric guitar was slung around his neck, its varnish gleaming.
The band cleared the stage and he stepped on. There was polite applause, and then that Belfast twang I was getting to know came through the PA. “Thank you, thank you. I’m Connor Locke. This is called Ruth.”
In Harmony Page 5
