Consent (16 page)

Obviously, Theo still totally blames me for everything. Maybe he always will.

The front door opens and shuts with a rattling of keys. “Beatrice?”

“I'm up here, Dad!”

Footsteps trudge up the stairs. A minute later Dad knocks, pokes his head into my room, and walks in. He is carrying his briefcase in one hand and a Dunkin' Donuts cup in the other. His clothes are wrinkled, as though he slept in them, and a coffee stain blooms across his polo shirt.

“Hey, honey. When did you get back?” he asks with a weary smile.

“A little while ago.”

“So what did you think of Cambridge?”

“Actually . . .” I hesitate. Maybe I should ease into the subject
of New York City and Juilliard gradually, especially since I haven't figured out how to explain Dane to Dad yet. “Cambridge was nice. Really, um, collegiate.”

“Did you get to that coffee shop I mentioned? In Kendall Square? It was a big MIT hangout. I used to spend a lot of time there in my undergrad days.”

“Nope, we ran out of time. Next trip, though.”

Cream Puff leaps off my lap and prances over to Dad. She weaves through his legs, meowing.

He squats down and sets his briefcase aside to pet her. “Yeah, I know. You need to be brushed. Hey, I picked up some cans of that fishy stuff you like,” he tells her.

I blink. Dad and Cream Puff are bonding? Did aliens take over his body?

He straightens up and massages his left shoulder. “Say, I've been meaning to ask you: Is there something I can do to help you with your college applications? It's been a while, but I could edit or proofread or whatnot.”

First the cat. Now he's showing interest in my life. This is getting more and more surreal.

“Thanks, Dad. I'll let you know.”

“Alrighty. I've got a couple calls to make. If you're hungry, there's chili in the fridge. Hannah dropped by yesterday with a big pot.”

“That was nice of her.”

“Yeah, don't know what we'd do without our Hannah.”

He starts to leave. But before he does, he scans my room in a quick, furtive way, as though I might catch him looking. His gaze lands briefly on my blue bookshelf with the sea horses, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks so old suddenly—even older than usual, that is.

And then it occurs to me: The bookshelves must remind him of Mom. Were they hers?

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah, honey?”

I'm not sure what I want to say here.
What's up? When did you start liking cats? Are you feeling okay?

“Do you care where I go to college? I mean, like, do you have an opinion?” I ask him cautiously.

“No. Of course not. You should choose whatever school makes you happy.”

“Really?”

“Why? Do you know where you'd like to go?”

“Um, actually, that's something I've been meaning to talk to you about. Maybe we could go out for pizza sometime and discuss a bunch of stuff?”

Dad nods. “Sure! Just let me know when.”

“Okay.”

“It's a plan, then.”

He picks up his briefcase and walks out of my room. Cream Puffs trails after him.

Definitely surreal . . . but in a good way.

Maybe this Juilliard business is going to work out after all.

• • •

I stay up late to pore over the Juilliard website. I grab a piece of paper and jot down the important information: application deadline, requirements for the prescreening recording, and the additional requirements for the live audition.
If
I get a live audition. For the recording I will have to play my Beethoven sonata, the Schumann Fantasy, and a Chopin étude. The live audition calls for more pieces; I look over the list and decide that I could play the Bach Partita, the Rachmaninoff “Little Red Riding Hood” étude, and maybe the Prokofiev sonata or Ravel's “Jeux d'eau.” Dane told me on the drive home that these auditions last only ten or twenty minutes and that the judges usually ask the candidates to play just a portion of each piece.

I also check out the websites of the other conservatories Dane mentioned: the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, the New England Conservatory in Boston, the Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore, and the Manhattan School of Music. I grab another piece of paper and jot down more notes.
My hand flies across the page, and my notes are a manic mix of abbreviations, smiley faces, stars, and exclamation points.

It occurs to me that I'm actually excited about college for the first time since . . . ever.

It occurs to me, too, that I'm starting my Golden Notebook for real. Smiling, I find my stapler and staple the pages together. It's not as pretty as Plum's notebook with its sparkly gold cover. But it's a start.

I don't see Dane again until Tuesday at chamber rehearsal. When he walks into the room, my knees immediately go weak. I always thought that was a made-up thing, knees going weak, but apparently, I was mistaken. I sit down on the piano bench and pretend to busy myself with some sheet music so I don't faint or fall over or whatever.

Is this what love feels like?

He and I glance at each other briefly as he sets his bag down on one of the desks. His lips twitch in a hint of a smile. I smile back, hyper-aware that Braden and Lianna are standing just a few feet away.

It is intoxicating and also impossible, carrying around this secret. I have no idea how we are going to pull off “professional and platonic” until December.

I hope some distance will help. Just this morning I filled
out a form in the principal's office to drop music history. I explained that I had too many classes, and they said it would be okay to withdraw from the class so late in the semester as long as I promised to make it up with an art elective next semester. And I know Dane plans to tell our group today that he'll be stepping down as coach. Which means that very soon our contact at school will be all but nonexistent.

“Dane! How was your weekend?” Lianna trills.

“It was fine, thank you, Lianna,” Dane says briskly. “Listen, I need to speak to you all about something.”

Lianna and Braden exchange a glance. I pretend to study my nails.

“From now on, I want you all to rehearse on your own, without me,” Dane goes on. “I have other groups that are really struggling and require more of my time. We can do a couple of final run-throughs, perhaps the week of the holiday concert, and I can offer any last-minute comments then.”

“But,
Dane
! We
need
you,” Lianna complains.

“You guys are so good, you've made me obsolete,” Dane banters lightly.

“Mr. R, do you mean starting today or starting next rehearsal?” Braden asks.

“Today. Right now. I have to be . . . I have to go now and
check in on another group. Braden, can I count on you to lead the rehearsals?”

