“Yeah. I can see that.”
I cross my arms and raise my brows at her. “Well? It’s your turn.”
She’s put off by how straightforward I was. I don’t have to be an expert in facial expressions to tell that much. But it is what it is, and I’m not sure what the alternative would have been. Sugarcoat andlive with the resentment? Two weeks isn’t that long in the dorms, but in a New York apartment, it’s basically a millennium.
And I’ve never been a very good liar.
“As long as you’re ready for it,” she says, and I spread my hands to either side as if to sayGive me everything you’ve got.
Marigold sighs and pushes herself up, bracing her elbows against her knees so that she’s tilted toward me, holding my gaze. “Well, let’s start with the fact that you’re a major asshole,” she says. “I swear to god, I could tell you that I like your shirt and you’d take it as an insult. You’re the most defensive person I’ve ever met, and trust me, with my friends that says a lot.”
I open my mouth to retort, but she purses her lips and waves her hand in a sharp sideways motion, a kind of “slitting-throat” gesture. “No interrupting. I let you talk, now it’s my turn. So be quiet and listen.”
I purse my lips, swallow my words, and try not to wonder if maybe this is Exhibit A of Marigold having a point: that my immediate urge was to justify myself.
“You’re an asshole,” she repeats. “You take everything too seriously, including and especially yourself. You look down on people you think don’t play piano as well as you do. You’re judgmental, you decide what you think about someone before you even know anythingaboutthem. And if you think I’m elitist about New York, you should hear yourself about the Midwest. It’s like you think you’re some kind of salt-of-the-earth regular dude who’s all humble and unpretentious, but everyone born on a coast is bougie aristocracy with no grounding in the real world. Which is hilarious, because you are probably the most pretentious fuck in this entire department.”
She drops back against the sofa again once she’s done, cheeks pink and her chest heaving slightly with the effort of being that…passionate. Passionately spiteful, anyway. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard her say the wordfuckbefore.
“Been holding that in for a while, have you?” I say at last.
“You have no idea.”
“Am I allowed to respond now?” I ask, and she shrugs, then nods. “Okay. First of all, I don’t look down on people who don’t play piano as well as I do. I obviously have my own issues. Anybody can play technically well if they practice long enough, so that doesn’t make me, like, the best pianist alive or whatever. I can practice until my fingers fall off, and I still won’t play as well as you.”
One of her eyebrows lifts, but she doesn’t say anything, so I keep going.
“And I can’t speak to how I’m perceived when it comes to Midwest stuff. But yeah, I probably do have a chip on my shoulder about it. Do you know how hard I had to work to get here? Or how people act when they find out where I’m from or where I studied? Like people goWhat conservatory were you at,as if normal people all go toconservatories,so I say Iowa State. And I’ve had people literally turn a cold shoulder on me. I mean, physically turn away from me mid-conversation like I’ve just proven myself irrelevant.” I make a face. “Of course, half those people have come crawling back now that I’m doing well here. But it doesn’t change anything, and I’m never going to forget.”
Marigold parts her lips, then hesitates, like she’s choosing her words carefully. Then: “Was I one of those people?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll give you that much.”
“But that hasn’t stopped you from treating me the same way you treat everyone else.”
I exhale and try to digest her words slowly instead of defaulting to defensiveness this time. Obviously I’m well aware that I haven’t been the kindest to Marigold—see the long list of reasons I justenumerated for her. But does it really come across like I think I’m better? Because ofIowa,of all things?
I’m not sure. And I’m hardly the best judge of anything social, as Shrishti has reminded me approximately one billion times.
So in short…maybe.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I don’t think I’m better than you. But I’m definitely better than those assholes.”
It earns me a tiny, quick uptick of Marigold’s lips, at least. I find myself, inexplicably, hoping to turn that into a real smile. Just this once.
“I know you think I’m the same way, but in reverse,” she says. “But I don’t. Look down on you, that is. Jamie, you’re the best pianist in this department. If you got your training at Iowa State instead of Juilliard, well, clearly the program at Iowa is fantastic. How could I possibly think less of you for being good?”
My teachers at Iowa Statewerefantastic. Easily as good as whomever Marigold studied with at the Juilliard high school program. Maybe better. And they were passionate about music, and about me. When I got into Parker, my main instructor threw me a surprise party. Everyone was there, even my parents, even Adam. We ate Costco sheet cake and I played a duet with my teacher and Adam sang Broadway tunes, hip shimmies and everything. They were so fucking proud of me. And I was proud to be with them.
“Good,” I say. “But you still haven’t addressed the whole part where you gossip about me behind my back. Especially the part where, despite what you’re saying now, you called me a serial killer. Not to mention the whole Hillbilly University thing.”
Her cheeks pinken. “I’m sorry. That was unkind of me. I resented you, so I said some pretty mean things, and I shouldn’t have.”
“Youresentedme? You’re the one who stood me up.”
“I told you, I had a family emergency.”
“Right. Your grandmother died. Or your dog had to go to the vet. Whatever the standard excuse is these days.” Not to mention, she hadn’t even texted me ahead of time. She let me know two hoursafterour date was supposed to start. As if I were an afterthought. As if she’d forgotten I existed entirely.
