1
Marigold
They say it’s not a competition, but it always is.
There are two pianos—sleek, black. Steinways.
There is sheet music on the pianos—the same sheet music on each.
Celia Chen presiding.
And Jamie Larson,fuckingJamie Larson, staring me down from the second piano with that fever-glint in his eyes that says he’s going to crush me under the heels of his dirty off-white Reeboks and make me beg.
So yeah. It’s a competition.
“Beethoven Sonata number twenty-one in C Major, better known as theWaldsteinopus. You will both be playing the Allegro con brio. Heads or tails, Miss Gensler?”
She picks me to choose, of course. It might seem like favoritism, but it isn’t. It’s a hollow gesture. The kind that makes her look indulgent, and makes me feel powerless. Heads or tails, Marigold; it won’t matter which you choose. You’re humiliating yourself regardless.
Stop it,I tell myself. I’m not giving in to those kinds of thoughts.They don’t help anyone. Overthinking is only going to make things worse.
I’m good at this. I’m the best at this—or one of the best, anyway.
I’m about to prove it.
“Heads,” because why not, and Celia flips. It’s tails.
That means Jamie goes first. Which only gives me twelve extra minutes to figure out how I’m going to beat him.
Jamie doesn’t have any tics. He doesn’t stretch his arms out over the keyboard before he starts, or crick his neck to one side. He simply places his hands upon the keys and plays.
The Allegro begins with repeated chords, played just long enough to draw tension through the listener before the treble clef interjects its response. It’s already enough to make me wish I’d chosen tails—this beginning part, amelodic and harried, never fails to make me anxious. The notes tangle together, or at least it feels like that when I play.
When Jamie plays, it’s different. His hands are unbelievably light, fingers barely grazing his instrument, each note crisp and distinct even as they seem to stumble together. He has the hands I’ve spent sixteen years and god knows how much of my parents’ money trying to develop.
But no amount of finger-strengthening and stretching exercises makes a difference.
Everyone in this damned room watches Jamie, rapt, as he plays. I won’t lie—I’m right there with them. I keep wishing for him to make a mistake, as if I can manifest his downfall if I want it badly enough.
Manifesting does nothing. Jamie finishes: perfectly, like always.
Everyone claps like they just watched Yuja Wang perform a Rachmaninoff concerto. Someone even hoots.
I rub my palms against my skirt and wish for the thousandthtime that I could hit notes the way Jamie hits notes. He makes it seem so effortless. Must be those long, bony, fiddly fingers of his—they’re like insect legs skittering across the keyboard. My hands are thick, clumsy, and slow. In elementary school I would sit in class and do finger exercises against my desk instead of paying attention. I could hear my first teacher’s voice in my head, telling me that if I did enough exercises, maybe I would be able to make up for my bad genes.
Girlfriend only knew the half of it.
The applause finally dies down, and Celia gestures for me to begin. Everyone’s watching, no doubt well aware that they just witnessed perfection; anything that might come after that is just a point of comparison to highlight how good Jamie Larson is at his art.
But also, it’s Jamie Larson, and fuck Jamie Larson.
So I play.
I tell myself I’m going to focus on the technique for once, but by six measures in, it’s already too late. I’m caught up in the music, carried from note to note by an arcane high that billows me up and won’t let me down. While my fingers are on the keys, just for that moment, I don’t care about perfection. It’s themusicthat pulls me along in its wake, and my body, my stupid hands, all just tools in service of chasing down that feeling.
I see the end of the piece coming toward me and I want to run away. If I could drag this out further, I would. I want to swim around in these emotions and sink into the piece, as if me and Beethoven could somehow share one mind across hundreds of years. Like he’s whispering in my ear about love and anger, and I can feel it too, I swear I can.
The end comes. I finish. My hands are shaking as I lift them from the keys, and I quickly ball my fingers up into fists and shove them down into my lap, blowing out a long breath, then opening my eyes.
