It’s hours later, past midnight, and the party is over. Everyone is gone, everyone but me and…Ryan? Yes, Ryan Wyatt. We’re outside, arguing about something. I’m gesturing wildly, showing him the blood on my sweater.
“What did you do, Lana?” I hear him slur. He’s drunk, too.
I dig my fingernails into the inside of my wrist, and the memory fades. My eyes snap open.
“I didn’t kill him,” I tell Mom, but the words aren’t as convincing as they once were. “I don’t remember everything from that night, but I—I couldn’t have. I was mad, but not enough to…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Listen to me, Lana,” Mom says, lowering her voice. “Whatever did or didn’t happen, I choose to believe it wasn’t your fault. But that night is over. There’s no bringing Chace back. What we need to focus on now is protecting your future, and the future of our family.”
“But what if it was my fault?” I whisper. “How could you protect me then?”
“Because you’re my daughter,” Mom says firmly. “And besides, you just said you didn’t do it. So you didn’t.”
I swallow hard, a lump burning in my throat.
“Do the detectives even have anything on Nicole? Or was that all just you fanning the flames?”
Mom gives me a disapproving look.
“Really, mija. Even I don’t have the kind of power to create a suspect. Obviously Detective Kimble has her eye on Nicole for her own reasons.”
Except I know she’s wrong. I’ve heard stories about my mom twisting the president’s actual arm. What’s a small-town detective in comparison?
“Just a few more washes and the stains will be gone,” Mom continues, nodding at the duffel bag. “It’s not safe to throw it out, what with the cops searching the garbage, but I can send it through the incinerator once I get back to DC.”
I stare at her, wondering how she can be so calm and calculating. Has she done this sort of thing before?
The doorbell rings. Room service is here, jarring us out of one reality and into another. My mom smoothes her hair and heads to the door while I remain frozen in place. And then a thought hits me.
Ryan saw me wearing the bloodied sweater the night Chace died. If he thought I killed his friend, he wouldn’t have wasted a minute before calling the cops on me. So then…he must have an explanation for the blood on my hands.
I snatch my phone from my pocket, and quickly type Ryan’s name into the text window.
We need to talk.
“Hey, can I talk to you about something?”
I glance up from the sheet music in my lap. Lana is propped up on her bed opposite mine, methodically applying bright red polish to her toenails. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Of course,” I reply. “What is it?”
“Have you noticed anything off about Chace?”
The question takes me aback.
“What do you mean, off?” I push my sheet music away with my foot, as if Lana might see the song title and know what it means, who it’s from. But it’s only a song. I haven’t done anything wrong—have I?
Lana lets out a frustrated sigh.
“I don’t know. Something is just different. In the beginning he was all about me, and now it seems like…” Her voice lowers. “Like his heart isn’t in it anymore. Which is crazy, I know. But that’s how it feels.”
My cheeks grow hot, and I pray I’m not turning visibly red. I’ve stayed true to my word, I haven’t spent any time alone with Chace since our last conversation, but I’ve felt it every time we’ve been near each other in group settings. There’s an electric charge between us, an intrinsic pull, and I recognize now that this is what I was so frightened of when he first approached me, before I pushed him toward Lana. I was afraid of feeling too much.
“Hello?” Lana waves a hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me?”
“Sorry!” I say, with a stab of guilt. “I was just…trying to remember if I’ve noticed Chace acting weird. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If he’s the one you’re supposed to be with, nothing will keep you two apart.”
Are those words for Lana’s benefit or my own? I look into her picture-perfect face, wondering what I would do if they broke up. Would I go out with Chace if he still wanted me? Am I really the kind of person who could hurt my friend?
“Well, I hope you’re right,” Lana says, blowing on her nails. “Anyway, don’t mention this conversation to anyone, okay?”
“Of course not.” The guilt presses against my stomach once again, and I tell myself it’s okay, I’ll keep doing the right thing. I’ll continue staying away from him, even if they do break up.
