“ ‘What made you decide to apply to our fine institution?’ ‘Well, I want to finally get a tan.’ ”
“Direct quote from my application essays.”
High school graduation is an exodus. Most AP kids will be leaving Washington for universities with impressive names. I’ve always known Lindsay and I would end up at different schools in different states, and surely Adina and I will too.
Picturing Adina at conservatory chips at my heart. She’ll be struggling with her result so far away from the rest of us. A harrowing thought slams into me: this might be my last year with my sister, who, despite everything she’s done to me, was once my closest friend. If I haven’t already lost her, I’m in the process of it.
Something on Lindsay’s bookshelf catches my eye. Makes me forget Adina for an instant. That’s the maximum amount of time I can ignore what’s happened to us: a single instant.
“You still have that thing?” I ask as I get to my feet too fast, the vodka warping my surroundings, sloshing my brain around inside my head. I teeter over to the shelf and pull out a slim purple binder.
“I guess so?” Lindsay says, blowing on a nail as I sit back down and splay the binder between us. “I haven’t thought about it in forever.”
The first sheet of paper says ANTI-MAN CLUB in silver Sharpie bubble letters. The rest of the pages are filled with boys’ names and, for lack of a better word, infractions. We passed the binder back and forth throughout middle school and the beginning of high school—right up until Lindsay started dating Troy and was no longer AM enough for the AMC. There are sixty-seven names on it, and it would be a creepy thing to own if either of us was ever on trial for murder.
Maybe a pregnancy scare and the Anti-Man Club will bring Lindsay and me back together.
Lindsay starts reading. “Number twelve, Oliver Kang, for trying to look up my skirt when I was wearing a thong. Number twenty-nine, Cole Hammond. He copied my answers on a test in freshman-year English, and Mr. Jacobs gave us both zeroes. Number thirty: Mr. Jacobs. I haven’t forgiven any of them.” She flips the page. “Hey, Zack’s on here.” She squints at number forty-one, which, sure enough, says Zack Baker-Horowitz. “We wrote ‘Kelsey’ next to his name. Do you have any idea what that means?”
“Yeah. Kelsey Rawlings.” I grit my teeth, remembering. “She was the other sophomore class rep that year. Zack asked me about her. If I thought she’d be interested in him.” The two of them dated for only a month, though.
“And you were jealous.”
“Yes. Yes, I was.” I peek at the list again. “I’m going to show him.” In my altered mental state, it seems like a good idea.
Do you remember that list Lindsay and I made about all the guys we didn’t like?
Zack’s reply appears after a few minutes.
Yes. Troy and I always tried to steal that from you.
I snap a photo of number forty-one. You’re on it.
“What’s going on there? With you and Zack?” Lindsay asks, shutting the binder and settling back against her pillows. I groan. “What? You don’t like him?”
Typically I never have the courage to rip Lindsay from Troy, even when I need her more than he does. Tonight I like having her to myself, even under these strange circumstances. After all, there’s no one else I can talk to about this.
“No . . . I do.” My mind is fuzzy and goopy, my synapses firing slower than usual. I throw back another vodka shot. It burns the back of my throat.
“What is it, then?”
There’s nothing stopping me from acting on my feelings for Zack. That’s part of the gift of this negative result.
“I’m . . . scared. Sometimes I start thinking about being with him, or kissing him, and then my mind inevitably jumps to sex.” I whisper the last word. Why does it feel so weird to say out loud? “I feel like I’m fourteen that it still embarrasses me like this.”
“Troy and I didn’t have sex until we’d been together for a year.”
“What was it like?” Lindsay never gave me details, and I was too shy to ask for them.
A dreamy look falls over her face. “It was nice, but awkward. We were in his car, and I kept thinking someone was going to drive by and see us.”
“And it felt good?”
Cadavers don’t scare me, but when it comes to sex, somehow my own living body does. When I’m running, I know exactly how to push myself. Sex would require relinquishing some of that control. Letting someone else in, both physically (ha) and emotionally. Leaping into an unknown that is all feeling and no logic. Someone touching my body and wondering if they’re comparing me to my sister.
