The Scarlet Thread

by D. S. Murphy

  “Looks like it’s Mississippi State,” I said, forcing a smile that didn’t remove the panic from my eyes.

  “Well, at least you’ll be closer to your mom and I,” Tom said. “And it’ll be a heck of a lot cheaper. Maybe you can even keep living here, save some money—”

  My mom wasn’t as good at pretending. She knew what I knew: that my life was over. That everything we’d done in the last decade had been a waste. That if I went to state school, I’d never become a professional violinist, which meant I’d spent my whole life developing a skill I could never make any money with. Which meant I’d be working at BurgerJoint until I was old and shriveled.

  I couldn’t stand to look at her face any more. I shoved away from the table and ran upstairs, my eyes filling with tears for the second time that day.

  2

  That night I thought about playing all the depressing violin solos I knew. There was no other instrument as capable of expressing pain and loss; whose voice sounded so similar to the wails of a distressed woman.

  But part of me couldn’t bear to be that melodramatic. Instead I left my violin in its case, punishing it for encouraging me towards an impossible dream, letting the disappointment burn and fester inside of me. I was angry. Tom was a nice guy, but he never really got why I practiced so hard. What I was working towards.

  “Go out, have some fun. Get in trouble. Be a normal teen,” he’d tell me. “These are the best years of your life, you need to enjoy them.” He’d partied in high school and ended up a mechanic. I thought I could do better.

  My mom was a school counselor, helping other students pick their dream schools. When I was in seventh grade, she sat me down and told me she didn’t have the money to send me to a good college, but if I worked hard at my music, I could get a scholarship and go anywhere I wanted. We thought I was sacrificing my high school years for a better future. But Tom was right all along. This was the only time I had, and I’d wasted it.

  The universe was just so unfair, I sniffled, punching my pillow. Why did vapid beauties like Tracy Peters get to date her way through school, going to parties and then get into the college of her choosing anyway?

  Juilliard had been my ticket out. My final triumph. I may have squandered every opportunity to be a normal teenage girl, but I imagined my classmates would recognize my genius at graduation when it was announced I’d be going to the finest music school in the country. So I worked, and saved money, and practiced. And it had all turned out to be a total joke.

  I fell asleep surrounded by tissues and broken dreams.

  * * *

  For the first time in my life, my mom didn’t wake me up early the next morning to make sure I got to school on time. I woke up at 9:37AM, already late to first period. When I finally arrived, stressed out and under-groomed—my face puffy and my hair in a tangled mess—several kids looked up and actually laughed at me. I’d never attracted this much attention before.

  So this is what it feels like to be late for class.

  One of the boys who’d been at BurgerJoint last night, Dan Nelson, smiled at me. I smiled back, reflexively. I should have known better.

  “Morning, milkshake!” he said loudly. The classroom erupted in laughter.

  I sank into my chair, holding my backpack tightly in my lap, my cheeks burning in shame and anger. I’d finally earned myself a nickname, after four years of being invisible. And now I’d be going to Mississippi State, which would be pretty much exactly like this. The nickname would probably even follow me there. My lungs constricted and my palms were sweaty. I clenched my fists and forced myself to take a deep breath.

  After first period was music. The music room was the only place in the whole building I felt normal, like I belonged. The first year was tough—as a Freshman they’d bumped me up to First Chair in the Advanced Orchestra. Some of the other violinists were pissed to be beaten by a younger player, but nobody could deny I was better than they were.

  For them, Orchestra was an elective, a hobby. Good for the resume but not really a priority. For me, violin was everything. I had good grades, but that’s not why I went to school. I wasn’t planning on becoming a Lawyer or a Psychiatrist or a Manager. I wanted to be a violinist. There was an exceptionally narrow margin for success.