“I’m really bummed we can’t go to your showcase tomorrow,” Lana says, changing the subject. “I can’t miss tutoring if I have any hope of passing Monday’s chemistry test, but believe me, I would much rather be in the city watching you.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I totally get it.”
“Do you have anyone else coming?”
“Just my mom. The school orchestra has their own rehearsal, so Brianne and the others won’t be able to make it. It’s probably for the best, though,” I admit. “I mean, Brianne was sweet about it when I finally told her I got into the showcase, but…things have felt kind of awkward since then.”
“You’ve risen above her socially, too,” Lana says bluntly. “You’re popular-adjacent now.”
I laugh, but I feel a twinge of discomfort. I’m not supposed to be this girl—the kind of girl who makes Brianne jealous, who attracts Lana’s boyfriend.
Except for the moments I’m onstage, I’m meant to be on the sidelines. That’s how it’s always been.
APRIL 3, 2016
I peek through the curtain backstage at David Geffen Hall, the familiar preshow nerves setting in. Yet there’s nothing familiar about a stage this grand. I can’t even make out who’s who in the mass of faces under the blinding bright lights; all I can see is that the theater is packed. They’re all here for us, to witness “the next generation of musical greats,” as the poster outside says. Scouts from Juilliard are supposedly in attendance, along with reporters from the New York Times’s performing arts beat. I’m beginning to feel faint.
“You got this,” Damien says, squeezing my shoulder as he passes by.
I let go of the curtain, following him to our seats in the strings section.
“How is it that you don’t seem nervous at all?” I ask. “I feel like I might throw up.”
“Oh, I still have the about-to-throw-up feeling,” Damien says with a wink. “You just get used to it over time. And the high once you’re onstage and the waiting is all over makes it completely worth it.”
“That’s true.”
I watch as the rest of the musicians take their seats on the stage, all of us in standby mode until the curtain lifts. And then we hear the thunder of applause as our conductor takes the stage. The moment is almost here. I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
“Over the past month, it has been my pleasure to work with twelve of the finest young musicians in the country,” Franz Lindgren says, his voice booming through the theater. “I’m delighted to present the 2016 New York Philharmonic Contemporary Youth Showcase!”
The curtain rises. Applause and whistles fill the air. I glance at Damien and my fellow string players, my nerves building, palms growing sweaty. This is the one day I have to be perfect, the one time I can’t afford a single mistake. Thankfully, our opening number is “Summertime,” the one I know best. But the beginning notes are all on me.
I blink in the bright lights, my legs trembling, waiting for the conductor’s cue. As he raises his baton, I lift my bow to the strings. This is what I was meant to do. It’s my turn.
I close my eyes and begin to play, letting my favorite melody lift me up, until I no longer see the lights or the seats or the hundreds of faces in the audience. I’m in another world, one whose only inhabitants are me and the musicians on this stage, and this glorious
sound.
The roar of applause after the final note jars me back to reality. And now, I can look out at the audience without feeling shaky from nerves. I spot Mom in the third row, beaming with pride, and I smile back at her. We move into Brahms’s Hungarian Dance no. 1 in G Minor, and I let myself relax, have fun with the intricate string work, even though it’s one of my trickiest numbers. It’s a trio piece, with just me, Damien, and the pianist attempting to do justice to Brahms. And from the light in their eyes as we finish, I can tell we nailed it.
And then, just as I’m hitting my stride, something pulls my focus. A latecomer is walking down the aisle of the theater, and there’s something about his walk, his build, his profile as he turns to slide into a seat. It’s Chace. And he’s come right at the moment when I’m about to play his song. My hand stumbles, my bow drops into my lap. I bend down to pick it up, my cheeks burning with humiliation. I’ve never dropped a bow onstage before. Damien shoots me a look, and I can read his expression. What the hell?
