Or maybe it’s the taste of money, spicy and acrid as clove grit beneath my teeth.
Orchestra salaries don’t pay that much, not even for principals, and not even at the Phil. Marigold’s paternal grandfather had been a famous composer with his fingers in every metaphorical musical pie, and he went on to be concertmaster of the London Philharmonic. And thanks to some humiliating googling, I also know that her mother’s father had been some big dude on Wall Street back in the eighties and was basically dripping in cash.
So the fancy place made sense, even if the job titles didn’t.
“Wow,” I say, because I’ve got to say something considering Mr.Gensler’s generosity in inviting me to stay here. I really did think about saying no. But then I remembered how soul-sucking it would be to stay in the dorm all break long, especially with the practice rooms closed. What a hit that would be on my practice hours with the competition coming up.
At least here, there’s a piano. A black full grand, in fact, occupying the position of privilege in the living room. I can imagine myself playing there, backlit by the city skyline on some crisp midnight like a rich person in a movie.
“Sorry about all this,” Marigold says. I have no idea what she’s apologizing for. I shoot her my best confused look, but she doesn’t bother elaborating, just flushes an even deeper pink.
“Let me show you to your room,” Mr. Gensler says, clearly enjoying playing the role of hotelier as he leads the way up a mahogany spiral staircase and down a lushly carpeted hall to the great Manhattan luxury: a guest room. This one in particular is done up in shades of red and burgundy, giving it the feeling of a duke’s chambers, or maybe something out of Versailles. If I lived here, I wouldn’t have to bother practicing; I’d probably wake up every morning with beautiful music flowing from my fingertips automatically.
A week ago, this would have made me hate Marigold even more.
Now, I have no right to hate her. She stole that from me the second she let her father invite me here. I’m not allowed to repay Mr. Gensler’s generosity with hatred. That would be villain shit, and I refuse to be a villain.
“Dinner is at seven,” Marigold says abruptly. “It’s Shabbat, so don’t be late.”
She spins and stalks out of the room without saying anything else. It’s Mr. Gensler’s turn to look embarrassed, scrubbing one hand back through messy hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “She’s been…she’s been going through a lot lately. I’m trying to be patient with her. If you could be patient, too…it would mean a lot. To Goldie and to myself.”
“Of course,” I say, but I’m now wondering what Marigold could possibly be going through. What kind of horrible thing could go wrong in the life of someone who lives in a place like this?
It takes me the rest of the day to muster the nerve, but somehow, after dinner, I manage it.
I knock on Marigold’s door, then take a quick step back, putting a polite amount of space between us by the time she opens it.
“Hi,” she says. “What’s up?”
I gesture awkwardly over my shoulder, down the hall. “I was wondering if we could maybe…talk?”
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. I’m not good at this kind of conversation. I’m not good atanykind of conversation, come to that, but—as Shrishti would say—time to nut up.
“About what?”
“Can you just…can we just go into the living room? Please.” I’ve been rehearsing this in my head over and over, but my imagination didn’t think to include the part where I had to convince Marigold to speak to me in the first place.
Of course, once we’re there—sitting on opposite sofas, separated by the coffee table and a truly massive flower arrangement that threatens to obscure Marigold’s face entirely—I can’t think of what I’m supposed to say. I’d planned it out, vaguely, but the memorized words stick in my head like treacle. They seem wrong, now: awkward and insufficient.
“So,” she says. “What’s up?”
I shift on the sofa, trying to get the stupid camellias out of theway. I kind of regret it once I’ve done it, though, because it gives me no excuse not to look Marigold in the eye, when I’d much rather stare in the vague vicinity of the floor.
“Listen,” I say. “Obviously, we have some history. But if we’re going to be living together for the next two weeks, we should probably talk about it. Just…get it all on the table and over with.”
“Bold of you to think we can resolve our issues in one conversation.”
I shrug. “What else are we going to do? Seethe and avoid each other all break long?”
“I mean, it’s an option.” But then she sighs and leans back against the sofa cushions. “Okay. Let’s talk, then. You can go first, since this was your idea.”
An idea I’m regretting more and more with every passing minute. “Fine. My issue with you is that you’re privileged, you’re rich, you had an easy route to music thanks to your parents, and I know you talk shit about me behind my back.” Artists gossip, after all. Especially at Parker. I don’t know how in hell Marigold thinks it won’t get back to me, the things she says to everyone. How I’m snobbish and rude and probably, her words,one of those Midwest serial killers.Kinda of-a-theme, given her calling me a hillbilly back at that party. “And you’re elitist. Not from New York or London or Shanghai? We might as well be inbreds.”
She cringes. “Ouch. Brutal.”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
