In Harmony (3 page)

My mom had a new life within a year, with a man she claimed made her feel “free”. I didn’t understand what she meant, at the time. I thought she was ungrateful; couldn’t she see how hard my father worked to give us a home, and me a future? I clung even more tightly to him and he to me, and that seemed to push my mom even farther away.

Thanks to my dad insisting I start high school a year early, I was the odd one out. A year is a long time when all the other girls are getting breasts and periods; spending every night practicing instead of hanging out at the mall didn’t do anything for my image, either. When I graduated, I was glad to be out of there and when I got into one of the top music colleges in Boston I was excited beyond belief.
Finally
, I thought,
I’d be around people who understand me.

People think that if you’re good, training side-by-side with the best can only make you better. And that was true, in a way. We were all the best in our high schools and, naturally, we all wanted to be the best in the college. It was just what we were trained to do—we didn’t
know
anything else. So every day, you heard the best students playing at a level above and beyond what you were capable of and you tried to match it. And then other kids were trying to match
you
—a leapfrogging race of ability that was always going to end badly. We’d all made the same mistaken assumption: O
nly one of us can be the best, and it’s going to be me!
It never clicked that all but one of us had to be wrong.

Most of the other students lived in shared student accommodation, bitching about the roaches or the walk to campus. I already lived in Boston, so it made no sense for me to move out of my dad’s house. I went home every night to a home-cooked meal—I thought I was lucky, at the time.

But while every other student could let off steam with their friends, catching a movie or passing a joint around, I had to go home and tell my father that yes, everything was fine. If I messed up a piece, there was no one to commiserate with me over a sneaky beer—I couldn’t tell my father or he’d be disappointed in me. If I started to doubt my ability, or fear that I’d never be as good as the student I’d heard play that day, there was no one to share it with over coffee, no one to reassure me that they felt the same.

I started, for the first time, to understand what my mom had been talking about, but by then it was far too late.

I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t have been any different if I’d lived with the other students. I certainly wasn’t the only one to crack under the pressure.

I was the only one they found on the roof, though.

I didn’t like public speaking. When most people say that, they mean they get a little nervous when they have to stand up and give a speech to their entire company. But I got that way when I had to socialize with one or two people I didn’t know. My eyes locked on the floor, my words had to be squeezed out between lips that were almost sealed together and my voice dropped to barely a murmur. If I had to present to the whole class, I completely locked up. My throat seemed to swell and block and my lungs fought me, refusing to draw air. I’d sit down and shake my head, unable to even start and the teacher would sigh and give me an F. When I went to the music college at Boston, I presumed those days were behind me. I was fine when I was
playing
in public—it was my voice that was the problem.

But despite being very performance-oriented, the course at Boston still required essays—which weren’t a problem—and presentations, which were. As the first big one approached, I became more and more scared. When it came to the morning of my turn…well, that’s when they found me on the roof.

I wasn’t—and I’m pretty sure about this—suicidal. Seriously, the thought never entered my head. But I also couldn’t explain what I was doing up there, when they found me. I had no memory of going up there, or of wandering around six floors up. When they tracked the wailing fire alarm to the emergency door I’d opened and raced up to the roof to see what was going on, apparently I was standing quite close to the edge, just…looking.

A difficult couple of weeks followed. Everyone wanted to help. My dad thought I should go into therapy and then return to Boston. I convinced him that I needed a complete change, and to go somewhere that was less of a pressure cooker. When I found Fenbrook Academy in New York, he hated the idea of “distractions” like actors and dancers being around, and wasn’t happy about me living alone in New York, either. The thing that convinced him was the connection to the New York Phil.

Fenbrook didn’t have the cultural cachet of the college in Boston, but a combination of its location right in the heart of New York and some big name alumni musicians who’d wound up at the New York Phil had led the orchestra to scout there during the final year recitals. It was by no means a sure thing, but if I could pull off a great recital, I had a good shot.

The first few years went well. I liked Fenbrook. I was careful to make friends who were non-musicians, to get away from the pressure I’d felt in Boston, and it worked. I didn’t have time to socialize much, but hanging out with Natasha, Clarissa and Jasmine—an actress—reminded me that there was a world outside music. Being away from my dad helped, too, although he phoned more often than was healthy.

Fenbrook, as I’d hoped, was a less pressurized environment, but it was less performance-oriented than Boston. Credit for the course was divided into four quarters—I liked to think of them as slices of cake. Three of the slices were made up of things you did over the years: performances, essays and presentations, each worth 25%. The last slice—the final 25%—was awarded for your final year recital.

Missing a whole semester had shaved a chunk off each of the first three slices. But my performance slice was still thick and solid and coated with frosting—I’d aced every one of them. My essay slice was almost as good. Half of the cake was already in place.

Thanks to my fear of public speaking, though, there was an empty space where the performance slice should have been—a whole 25% was missing from my credits. Everything depended on the recital slice—if I got almost full marks, I’d graduate well. If, on the day, I froze or couldn’t perform or something, I’d be left with only half a cake and not graduate at all.

One performance to both get the credits I needed and to impress the New York Phil scout. Four years of hard work, and yet my whole future rested on just ten minutes.

No pressure, then.

The annoying thing was that, for the other musicians on the course, the recital wasn’t anything like as scary. By now, they’d amassed almost enough credit to graduate, and a reasonable performance was all they needed to take them the final distance. A few could even scrape through and graduate without it. For me, it was make or break.

