In Harmony (6 page)

I screamed his name and ran into the side alley, only to realize the mugger was running straight towards me. I screwed my eyes shut as we passed, waiting to feel the knife slide between my ribs, or feel myself hurled into the brickwork—

But he ran straight past and was gone. I knelt beside Dan. He had his eyes open but looked groggy, blood trickling from his forehead.

A voice from my phone asked what my emergency was and, in a small, scared voice, I told it.

***

About five minutes later, the police arrived. We had Dan sitting up against the wall—he’d thrown up, but otherwise seemed okay. Jasmine had called Clarissa and Natasha and they’d raced over from Flicker. We were all standing around offering words of support to make up for the fact that we were essentially useless.

Blue and red lights filled the alley and we heard car doors slamming. Two cops strode in: the first was in his fifties, with gray eyebrows fatter than my finger; the other looked no older than us—he could have been one of Fenbrook’s actors, in a borrowed police uniform.

“Paramedics are right behind us,” the young one said. “Who was here? Who saw it?” He stopped beside Clarissa and Natasha. “Were you here?”

“No,” they both said in unison.

“I was here,” said Jasmine.

The young cop looked at her and froze for a moment. In itself, that wasn’t unusual—Jasmine had that effect on men. But this seemed like something more, like he was
entranced
.
At last, he nodded. “Okay. I have a couple of questions, while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

I figured I should step forward and say that I was a witness too, but as I did I saw the look Jasmine was giving the officer. I recognized that look. And it dawned on me that the cop was quite well built, and good looking, if you went for the clean-cut look.
Oh!
S
he wanted to give him her statement…and probably her phone number.

As they talked, the paramedics arrived and started shining lights in Dan’s eyes and asking him to follow fingers. I half-listened to what the cop was asking Jasmine.

“So you were walking together when it happened?”

“I was sort of leading the way. He was checking his wallet, to see if he had enough money. I think that’s why he got jumped,” Jasmine told him.

The cop looked at Dan. “And I’m right in thinking he’s not your husband or boyfriend?”

I saw Jasmine smirk at that idea. “That’s right.”

“Okay. So the two of you were just about to, ah….”

Jasmine looked blank.

The cop tried again. “You were—you know—just about to….”

Jasmine frowned, bemused. I realized what was going on in the cop’s head, but I was too late to stop him.

The cop sighed. “He was jumped as the two of you were about to complete your business?
”

There was total silence for a second.

“
WHAT?!”
asked Jasmine, horrified.

The cop didn’t flinch. “It’s okay, miss—you’re not my concern tonight. Some other night, I might have to run you in, but right now I’m just trying to establish what happened.”

Jasmine’s outrage made her voice go nearly ultrasonic. “
I AM NOT A HOOKER!
Why would you think—” I saw her look down at her ultra-tiny dress and the long fur coat. “I’m an
actress!
”

“Uh-huh,” said the cop.

I finally found my voice. “Um, she actually
is
an actress,” I said, stepping forward.

The young cop turned and looked at me—he really was
very
good-looking, I realized
. He looked at Natasha and Clarissa. “And I suppose they’re actresses, too?”

“Oh no,” I told him. “They’re ballerinas.”

The cop ran his hand over his face, as if this was going to be a very long shift.

The paramedics finished with Dan and walked him past us. “He’ll live,” they told us. “The cut on his head looks worse than it is. Looks like there’s no concussion.”

We all took a long breath.
Everything was going to be okay.
I felt almost giggly with relief. Jasmine, meanwhile, looked like she was trying to melt the cop’s brain with her glare. I stepped forward to intervene, before she killed him or he arrested her.

Then I saw that the paramedics were helping Dan into the ambulance. “I thought you said he was okay?” I asked.

The paramedic beamed. “He is. Don’t worry, his head’s fine. I just want someone to look at his arm.”

“His arm?” I asked. My giggles evaporated. “What’s wrong with his arm?”

