“I do try.”
I wondered if he could tell from the flush on my face that I found him attractive. Or maybe he was used to girls thinking he was hot. With a face like that, people were probably falling all over him at all times. And here I was, just another statistic standing in line.
“What do you think of Parker so far?” I asked, desperate for a distraction.
“It’s huge,” Jamie said bluntly. “I came from a small town. Being in New York is a massive culture shock. But everyone here has been really nice. And so far I’ve had great classes.”
“Who’s your primary teacher?”
“Celia Chen.”
My eyebrows shot up. “No way. Celia’s mine, too.”
“Lucky us.”
“I mean, I sure as hell hope so. I heard she’s a shark.” Specifically, that she had extremely high expectations for her students. But she also had a reputation for pumping out some of the best performers in the school. And maybe if I worked hard enough, I could be one of them.
“Yeah,” he said. “But that’s probably a good thing.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could get the words out, the teacher was already standing on the stage, ringing a little bell to get our attention. Everyone almost immediately shut up, all of us turning toward her as if the next words from her lips would somehow determine our entire futures.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Elke Schulz, and I’ll be your professor in this class. I assume you have all read through the syllabus, but just in case, I’ll briefly go over it with you now.”
Great. The worst part of every first day. I sat there and pretended to be completely invested in attendance policies and class participation grades, but it was getting increasingly hard not to yawn by the time Schulz wrapped it up.
“Today, I thought we could all introduce ourselves the best way that classical musicians can—through performance. Each of you will come onstage and play a brief song for the class. I hope you’ll see this as an opportunity to express yourself and show your unique character through your performance, and that by the end, we’ll all know each other a little better. Who would like to go first?”
The room was utterly silent except for the rustling of clothesand papers as everyone tried to find some random occupation for their hands, hoping somebody else would speak up so they didn’t have to.
But then, beside me, Jamie raised his hand. “I’ll go.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Mister…?”
“Larson. Jamie Larson.”
“Thank you, Jamie. Please join me on the stage,” she said, gesturing toward the waiting baby grand.
I made room as he shuffled by me, tucking my feet beneath my chair. He walked up to the stage with the kind of easy confidence I envied, like he already knew he was good. Like all he had to do now was prove it.
I was far enough on the house left side that I had a good view of his hands as he rested them atop the keyboard. His fingers were long and elegant, settling over the keys as if caressing a lover.
Then he began to play.
His music was beautiful. It was technically perfect, but it was more than that—it resonated through the hall as if it were played by an entire orchestra, like a powerful ocean tide dragging us out to sea. I caught myself sitting too still, almost not breathing, captivated.God,I thought.If I could play like that, I’d never stop.
I lost track of time. Jamie’s piece felt both too short and also as if it lasted a lifetime, burrowing somewhere deep inside me, ready to live there in my warmth.
I clapped along with the rest of the class, and when Jamie finally settled back in the seat next to me, I leaned over and whispered, “That was amazing. Seriously.”
“Thanks,” he said back, his cheeks pink as if he’d just run twenty miles in the cold.
I let a few others go first, trying to psych myself up. It would be impossible to follow a performance like Jamie’s. No matter how well I played, I’d always be second best.
But at last, the number of students remaining dwindled to five, and I couldn’t justify waiting any longer. So I volunteered the next time Schulz turned toward the audience.
My body felt stiff and awkward as I made my way to the front. The piano in front of me no longer felt like an old friend, but a threat. A challenge.
I closed my eyes and breathed, trying to mimic a meditation I’d learned in therapy once. I imagined myself as a mountain, grounded deep inside the earth. Observing things that happened around me—observing my unsteady breath—but untouched by them. Steady. Accepting myself, my solid base and snowy peaks.