“I mean . . . You know what an orgasm feels like, right? Do you ever”—Lindsay laughs awkwardly—“um, do it yourself?”
My cheeks flame. While I know masturbation is one hundred percent normal, it’s something I’ve never talked about with anyone. “Oh . . .” I say. “Sometimes?”
At some point it became something I do when I can’t fall asleep right away. I’ve only thought about Zack once or twice. Most of the time I read and reread a sexy passage in a book.
“That’s good!” Lindsay insists. “It’s important to know what you like. I had to show Troy what felt good, and he eventually got the hang of it. And it’s actually kind of great to tell someone what you want when you’re that close.”
“That does sound great. Being that close.” I let out a long breath, my face probably still several shades of red, but truthfully, this conversation is extremely enlightening and more of a relief than anything else.
“It doesn’t have to be scary. Okay, it’s mildly terrifying to take your clothes off in front of someone for the first time. But I guarantee they’re not looking at all the flaws you see when you look at yourself in the mirror. When you get to that point with someone, you’re so caught up in them that none of that stuff matters.”
“I doubt I’ll be taking off my clothes in front of anyone anytime soon.” I don’t want my body to be embarrassing—I want to own it, the way Adina does. The way I’m learning Lindsay does.
“If and when you do, you know you can talk to me, right?”
“Yeah. Of course,” I say, but I wonder where this offer to talk was when I was waiting for the results of the genetic test.
Lindsay slides her computer onto her lap and starts googling cat-eye makeup tutorials. She has a couple dozen windows minimized, AP study guides and college websites and financial aid information. My phone lights up with a text.
I was on the list because of Kelsey? Why?
Jealous. Also, it’s entirely possible I’m drunk right now.
Reeeeaallly. So I could ask you all kinds of secrets right now and you’d be too drunk to keep them in?
I show this to Lindsay, who steals the phone and types, My biggest secret is that I’m so hot for you. I yelp, steal it back, and write something a little more innocent.
*zips lips* *unlocks lips to drink more vodka* *rezips lips*
Why were you jealous of Kelsey?
Drunk Tovah is very interesting.
“Linds, I have to ask you something.” Then I force myself to be brave. After all, I’ve already talked about a number of things I never thought I’d talk about. “Is there any reason we haven’t talked about the test? The one I took, I mean.” As though it needs clarification.
Lindsay half frowns at me. “What do you mean? You never bring it up. I’m sorry. . . . I guess I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
“I don’t know either. It was looming over me for so long, and now it’s . . . not.” But that’s not entirely true. It’s always going to be there, even if it never affects my body and mind.
“How’s Adina handling it?”
“We’ve barely talked, so I honestly have no idea.”
“I’m just so relieved you’re okay,” she says, emphasizing the you’re. “It’s horrible for her, but she’s not going to get it for a long time, right? Decades or something?”
“Yeah. It�
��s . . . a strange situation for all of us.” I chew the inside of my cheek. Lindsay can say she feels sorry for Adina, but she barely knows my sister. Then again, neither do I.
Lindsay gives me a little hug, as though it makes up for her recent lack of involvement. “Hey. I know what’ll cheer you up.” She clicks to Netflix on her laptop. “Have you seen this show? Everyone says it’s amazing. Troy’s already on episode four, so if we watch three tonight, I can catch up to him.”
“Sure. Okay.”
Whatever closeness I thought I’d regained with Lindsay tonight was fleeting, but instead of paying attention to the show or wondering how to fix our friendship, my mind turns to Adina.
I don’t want to lose her, too.
Thirteen
Adina
FIRST CHAIR HAS BEEN GETTING cold. I earned it in sixth grade, and the few who’ve dared challenge me since have lost. First chair is a message: I am the best, it says.
Violas are difficult to hear in an orchestra—difficult for the untrained ear to pick out our distinct sound—but if we were gone, you would absolutely notice. That is why becoming a soloist is so crucial. I need to be heard.