I sat there stewing until my phone buzzed to remind me I had advanced theory class in five minutes. I had to have an alarm for everything, or I’d miss a class because I was too busy stressing about missing classes.

Why couldn’t I just be normal?

***

Dan, my duet partner, had saved me a seat in the lecture theater. It was the biggest room we musicians got to see, and after all the hours spent in tiny practice rooms we tended to sit there overwhelmed by the sense of space, like battery hens in a football stadium.

Dan was a cheerful, round-faced Canadian and the single most dependable person I knew. I’d chosen him as my duet partner without hesitation—he might not have been the best violinist at Fenbrook, but I knew he’d practice the Brahms until he had it polished, and wouldn’t fall to pieces on the day; with my whole future resting on the recital, I needed a guaranteed good performance, not the chance of a great one. He was friendly, generous, thoughtful…exactly what I’d want in a boyfriend, if he didn’t have a boyfriend of his own.

Doctor Geisler clapped his hands together, his booming Danish accent filling the room. “Okay! We’re starting today by looking at Schenkerian analysis—”

The door opened and Connor walked in. Halfway through the door, he stopped and frowned.

Geisler paused and stared at him. “Are you in this class?” he asked mildly.

Connor looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know.
Am
I in this class?”

Everyone laughed—everyone except me. It was alright for him—he was going to flunk out and he didn’t care. Meanwhile, it felt like I was being crushed under the weight of everyone’s expectations.

“Why don’t you join us anyway?” said Geisler. “Maybe you’ll recall whether you’re taking this course. And you’ll learn something either way.” It was always hard to tell whether he was being nice or dryly sarcastic.

Connor nodded and vaulted over the front row of desks so that he could sit down next to a blonde oboist, who giggled even though she probably knew his reputation. Or maybe
because
she knew his reputation.

“Okay,” Geisler said again.

I didn’t have a lot of time to look down to Connor’s row over the next hour, but what I did see amazed me. First, he borrowed paper from the girl sitting next to him—because he hadn’t brought any of his own. Then a pen, because of course he hadn’t brought that either. I didn’t know why he bothered, because he proceeded to take no notes whatsoever, slouching back in his seat and gazing everywhere but at Geisler.

Once, I thought he was looking at me and immediately felt myself flush. He was probably remembering me almost falling down the stairs.

Unbidden, little details swam back to me. That outdoorsy scent, so cool and clean you wanted to fill your lungs with it. The way his jacket had hugged his shoulders, before flowing down to his tight, trim waist.

Oh, stop it! You sound like one of his groupies!

“So, can anyone tell me where the development section of the first movement begins? Karen?”

Oh God! Geisler was calling on me! I knew the answer: Bar 231. Maybe if I got it out quickly, before my body had a chance to react—

“Stand up, so we can hear you better.”

No, don’t make me stand!
He thought he was being nice, giving me thinking time, but he was just giving the fear time to take hold. I got to my feet, my legs like wet paper. My brain’s gears jammed and froze.

“Now, where does Beethoven begin the development section?” Doctor Geisler asked, smiling kindly.

Bar 231.
I knew it, I just couldn’t get the words out.
What if I’m wrong? What if they laugh?
I could feel my throat closing up, soft flesh locking tight as a nut.

“You did analyze this piece?” asked Doctor Geisler, looking a little annoyed now.

I nodded.
Yes, of course I did! I’ve even done extra reading!
I knew this stuff! I just couldn’t—

“Go on, then,” Geisler told me.

I could feel the panic rising inside me, leaving no strength in my legs and drawing all the blood from my face. I knew I was going to either burst into tears or bolt for the door—probably the second one. Then I’d have to lie and apologize and say I’d been ill. I couldn’t afford to fail another class!

“Bar 231,” said an Irish voice from the front, and everyone laughed.

“I was asking someone else,” Geisler told Connor, pointedly. “But yes.” And he launched into a long explanation, nodding at me to sit down almost as an afterthought.

I collapsed onto my seat and let my lungs slowly re-inflate. I’d been rescued, by the least likely person I could imagine. I risked a look at Connor, but he wasn’t looking at me—probably, he’d just been bored, and saving me hadn’t come into it. How had he known the answer, though? From what I’d just seen, he never even took notes!

That’s twice in one day he’s saved you,
a little voice inside me said.

I looked down at Connor. The blonde oboist next to him was grinning and squeezing him around the shoulders in
my hero
sort of a way, with more body contact than was strictly necessary.
That’s why he did it. To impress her.

I focused on Geisler. I couldn’t afford any more distractions.

Chapter 2

That evening, as I pushed through the main doors—carefully, this time—and plodded down the steps, I felt like my brain had been stretched out and twisted into a pretzel. Three hours of lectures and then a long afternoon of practice, working at the Brahms until I swore I could hear it playing in my head everywhere I went, had nearly broken me. My eyes were bloodshot and sore from staring at music and my spine was a knotted mass of pain.

I need a billionaire to give me a massage. Maybe Natasha will loan me Darrell.

Footsteps behind me. A clatter of heels and then, with a rush of perfume and a silken swish of long, auburn hair, Jasmine was snuggled up against me, an arm around my shoulders.

I stopped my trudging and looked back at the icy steps in disbelief. I’d had to be careful even in my sneakers; Jasmine had just bounded down them in three-inch heels. How did she
do
that? I could barely even walk in any heel over a couple of inches…which was a shame, because they would have helped my height.