  Getting into Juilliard had always been the first step in my plan. Years ago, my mother had taken me to a concert in New Orleans. A beautiful young girl stood on stage, the sequins on her black dress sparkling in the spotlights. The entire orchestra was there just to support her; she was obviously the star performer. I remember how the voice of the violin had manipulated the audience’s emotions like magic. I could see it in the faces of the people around me—they were joyful, smiling; then dark, anxious; then sniffing back tears. She’d taken the entire audience on a journey.

  I couldn’t imagine having that much power over others. To control what they were feeling, the expressions on their faces. When I got home I read through the brochure and learned that she studied at Juilliard. And so I vowed to myself that I would get in, too. No matter what. I’d been a fool.

  I got through practice like a robot. I played my part dutifully, flawlessly even, but without emotion. After class I reached for my sheet music and started packing my case.

  “Samantha, can I have a word?” Mr. Lowell asked. He’d been my teacher for the past four years, and I knew he was eager to hear about my application. Just as eager as I was not to talk about it.

  I followed him into his office, dragging my feet.

  “I didn’t get in,” I said immediately, slumping down in the chair in front of his desk. The finality of it hit me again and I felt nauseous. I wouldn’t be going to Juilliard. I wasn’t a triumphant hero. I was just a loser; a high school nerd people made fun of. I couldn’t afford to go to a decent college, which meant I’d never become a musical great. I’d go to state school and get a degree in something banal but practical, like accounting, and I’d end up with a mid-level desk job, and eat take-out dinners for one, and feed bits to my cats as I sat on the couch of my small apartment regretting my wasted potential.

  Mr. Lowell sat behind the desk and regarded me with sympathetic eyes. He was wearing a white shirt and a blue tie, and had a stain on his collar.

  “Ah… I thought that might be it, but I was hoping it was just boy trouble,” he said, trying to joke and lighten the situation. “Well, they’re idiots for not accepting you. You’re the best damn violinist I know, and I can’t imagine how good you’re going to be in a few more years. I know we’ve talked about this before, but lots of amazing musicians didn’t get into their first choice. There are plenty of other programs and departments who would be happy to have you. I can of course, put in a good word with some of my peers.”

  “My family doesn’t have the money to send me anywhere other than state school, unless I get a huge scholarship,” I said, sitting on my hands and resigning myself to the inevitable.

  “Well in that case,” Mr. Lowell said, reaching into his desk, “I have something to tell you. A little surprise I’ve been saving.” He pulled out an envelope and a sheet of paper. “Of course I wasn’t expecting you to get rejected, but I thought it would be better to wait and see what happened with Juilliard before giving you this. Plus, this situation has been… irregular, which is why I didn’t tell you about it earlier. I didn’t want to get your hopes up unfairly.”

  What situation? What was he talking about?

  “As you know, I sometimes post videos of our performances and concerts on YouTube.”

  I nodded.

  “About a month ago, I got an email from a Mr. Dobreva from the Pipkov School of Music in Sofia.”

  “Sofia?” I asked. It sounded vaguely familiar.

  “The capital of Bulgaria,” he said. “He saw one of our videos, and asked for your address so he could extend a formal invitation to come study with him. I told him we couldn’t give out student addresses, but he could mail a letter to me here at school and I could pass it on to yo
u. The letter came today.” He passed the envelope and the piece of paper to me. It was a print-out of the email.

  Dear Mr. Lowell,

  This is Prof. Jeni Dobreva from the Lyubomir Pipkov National School of Music in Sofia. While browsing YouTube for talented violinists I came across one of your videos, featuring a quite accomplished young woman playing No. 11 in D major by GP Telemann. We have recently received funding for the support of international students at Pipkov and I wanted to offer her a space at our school, where she will be in a small class of extremely dedicated musicians and some of Europe’s finest teachers. I would like to request her address so that I can send her a formal invitation letter with more details.

  Sincerely,

  Jeni Dobreva

  I looked up at Mr. Lowell with a blank expression, holding the letter in my lap.