“Welcome back, Adina,” the orchestra conductor, Mrs. Roberti, says as I enter the room. “Feeling better?”
I force a smile, turning my lips into a sideways bass clef. “Much.”
Last night at dinner Aba asked if I was sure I was ready to go back to school. I’d been home for a week and a half, and he and Ima have let me skip Saturday synagogue services too. He said I could take a few more weeks, even a month off. He spoke delicately, like the volume of his words could break me. At least he wasn’t badgering me about college again. It was a terrible thought, that I’ve swapped that horror for one that is much worse.
I glanced at Tovah, who smiled at something on her phone before hastily shoving it into her pocket. When her eyes caught mine, she looked guilty, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have been: smiling, texting, generally feeling as though her world had not been turned upside down.
Spending another day at home would have been a hundred times more claustrophobic than the classroom. So here I am. Back.
We begin a Tchaikovsky piece I played a couple years ago with Arjun, but my bow isn’t as fluid as it usually is, and my fingers stumble up and down my viola’s neck. The orchestra devours my sounds as I fall further and further behind. Finally the bell rings, and I stow my sheet music in my case and take out my canvas lunch bag.
“That piece is so cool.”
The voice belongs to Connor Mattingly: tall, reed-thin bassist. He eats lunch in the orchestra room sometimes, laughing too loudly with the other guy who plays double bass—dick inadequacy, I swear—and a girl violinist.
“Cool,” I repeat. These people don’t understand classical music the way I do. Knowing full well I am acting snippy, I continue: “Tchaikovsky composed some of the most popular music in existence, including The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, and the 1812 Overture, so yeah, I’d definitely call him cool.”
Connor doesn’t catch my sarcasm. Instead he grins, revealing a row of clear braces. “You know, since we all sit in here at lunch, you should eat with us. If you want to.” His friends are already arranging chairs in a circle.
I shove my avocado and cheese sandwich back into my bag. “I’m not that hungry today.” Without waiting for a reply, I scoop up my viola and leave the room.
The hallway is covered with posters for honor society, debate team, robotics club. Orange and black banners cheer, GO, JAGUARS! When I got to high school, I’d already committed my life to viola, and I imagine my single-mindedness made it difficult to make friends. What was the point of wasting time on something I might not enjoy, like a club or a sport? But what if I’d tried yearbook or soccer, or I’d grown close to the other kids in orchestra, and now I had friends to talk to about this? Now there are only a handful of people I can talk to, and all of them either don’t want to talk or talk far too much. Or they don’t appreciate Tchaikovsky.
I don’t have an off-campus lunch pass, but our security’s so lax I’m able to slip out the back entrance without anyone stopping me. I take the bus so Tovah can drive herself home later. I’ve never skipped school before, but I’m only missing fifth, sixth, and seventh. What do precalculus and physics and US Government matter to me now?
I get off the bus in Capitol Hill. Gray clouds press down on me, threatening rain. I hunch my shoulders and take long strides down Broadway, a street crammed with taquerias and art supply stores and boutiques and a couple sex toy shops. I duck into a coffee shop, order a latte, and take a seat near the window so I can watch the rain. The latte foam makes a leaf pattern. I take a sip, and the leaf is gone.
One day I won’t be able to do this: drink coffee, get rained on, enjoy the classical music playing in the background of the coffee shop, play stupid games on my phone to pass the time.
There are an awful lot of things on the one-day-I-won’t list. Mentally, I tear it into tiny pieces.
When I get back on the bus, I reapply the Siren lipstick I tattooed onto my coffee mug and don’t make eye contact with anyone. As kids, Tovah and I used to make up stories about the people we saw. We learned to ride the bus early, like most city kids, before the training wheels came off our bikes. She’d say, “Look at that guy with the ferret on a leash. He’s totally training him to perform in the circus.” And I’d point across the aisle and whisper, “That girl tapping her three-inch-long fingernails against the pole? She’s growing them out to try to break a Guinness World Record.”