I shouldn’t look at Chace; it’ll distract me even more. But he’s smiling, his expression urging me on. I close my eyes, forcing myself to shake off my slipup and focus on the song. When Mr. Lindgren heard me playing it before rehearsal, he insisted on including it in the showcase as our jazz piece. I must have been good then—and I’ll be even better now.
“Tomorrow is my turn,
No more doubts, no more fears.”
I whisper the words as my bow flies across the strings, making the minor chords and blue notes dance. Knowing he’s watching might have thrown me off before, but it fuels me now, giving my performance a new fire. I leap up from the formal orchestra chair and my body moves to the beat, losing myself in it, as the drums, piano, and horns play behind me.
“And my only concern for tomorrow
Is my turn.”
After the last long, wailing note, I can’t resist raising my violin in the air, beaming upward, where that performance surely came from. And then the audience jumps to its feet. It’s the first standing ovation of the night.
I find Chace’s eyes in the crowd. They’re glimmering.
“Thank you,” I whisper. He can’t hear me, I know. But I hope he can read my lips.
Backstage, we shake off our proper onstage personas and turn wild, unleashing the joyful beasts born out of all the applause. We jump up and down, we scream and cheer, we throw our arms around fellow musicians whom we’ve maybe only said two words to outside of rehearsals.
“To the best young players in the country!” Damien declares, holding up his bottle of Evian.
“To us!” we cry, clinking plastic water bottles.
Franz Lindgren throws open the doors to the backstage greenroom.
“I don’t say this often, but wundervoll!” he exclaims, sweeping into the room with a rare smile. “You were marvelous.” Is it my imagination, or is the conductor looking directly at me when he says those words?
“Your public awaits,” he continues, nodding at the theater doors. “Enjoy this victory, and remember: keep up the good work and you just might find a regular home for yourself here at Lincoln Center when you graduate.”
The thought sends shivers of excitement through me. I can see that life so clearly in my mind: My own one-bedroom in the city, walking distance from Juilliard. My music stand permanently set on this stage, ready for me to return, night after night, to play. And Chace Porter, sitting in the front row or waiting backstage, but always near.
I blink rapidly. Where did that come from? How did he enter my daydream, as seamlessly as though he’s been there all along? What kind of person envisions her friend’s boyfriend in her own future? I shake my head to rid the image from my mind. Not me.
The crowd backstage is thinning out now, my fellow musicians making their entrance into the theater to greet the audience. I follow them through the stage door and out into the orchestra pit.
“That’s her, the violinist!” “Nicole Morgan!”
I glance around me in a slight shock, as well-dressed men and women line up to shake my hand or ask for a picture. In this heady moment, all I’m capable of is a repeated mumble of “Thank you.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see the people I’m dying to talk to the most. My mother, of course, a proud smile brightening her face as she films my audience encounter on her iPhone. And Chace, standing in the back, away from the lights but still capturing my focus. Why is he here?
“Miss Morgan, I’m Professor Portman from Juilliard’s Music Division.”
My head snaps up.
“Juilliard?” I echo, taking in the woman’s sharp features, framed by wire-rimmed glasses.
“Yes.” Her face relaxes into a smile. “I have to say, I was very impressed tonight. You shine when playing both classical and contemporary music, which is a rare gift for a violinist. Will you be applying to Juilliard?”
“Of—of course!” I stammer. “It’s my dream.”
“Consider it a dream very likely to come true.” She slips a card into my hand. “My information is all there. You can have your parents contact me. If your performance remains at this standard, we will certainly have a place for you in the String Department.”
I have to grip the back of a chair to keep from falling over at this dizzying news. Professor Portman catches the eye of my mom, who waves at me while continuing to film with a giant grin.
“Is that your mother?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’d love to speak with her.”
“Professor Portman,” I call out, as she turns in her direction. “Thank you so much.”
I watch, pinching myself, as the Juilliard professor approaches Mom. And then, as they begin to talk, I make my way up the aisle of the theater to where he stands.
