Or surprise dinner dates, Shrishti assuming they’re going out for burgers, but Cessy takes her to a nice restaurant, the kind with candlelight and white tablecloths.
Not that I’ll ever get a chance to use any of these ideas. Not on Jamie, at least.
I’m not stupid enough to think a little flirting means anything. Our history weighs too heavy on the space between us.
Later that night, the pizza boxes now completely empty and dirty napkins shoved into corners of the sofa, the three of us huddled around Jamie’s laptop watching videos of dogs giving birth to sloppy little shut-eyed puppies, my phone buzzes. It’s my dad.
I slip out of the room and into the kitchen, gently closing the door behind myself before I pick up.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Hi, sweetheart. How is everything going over there?”
It’s dark where he is, the only illumination coming from the amber glow of a bedside lamp and the harsh light of the phone reflecting off his face. I try to mentally do the math for what time it is in—Paris, I think he’s in Paris right now?Extremely goddamn lateis the conclusion.
“Fine. Just practicing. You know.” One thing I love about talking with my dad is how I never need to explain to him why music matters to me so much, why I would spend hours and hours every day sitting on a cold piano bench playing until my fingers cramp. “Trying not to suck when we fly to Stockholm next week.”
I’ll still have time to keep practicing after we get to Sweden—assuming I pass the early rounds, anyway—but that’s when it’ll actually feelreal.And some stupid voice in my brain keeps telling me that if I don’t get my shit together before I get on that plane, I’m already doomed.
“Well,” he says, “why don’t you get out a bottle of red and pour yourself a glass? I recommend the 2008 cab franc.”
I give him a quizzical look. “Uh. I’d love to drink your fancy wine. But…why?”
“I didn’t want to tell you before it was confirmed,” he says, and there’s already a hint of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth, “but congratulations—you’re officially the guest artist for next year’s June star soloists concert.”
“What?Are you serious?”
“Serious as I’ve ever been.”
It’s like my brain has shut down. I keep playing his words over in my head, but they don’t seem to process.Guest artist. Star soloist.
“Are you sure?”Oh my god.“Why? What?” A wild laugh tears itself out of my throat, bizarre and reflexive. “You didn’t…This isn’t fair, right? Just because you’re my dad, and, and, Mom was my mom? I shouldn’t. You should choose someone else. It isn’t fair.”
My father shakes his head, that smile still set on his face. “It has nothing to do with that. You’re qualified, Goldie. You’ve won multiple national and international competitions. You’re going to Stockholm this winter. You’ve already guest starred with some of the best orchestras in the world. What makes you think you don’t deserve this, too?”
He’s factually correct. But I can’t escape the lingering stench of nepotism. It can’t be a coincidence that my name came up. Plenty of people are competition winners. There are other students at Parker, Juilliard, Manhattan, or even farther abroad who have my same qualifications. So why me?
A darker, more insidious voice whispers that it’s not just nepotism.
He doesn’t ask me how I’ve been feeling. He never asks, like he’s afraid it might trigger something dark and horrible inside me. Or—perhaps more likely—as if acknowledging my multiple sclerosis makes it real. So there’s no way he knows about how things have gotten worse. No way he knows how my body has alreadystarted to betray me, a constellation fading in the wake of so many tiny nebulae.
Still—
My dad is grinning like he’s never been so proud of me, lifting his glass for a toast, and I lift mine, too, and drink, and saythanksandwowandI’m so gratefuland all the right things, even as my heart clenches tighter and tighter until it’s a tiny, throbbing knot in my chest.
It’s not nepotism.
It’s pity.
After Cessy falls asleep that night, I retreat to my room, leaving Jamie full rein over the piano if he wants it. Once alone I drop onto my bed and fall back, staring at the light fixture above me.
I’m lucky. Some people would kill to have a father who pays attention to them. Who gets them soloist spots at the Phil.
Some people would kill to have a father at all. And here I am, deconstructing a gift horse like I might find an army in its mouth.
Of course, that simile never made much sense, as the whole point of the Trojan Horse was surprise urban warfare.
It’s not like I’m the first person I know to perform with the Phil as a guest soloist, either. Naoki Yoshida did. He attended Tokyo University of the Arts and graduated a few years before I entered Parker. I’ve run into him a few times on the competition circuit. He’ll be at Stockholm, in fact. You collect enough accolades, the invitations start rolling in.