  “Bulgaria?” I asked. I knew it was somewhere in Eastern Europe, but I doubt I could have found it on a map. I tried to think of any famous landmarks or people from Bulgaria. Nothing. I had zero points of familiarity. It was a blank slate.

  “Do you know anything about this guy? Or the school?”

  “I’d never heard of either one before I got that email, but I’m not exactly a scholar of European music. I googled him and the school, however, and found out a few things. There’s not much information about Jeni directly, he seems to be kind of a recluse; he rarely performs in public, he rarely travels, he was born in Bulgaria and lived there all of his life. But then I discovered something interesting. Dozens of the world’s best musicians, I mean the truly best, have spent some time with Jeni, or at Pipkov. Sometimes it’s cited on their biographies, though in a few cases it seems intentionally missing. Jeni also organizes something called the Young Virtuoso Competition every year. The winners often go on to have very successful and distinguished musical careers.”

  I frowned. Something about this wasn’t adding up.

  “So you’re saying this guy found me on a YouTube video and wants me to go to his school? Doesn’t that seem kind of… creepy?” I asked. I was really good, for an American high school violin player, but the odds of me being singled out seemed incredible.

  “Do you remember the performance he mentions?” Mr. Lowell asked. “It was particularly impressive.”

  I did, of course. It was the night it happened. That thing I couldn’t talk about, to anybody. Because they would think I was crazy. Because sometimes I thought I was going crazy. I was anxious to read the letter, but lunch had started and I didn’t want to keep Mr. Lowell any longer than I had to.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Thanks.” I stuffed the papers into my backpack and left the office with my head spinning.

  ***

  At lunch, I grabbed a bowl of white rice and covered it in ranch dressing—just about the cheapest, most filling thing I could eat, and headed outside. I sat in my usual spot, behind the cafeteria under a big oak tree, and opened the letter.

  Dear Miss Samantha Lewis,

  We’ve recently been made aware of your talent, which is unquestionably above average. We feel there is an untapped reserve of potential in you, that we are in a unique position to help you realize. We hope you’ll consider attending our school. Tuition will be waived during the duration of your program, and I’ve also arranged for a stipend from the Ministry of Cultural Affairs in the amount of 500usd / month, which should cover basic expenses.

  Should you have any questions, please feel free to contact me anytime.

  Sincerely

  Prof. Jeni Dobreva

  Director, Pipkov National School of Music

  I didn’t notice my best friend Becky reading over my shoulder until she squealed into my ear. “$500 a month?! That’s more than you make at BurgerJoint! What is that, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “A weird letter from this school in Bulgaria.”

  “But you’re going to Juilliard,” she said. She was holding a slice of pizza in one hand. I could smell the peperoni.

  My face fell and I bit my lip.

  “Oh my god,” she said when she saw my expression. “You didn’t get in. I’m so sorry.”

  She reached across to give me a hug, her long blond hair tickling my nose.

  “Where were you a few hours ago? I could’ve used some sympathy then,” I said.

  “Yeah I heard. Milkshake?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Occupational incident,” I said. “With Tracy and Trent as witnesses.”

  “And then the rejection letter…” Becky said, frowning. “That’s more than a string of bad luck. That’s a karmic kick in the ass.” I rolled my eyes. Becky knew I didn’t buy into that astrology and spiritualism stuff.

  “Bad shit doesn’t need a reason to happen,” I said, “it just happens.”

  “Sure, but a beating like that? It’s got to have a purpose,” she said. “Maybe this is yours. And he called it a stipend, not a student loan, which meant it’s basically free money. That’s like winning the lottery. I’d die for an opportunity like that.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. There were no conditions listed, no work-study program, no obligatory period of teaching after graduation. I’d never have to pay it back.

  “People don’t just hand out money like that to teenage girls, do they?”

  “Sure they do. Happens all the time. And you’re not just a teenage girl, you’re a fantastic musician, and they’d be lucky to have you.”