“I knew you would be amazing,” Chace says. “But you were even better.”
“Thank you for giving me that song.” I look up into his blue-gray eyes. “And thank you for coming. I don’t know why, but I…I played better once I saw you here.”
The words feel like too big of an admission after I say them, and my cheeks blaze with guilt. I try to focus my attention on Mom and Professor Portman, who appear engrossed in conversation down at the foot of the stage.
“I can’t believe tonight happened,” I marvel. “I mean, is this real life?”
Chace laughs softly.
“It most definitely is.”
“Does Lana know you’re here?” I blurt out.
He shakes his head.
“Why are you here, Chace?” I whisper.
He lets out a long exhale.
“I didn’t want to miss it. And I…”
“What?”
“Do you think we could go back to when we first met?” He takes a step closer. “And this time, make a different choice?”
I’m on the verge of losing my balance yet again. I stumble into one of the velvet-backed audience chairs, and Chace takes the seat beside me.
“That would mean you breaking up with Lana.” I stare down at the carpeted floor. “It would mean her never speaking to me again.”
“That part will suck for all of us, I know. But I also know Lana will get over it,” he says. “She’s a strong girl who can have her pick of guys.”
“But you’re the one she wants.”
He gently tilts my chin toward his face. I suck in my breath.
“And you’re the one I want,” he whispers. “Do you see my problem?”
“Why?” I ask. “Why me, when you can have her?”
His hand drops to his lap. He leans back in his chair, eyes up to the ceiling.
“Because you’re fresh air,” he says. “Being around you, hearing your music and listening to you talk, watching you smile…it makes me forget all the bad in the world.”
I don’t trust myself to speak. I’ve never heard words like that before, and they’re turning me inside out, urging me to let go, to let myself fall.
“What about you?” he asks. “Do you think you could one day
feel the same?”
“I’m already starting to.” I close my eyes, half afraid to meet his. “There were so many things I imagined happening today, but the one thing I didn’t dare to envision, the biggest surprise, was you. And I’m…I’m glad you’re here.”
Chace breaks into a smile, dimples appearing on each of his cheeks. I long to reach out and touch them, but I keep my hands in my lap.
“If we’re going to—to consider talking to Lana and really do this, I would need to know the truth,” I tell him. “About your secret trips to Brooklyn.”
His smile fades, but he nods resolutely.
“I know. And I understand it might change your mind.”
Before I can respond, Mom comes running up the aisle, clearly oblivious to the conversation taking place.
“Darling, you did it!” She pulls me out of my chair, nearly clobbering me in a bear hug. “They want you at Juilliard! The professor even said you’re a top candidate for a full scholarship! I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”
“Thanks, Mom. We did it,” I tell her, before turning toward Chace. “This is my friend from school, Chace Porter.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he greets her. “You should be incredibly proud.”
Mom raises an eyebrow at me, and I can practically hear her thoughts.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says, shaking his hand and flashing me a grin.
“If you don’t already have plans, would it be all right if I take Nicole out to celebrate?” he asks. “I’ll make sure to get us both back to Oyster Bay before curfew.”
Mom cocks her head to the side, considering, but I know the answer is going to be yes. She’s never seen me with a boy before—and she’s probably as curious as I am to know how this story will unfold.
“All right.” She glances down at her watch. “It’s six o’clock now, so that gives you just under three hours to catch the train. You’ll be sure to make it?”
“I promise,” I tell her, my heartbeat picking up speed at the thought of the hours ahead—with Chace.
I remember when I first had an inkling of what was going on. It was right here on the soccer field, last April. Soccer season was over, but that particular Saturday was a charity game between Oyster Bay Prep and Houghton Academy—otherwise known as Oyster Bay’s off-season excuse to flaunt Chace’s athletic prowess. I was seated in the front row of the bleachers, of course, flanked by Kara, Stephanie—and Nicole.
The Girl in the Picture Page 13