Chapter 3

Jasmine and I went with Dan in the ambulance. Natasha and Clarissa followed in a cab, but they needn’t have hurried. An hour after we arrived, we were still sitting in plastic chairs in ER admissions, gradually sobering up under the harsh fluorescent lights while Jasmine told us about colorful fates she’d like to befall the cop.

We all told Dan it was going to be fine. The arm was probably just bruised, or it was a light sprain. But his right elbow swelled and stiffened, and he said he couldn’t move it at all.

When the doctors eventually x-rayed it, they told us the detailed version of what we’d already guessed. When he’d slammed into the wall, Dan had put his arm out to stop himself—probably saving him from a concussion. But the impact had shattered his elbow, and broken his ulna.

“How long?” asked Dan, and the doctor couldn’t understand why he’d gone so white.

The doctor shrugged. “Eight weeks in a cast. Full mobility: three months?”

Dan just blinked, his mouth open.

“You’ll be alright
,”
the doctor said, thinking we didn’t understand. “It’s only your arm.”

I pulled Dan into a hug.

***

By morning, Dan was home and resting in bed, sporting a cast already covered in names and doodles. I promised to stop by with a care package later in the day, then went home to bed.

And found I couldn’t sleep, the conversation I’d had with Dan going round and round in my head.

I’d been through the situation with him, and it wasn’t quite as bad as it first appeared. He’d pretty much cleared his schedule for the next few months anyway to focus on the recital, so that was the only thing he’d miss. And his grades were high enough that, even though he’d miss the recital completely, he’d still graduate.

Once we’d been through that, though, we had to talk about me.

Since Dan now couldn’t play the Brahms with me, I’d have to find something to play solo. Solo pieces weren’t normally allowed in the recitals, since part of the aim was to teach you teamwork, but in this case I was sure they’d make an exception. All the work I’d spent on the Brahms so far was wasted. I’d have to find a piece I could play solo and practice it like crazy, hoping I could impress the New York Phil scout on my own.

There was one tiny silver lining. At least with only myself to worry about, I could practice day and night, however long it took. It was going to be a brutal few months, but maybe, if I found the right piece, I could still pull it off.

***

I’d emailed Professor Harman in the early hours to tell him I needed to see him urgently. On my way in to Fenbrook, I stopped off at a Starbucks and picked him up a latte. Not a bribe; a gift. I figured I could use all the help I could get.

I’d never been in his office before. In keeping with his position as the head of music, it was intimidatingly large and the desk was so shiny I felt like I shouldn’t put coffee on it, so I stashed the drinks down by my feet instead.

Professor Harman was in his sixties, with a close-cropped white beard and little round glasses. He nodded soberly as I told him about the mugging, and took the time to check that everyone was okay.

Dan, he confirmed, would graduate just fine without his recital. His grades were strong across all his courses and the loss of the recital would only drop his degree one level.

Then the conversation turned to me.

“I know that the deadline for choosing pieces is tomorrow,” I told him. “Obviously I’m going to need to change now I’m solo. I was wondering if I could have an extra day or two to decide on the new piece. I want to make sure—”

He was shaking his head.

“You can’t let me have an extra day?” I asked.

“I can’t let you play solo,” he said.

“
What?
But—my partner’s injured! That’s not my fault!” It was so outrageous, so unexpected, that I didn’t have time to be scared.

“Indeed it isn’t. But recitals have to be performed by a group of two or more. Managing your rehearsals, working as a team…that’s all part of your training here. If you were allowed to play solo, it would give you an unfair advantage over the others.”

I sat there open mouthed for a moment. The fear was starting to kick in now, serpents of panic coiling and twisting in my belly. “Okay…I’ll find a duet and ask them to change to a trio,” I said desperately. “We can pick a new piece and start rehearsing—” I saw him press his lips together. “What?”

“I can’t let you disrupt an existing group. Even if they agreed, if the three of you were to get anything less than top marks, they could complain that they were treated unfairly by having to start over. You’d have to form a duo with someone who hasn’t chosen their piece yet.”

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.