  Becky was nice for trying to cheer me up, but I was still skeptical. The invitation seemed too good to be true, and I wondered if it was an elaborate prank of some kind.

  That night I watched the performance Professor Dobreva mentioned in the email. I’d looked for an explanation for weeks after it happened, before deciding to just try and forget about it.

  I’d been playing a lot of GP Telemann. He had a set of 12 Fantasias for Violin Solo that weren’t too difficult, but sounded complex and displayed my range. Plus they worked well as standalone solos, without the whole orchestra backing me up. It was pleasant, simple music— lots of high pitched notes bouncing around back and forth like a bird chirping, but without sounding as frivolous or cheesy as Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. And it had just a hint of something darker, like an old man telling a happy story of his youth, which becomes tragic because he’s now just a lonely old man.

  The concert was just before Christmas, on December 21st. Mentally speaking, I hadn’t been at my finest.

  I was wearing a purple top with a black skirt. Just before the show, a trumpet player named Brian came up to me with a wrapped package. We joked around in class, but weren’t close friends. I’d suspected he had a crush on me for a while, but I didn’t have any feelings for him.

  “Merry Christmas, Sam,” he said, holding out the present to me.

  “Oh… I don’t have anything for you,” I said.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “It’s no big deal, I just wanted to get you something… you know, for luck. Not that you need it,” he smiled. “Go ahead, open it.”

  I opened the wrapping carefully and put it down next to my chair. Inside was a small black box. Jewelry? Crap. This was way too intimate.

  Inside the box was a silver necklace with a little violin charm. It was nice, something you might expect to get from a grandparent. Maybe someone you were dating. But not a guy in your class who was barely even a friend.

  “Um… thanks,” I said lamely. “It’s really nice.” He leaned forward and my heart started pounding. What does he expect from me? I turned my head and gave him an awkward hug and pat on the back.

  Then I stuffed the necklace into the pocket of my violin case. I think Brian was disappointed I didn’t put it on right away. I took out my violin to warm up, trying to focus on the music. But now I was distracted. I didn’t have much experience with boys, though I’d had a couple of relationships consisting of sloppy make-out sessions and hand-holding that lasted a week or two at most.

  Did Brian think we were going out now?
Would others start seeing me as his girlfriend?

  My thoughts were still swirling through the first two pieces. Then it was time for my solo. I stood up and began to play. I hit every note flawlessly, as I always did—I’d practiced this piece a thousand times and my fingers knew what to do. But I felt it more.

  The anxiety I was feeling, over stupid non-issues of the unwanted relationship that had just been forced on me, gave a sharpness to the music. How can a guy just give me a present like that? He could have at least asked me out, or flirted with me, and seen if I had any interest in him. I could have let him down quickly, without him needing to spend money or make a grand gesture.

  I was almost rushing my piece. I had to deliberately slow down, glancing at the conductor to match his pace. Sure, the attention was nice. And Brian wasn’t bad looking… for a band geek. He was fun to hang out with. He just didn’t make me feel… the way Trent made me feel whenever he was nearby. Weak-kneed. Tongue-tied. Warm and tingly all over. Why couldn’t someone who made me feel like that notice me?

  The music built, leading into a crescendo, and I hit it with more enthusiasm than usual, almost like a rebuff against Brian. Against the bullshit of high school drama. I let the anger pool in my fingers and resonate down the strings.

  It sounded the same to me, as it always had in practice. I was sure I was playing the same notes. But it was also somehow different. Not something detectable, just some heightened quality, an extra resonance. I could see it on the faces of the audience. They were moved. Then things started getting weird.

  The auditorium seemed brighter, more defined. My skin felt hot and sweaty. I thought someone must have turned the spotlights up too high. Everything took on a warm glow. It was almost like being tipsy off wine coolers, but I was still in total control of myself. The sheet music was shining so brightly I could barely read the notes. And then I saw the edges of the paper start to flutter. I glanced at the exits, thinking somebody had opened a door, but there was no wind.