Marigold lifts a brow. “I’ve been Celia’s student for three years now, and I’ve never managed to talk her out of anything she’s set her mind to. Have you?”
Fair point.
“This is gonna be a shitshow,” I inform her. “Feels like she’s punishing us.”
For some reason—out of everything I’ve said—that makes Marigold’s face fall. I have no idea why; we can hardly stand to be in the same room together for a single class period, and that’s with a dozen other people present. How are we going to manage a duet? It’s ridiculous, and I shouldn’t have to feel like an asshole for pointing out the obvious.
I just wish she wasn’t quite so good at that poor lost Little Match Girl face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Marigold decided to havethose soulful brown eyes and soft lips just to fuck with me, because the only thing worse than hating someone is being attracted to them, too.
She’s still standing there like maybe she can change my mind through a brokenhearted gaze alone, so I give her a tight smile and say, “Well. Like you said, no talking Celia out of anything. So, I guess I’ll see you in practice. Text me your schedule.”
And I stalk off to my next class before she can stop me.
Usually I’m pretty good at focusing. I’ve always been like this: Even if I can’t focus onliterally anything else,for some reason a switch just clicks in my brain when it comes to piano. I hyperfixate. I could—and do—stay up until four in the morning sometimes, just practicing the same six measures of a piece until they’re flawless. Piano’s been my obsession for so long, it’s hard to imagine life without it.
I don’t know how Shrishti managed it—just extricating herself from this life so cleanly. I know her better than anyone…and maybe she grieved the loss of this path for a little while, but not for long. On the other side of Parker was joy and freedom, whereas for me…?
The other side of Parker is being left alone without even music to distract me. Just me and my own shriveled heart, alone in our misery.
But right now, I can’t pay attention in my Piano Literature class because I’m circling the drain on that whole conversation with Marigold. Was I maybe a littletoomuch of a dick this time? Every interaction with this woman feels like a careful calculus of how far I can push her without, you know, actually causing some kind of harm. A part of me wants to think there’s no limit there, because being rich and having life handed to you on a silver platter has a way of insulating you from ever experiencing real damage. Like, who cares if some guy at school is brusque with you when you canspend the weekend in your Upper West Side palace with an IV pumping nepotism and opportunities directly into your vein?
On the other hand, all she did today was exist as a pawn of Celia Chen—which is Celia’s fault, not hers. Marigold has somehow convinced Celia that she, a student just as experienced as I am, can teach me something…whether I want to learn it or not.
I don’t need Marigold’s fucking help, though. I can win Stockholm without Marigold Gensler dragging me along in her wake.
With that decided, I try to make myself pay attention to what Professor Sinwar is saying, but it’s too late. My mind is fractured and stuffed with cotton. Instead, it runs through a list of aggressively random things like whether blueberries would be cheaper if I moved to Jersey—even though I have no intention of moving to Jersey—and if I should maybe try to have a houseplant again.
The day ends eventually, thank god. I grab a falafel sandwich from my favorite spot in Washington Square and eat it on my way back to the dorms, where—as usual—Ken is fiddling around with one of his compositions and barely even glances up when I comein.
I message Shrishti.
Me:Do you think I’m a dick?
Luckily for me, she must be done with her day, too. She texts back almost immediately.
Shrishti:Did someone tell you that you’re a dick?
Me:Not in so many words. Just answer the question.
I watch that typing ellipsis appear and disappear like eight times. Wow, Shrish, really appreciate that quick and confident response.
Shrishti:You’re kind of complicated. You’re hard to read a lot of the time. And sometimes you’re a little too quick to say exactly what you think. Like it wouldn’t kill you to have a filter.
Me:Brutal thanks
Shrishti:BUT. You are also a really good guy. We all know you’re not exactly neurotypical. And you’re a great friend. People just need to take the chance on you and get to know you a little better. So no, I don’t think you’re a dick.
Shrishti:Not at heart, anyway.
That sounds like the kind of thing someone brainwashed by a cult leader would say if the cult leader asked whether they’re too cult-y. She’s basically implying that people have to put up with me being an asshole for some undetermined period of time before they get to know The Real Me, who is (according to Shrishti) a freshly baked cinnamon roll.
But sure. Maybe it’s time to turn over a new leaf. Maybe, for once, I’ve gotta be the bigger person.
I take out my phone, and I text Marigold Gensler:
Are you free Wednesday? Let’s do this.
5