The bus goes up, up, up that familiar hill. I have no idea what to expect at today’s lesson, but Arjun did not cancel, so I guess it’s still happening. It’s pouring when I get off, soaking my hair and eyelashes, dripping down my nose. My coat is in my locker at school, keeping my books warm. I’m still early and I don’t want to buzz up yet, so I lurk out front, lucking out when I catch a woman heading out of the building. I jam my boot in as the door is closing.
“I just moved in, and I’m such a scatterbrain. What’s the code again?” I flash a smile, hoping I sound genuine.
“One-nine-four-five,” she says. “The year the complex was built.”
“Right.” I commit the numbers to memory. “Thank you.”
“Sure,” she says, her grin now matching my fake one. “Welcome to the building. The bottom dryer in the laundry room likes to eat socks.”
I hear the music before I reach his floor. It’s a viola sonata by Shostakovich, a twentieth-century Russian composer who finished this piece weeks before his death.
The music roots me in place, but on the inside I am in motion. Strings soar and fall, winding circles around my heart, tugging it this way and that. Behind his door, Arjun’s slicing and sawing and plucking. The piece is so beautiful, I ache right along with it. It is hopeful, then hopeless, then flitting between the two as though it cannot make up its mind. I’ve never heard it played with this much melancholy before, and it makes me wonder if Shostakovich knew he was going to die. He was waiting for it to happen, and this was his way of expressing it.
When the song is over, I chance a few steps forward and ring the bell. Footsteps pad along the hardwood floor, and then Arjun throws the door open.
“Adina? We’re not scheduled for another half hour.” His hair is a little out of place, as though he’s been exercising instead of playing Shostakovich. It is a burgundy sweater day.
“School got out early,” I say. “No. That’s a lie. I left early. I cut class.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go. Or anyone else to talk to. Maybe we could . . . talk.” It’s only when I say it that I realize this is what I have been aching for: to talk to someone who isn’t a doctor, who has no connection to my family, who is entirely on my side. Someone who cares for me and only me so much he cannot be objective about this miserable mess.
His statue face softens, dark eyes widening with an emotion I ca
n’t place. Sympathy? “Come inside.”
If it is sympathy, I decide I don’t mind. I prop my viola against the wall and lead him into his living room, not the studio. It is sparsely decorated, a geometric-patterned rug, simple shelves, no television. I sit down on the couch and unzip my boots so I don’t track any mud onto the rug.
He takes a seat in an armchair on the other side of the room. It doesn’t match the couch, but I like the incongruity. “Can’t you talk to your family?”
“They all look at me differently now. It hasn’t been that long, but it feels like everything’s changed.” I heave a sigh. “You’re the only one I feel like I can talk to.”
He straightens his posture, as though he is taking pride in my compliment. I didn’t mean to flatter him, but I’m glad for his reaction regardless. “Really?” he says.
“You don’t act like I’m fragile.”
“You’re not someone who should ever be considered fragile, I don’t think.”
I pick at my tights, tugging on one long thread. “I haven’t been able to play since I got the results. Not really. But I heard you playing just now, and I don’t know, something happened to me. I’ve heard you play before, but this time . . . I didn’t know the song could have so much sadness in it. I felt sad listening to it. That’s exactly what music should do, right? That’s what you teach us to do, play with enough emotion to make other people feel something? I know that whatever happens to me, I can’t let myself get lazy. I can’t stop playing.”
“Thank you,” he says, genuine. “I’ve never met anyone who feels music the way you do. I’ve always thought that one day I’ll have nothing left to teach you.”
“It’s true. I’m sure I’ll be better than you one day,” I joke. “Maybe I should find another teacher to keep your ego intact.”
This jolts him. “You haven’t wanted to find another instructor, have you? Because of . . .” He can’t finish the sentence.
“No. I only want you.”
The words linger in the space between us. Perhaps I intended the double meaning, but I truly didn’t come here to try to seduce him. I thought I’d tell him about my insomnia or the article Tovah found about Huntington’s symptoms in teens. He gets up from the chair and sits on the couch next to me. I say nothing. The past few weeks, he has tried to put space between us, but now he is getting close to me on purpose.
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