Still.
“I’ve heard this song and dance before,” Shrishti says.
“That’s because it’s true.”
She just shrugs and starts unwrapping her wrists, the sweaty tape piling up on the locker room floor. “Listen, as fun as the wholeI pulled myself up by the bootstrapsnarrative is for you, Goldie is still a good pianist. And nobody’s life is perfect—I’m sure there are things you have that she’s jealous of, too.”
I make a face. “It’s not like I don’t know my own privileges. Iknowthere are advantages I have in life that Marigold does not. But she’s still rich. And she ghosted me, remember?”
“You are extremely hung up on the ghosting thing.”
“Yeah? And why wouldn’t I be? You’d be pissed, too.”
She waves a hand as if to dismiss the whole argument. “Let’s be real here, Jamie. Yes, the ghosting thing wasn’t great on her part. Same with her little monologue about redneck cornfields or whatever. But it’sextra badto you because you exist in a universe where everything has strict rules and guidelines, and if anyone violates them, your brain dissolves into a puddle of neurotic goo.”
I’m still trying to come up with a good defense to that when she adds:
“Plus…you’re jealous.”
She smirks, and I accept defeat. A small voice in the back of my head whispers that I should maybe listen to Shrishti, just a little. She knows me better than anyone. And she’s not usually wrong about social things—which is handy, because my brain is verymuch not structured to process that kind of thing. I need Shrishti around as a normal-person-behavior translator.
My rational brain says all that, but reason is currently banging its head against the brick wall of the seething mass of anger and resentment I’ve cultivated over the past three-plus years of knowing Marigold Gensler.
And maybe it’s not totally Marigold’s fault, but I don’t know how to tamp it down, either. To redirect it so all that bitter rage isn’t laser-focused onher.
I still haven’t forgotten the way it felt when we played together at our capstone performance—as if we had become one being composed entirely of music, that musicality of hers buoying me up with it until the notes felt as if they lived in my very marrow. How, after, I’d been left dizzy and breathless, blinded by the stage lights as we bowed to the audience, Marigold’s hand warm and soft in mine.
You should try cutting people a break sometimes,that voice murmurs again. This time, it sounds suspiciously like Adam.
Something clenches tight and painful in my chest, and I swallow hard.
“Anyway,” Shrishti goes on, “it sounds like you had a good time last night. So maybe this is the end of the Jamie Larson–Marigold Gensler rivalry era?”
“I think that only comes after I beat her at Stockholm,” I say wryly, and Shrishti gives me a light punch on the shoulder.
“Damn right. You get ’em, killer.”
We split up for showers, and once we’re all clean and toweled-off and wearing normal clothes again, Shrishti and I head out of the gym and start heading toward the subway, our duffels bumping companionably together as we walk.
“How are things going with Cessy, by the way?” I ask. “You’re still on-again, right?”
“You make me sound like such a fair-weather lover!”
“If the shoe fits—”
It’s her turn to roll her eyes at me. But hey, she started it.
“It’s weird, though,” she goes on. “Dating someone who is still stuck in the whole Parker scene. Like…I forgot what it’s like to spend your whole life obsessing over performances and accolades and trying to cram four hours of practice into every day. Easier this time, though. Maybe because I’m not all caught up in it myself. I get to watch it like it’s an…an anthropological expedition. But sometimes it does make me wonder what things’d be like if I hadn’t…” She trails off.
Dropped out.The unspoken words hang heavy.
“You did what you had to do,” I tell her. “You were going to lose your mind if you stayed at Parker one more term. It was eating you up inside.”
“I know,” she says, and blows out a heavy gust of air. “I know. Just…could-have-beens, you know? But it’s good. It’s all good. I’m happier now. And Cessy is different than I was. She’s like…stable, and shit. She can handle the pressure. She’ll be okay.”
Sometimes I wonder what Shrishti thinks about me andmyability to handle the pressure. She’d be honest if I asked. Which is part of why I never have.
I’m not sure I want to know the truth.
