Yay, me.
Capstone recitals are held in the largest auditorium at Parker.
They’re a bit of an Event, really—the school sells tickets to thepublic and lets Parker students attend for free, which means it’s a full house every time.
I peer out from backstage, scanning the faces of the audience. This part never fails to make my gut twist—even after years and years of studying piano performance, I haven’t gotten over the stage fright. The performers before us have just finished their piece and bowed out. Celia Chen has taken their place onstage to introduce us with lists of accolades—every competition Jamie or I have ever won, every award and grant we’ve received. It’s all white noise buzzing between my ears, language gone meaningless in the face of seething anxiety.
“You good?” a voice murmurs from over my shoulder, and I turn to see Jamie standing there, looking (unfortunately) extremely hot in his tux.
“All good,” I say. “You?”
He shrugs, and his gaze slides away from mine to scan the gathered crowd. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem fazed at all by the size of the audience. His expression stays fixed in the neutrality of perfect indifference. “It’ll be over soon.”
God, if only that level of confidence was contagious.
Applause punctuates Celia’s speech; it’s time.
Jamie heads out first, with me trailing after. He’s all smiles for the crowd, not a hint of the nausea that creeps up the back of my throat. It’s just a capstone, but my cheeks are pink nevertheless as I dip into a shallow bow before heading for my instrument.
Fantaisie-Tableauxwas written as a musical translation of poetry—each of the four movements represents a different poem. The first by Lermontov, then Byron, Tyutchev, and finally Khomyakov. During our capstone prep, I’d printed the poems out and taped them to my dorm mirror, so I could read them every morning as I brushed my teeth, an attempt to drive the heart of that poetry into my bones.
The first movement—first poem—is named after a Venetian gondolier’s song. The poem depicts a gondola slipping through cool water, the echo of a love song from long ago.
I hum along in my head as I play, dipping over the keys and letting my eyes fall shut. I think of my mother, that time we rode the swan boats in Central Park. The way she tipped her face toward the warm summer sun, heedless of how that same sun was poison to her body. How even a few short hours in sunlight could leave her bedbound for days as lupus inflamed her joints and organs.
It’s worth it,she used to say.What, should I only go out at night?
I wish I could drag myself back in time and sayYes. Yes! Stay inside. Stay with me. Don’t risk it. Don’t ever leave me.
The next poem, Byron’s, is about the night itself.
And heedless as the dead are they / Of aught around, above, beneath; / As if all else had passed away….
The way her body looked in those final days, white and frail. She couldn’t play, but she could listen to music, her head turned on its pillow toward the sound, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich and Florence Price like old friends embracing her. I like to think that even after she’d slid into unconsciousness, she could still feel them buoying her up, holding her close and warm as she went into the dark.
Into the third poem, and grief. The nadir of the piece. The black void of its soul, consuming. But not for long, not forever. The final movement draws you back to shore—ebullience, joy, victory. I let the music surge up inside me, rescuing me, catapulting me into the sky.
The last notes play, and silence falls. The air feels heavy around me, and at last I float back down, down toward the earth. I suck in a shuddering breath and realize only now, as the audience begins to clap, that my face is cold with tears.
Jamie is already standing, staring at me across the stage withone expectant brow raised. I pull myself to my feet—slowly, against the now-impossible drag of gravity. I fight the urge to scrub my hand against my damp cheeks, reminding myself that nobody in the audience can see my wet face anyway—instead, I force myself to smile and bow again.
I don’t see it coming, so I startle slightly when Jamie’s warm hand closes around my palm. His fingers are long and strong where they interlace with mine, squeezing once as we both tip into another bow. My heart is beating so hard, a percussive beat pounding in my ears and almost drowning out the applause. I wonder if he feels the slight shudder that rolls through me. I wonder if his world, too, has suddenly shrunk down to this: the stage, the glow of the lights, and the press of his skin against mine.
I know that in a moment, the spell will break—he’ll step away, and we’ll return to the same simmering resentment we’ve shared for the past three years.
But for now, I smile, and I squeeze his hand back.
Two Weeks
Until Stockholm
8
Jamie
Marigold’s apartment looks exactly how you’d imagine.
It’s not a penthouse, but it’s large enough that I can’t imagine what the difference would be. It’s bigger than my mom’s actual house, with high ceilings and tall windows that gaze out toward Lincoln Center like watchful eyes. It seems like a newer building, but there is something about the interior that reminds me of history. Maybe it’s the tiled ceiling and the Georgian wall paneling. Maybe it’s the fireplace that’s set opposite the sofa in the living room.