“No problem.”

“Right, then.” Dane gives a little wave, picks up his messenger bag, and heads for the door. I continue studying my nails while watching him leave out of the corner of my eye.

Braden turns to me. “Did
you
know about this?”

I startle. “Me? No. Why would I?”

“Because, um, you two seem kind of tight.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Lianna arches her eyebrows. “Yes, Braden, what
is
that supposed to mean? If Dane was picking favorites, he would most definitely pick me. He wrote my rec letter for the conservatories, and I happened to see a copy. He
adores
me.”

“Yeah, right, Lianna. You happened to see a copy,” Braden says skeptically.

“I
did
! ‘Lianna Morrissey is one of the best young musicians I have ever had the privilege to work with,' ” she recites with air quotes. “Curtis will be all over that. So will Eastman, Jacobs, and Juilliard.”

“You're applying to Juilliard? My friend Trai told me there's only going to be two, maybe three violin openings for next fall. Hardly anyone's graduating this year,” Braden says.

“Well, my audition is going to blow the judges away. What
about you, Bea? Are you applying to conservatories too?”

My brain is still stuck on
adores
and
Juilliard.
“Um, maybe?”

“Maybe? Sweetie, the deadlines are, like, six weeks away. Most of us have been preparing our auditions for, like, a whole year.”

“I'll be fine. Hey, guys, let's get this rehearsal started, or we'll be here all night. Braden, what do you think? From the top?”

“Sounds good.”

We run through the Rachmaninoff once, twice, three times. Braden is surprisingly good at keeping us together and also diffusing Lianna's prima donna complaints: too fast, too slow, too much piano and cello, and so forth. As we rehearse, I mentally scroll through the calendar. October, then November, then December . . . in ten weeks the holiday break will begin. Dane won't be my teacher anymore. And I will have turned eighteen.

We just need to stay away from each other for ten weeks.

Ten weeks.

I need to learn patience. I wonder if I can Google how to do that?

• • •

When I get home that night, a text pops up on my phone:

It was hard seeing you.

My heart skips a beat.
It was hard seeing you too,
I write back.

I wait for another text, but . . . nothing. Also, he made me promise that I would delete our conversations, just in case.

I'm not sure why he's being so scrupulous. Like anyone is going to see our texts.

Still, I promised. Reluctantly, I hit the Clear All button.

November. More than a month has gone by since New York City, and I feel as though I may lose my mind.

Thanksgiving looms on the horizon. The halls are decorated with turkey lino prints from Mr. Nachtman's art class and bright green posters about the holiday concert. As I head over to the performance arts wing for a rehearsal with Braden and Lianna, I instinctively look for Dane's face in the crowd. He's been out sick for a week, and this is his first day back, or that's what he texted me, anyway. Now that I'm not in music history anymore and he no longer coaches our trio, I hardly ever see him. Just a few times passing each other in the hallway . . . and once, I accidentally-on-purpose brushed my arm against his, and he flinched as though I had burned him and hurried away.

He has e-mailed me about my prescreening recording—very official-sounding e-mails, nothing personal. He also
arranged for me to record my pieces at a professional studio in Eden Grove this Saturday, although he said he couldn't be there because he has to go out of town.

He still texts me, but those texts have become more and more rare. And once I delete them, it's like they never existed.

Our relationship has become a ghost in my head, gossamer and untouchable. Did New York City really happen?

At least things are better with Dad. He and I finally had that talk—not the whole talk, because I didn't mention Dane or the New York City trip, but the “I think I may want to study music at college” talk. He took it a lot better than I thought he would. We didn't have some cathartic father-daughter moment; he didn't hug me and say,
I'm so proud of you, honey,
which is what normal, not-crazy parents do. But he didn't start sobbing or screaming at me, so I figure that's a minor victory.

Of course, I didn't elaborate that I want to go to a
conservatory
for college. And neither of us uttered the word “Juilliard.” One step at a time.

Things are better with Plum, too. She has finally forgiven me for lying to her and for bailing on our Boston weekend. This past Monday she even brought me a pickle and barbecue sauce sandwich at lunch. She also invited me over for
doro wat
for the first time in forever.

I keep telling myself to just be grateful. I have a purpose
and a direction, finally. Dad isn't being insane. Plum and I are getting along again.

Still.
What if Dane has changed his mind about us?
Then
what?

• • •

After our rehearsal Braden and Lianna take off for other appointments. I start to leave too, then decide to stay and practice the Schumann Fantasy for a bit while I have access to a real piano. I've gotten spoiled with the brand-new Steinway, and now it's hard for me to tolerate my old, out-of-tune upright at home.

I lock the door, even though no one seems to be around at this late hour, and dim the lights. I sit down on the bench and begin.

Only a few measures in, I feel the visceral connection, the familiar joy, kick in. This music and this piano belong together. I never quite realized how much the upright was holding me back. On a good piano, especially this piano, the Fantasy sounds like an entirely different piece, full of nuances and undercurrents and dimensions of color.

I finish the first movement, then the second. As I start the third, I try to remember what Dane taught me. Let go and interpret the music with my heart, not my head. Close my eyes and breathe and
just play.

He once said that artists aren't like other people, that
they shouldn't abide by rules and preconceived notions.

I imagined that he was talking about
us.

In the middle of the third movement I hear a key rattling in the lock. My hands fumble and collapse on an A-minor chord as I turn to see who it is.

Oh my God, it's
him.

Heat rises to my cheeks. “Hey! Hi! I was just thinking about . . . um . . . How are you?” I call out awkwardly.

Dane hovers in the doorway. “I heard you playing. Your Schumann. It sounds incredible.”

“Thank you.”

We stare at each other. His face is pale, and his olive trench coat hangs loosely on his frame. Has he lost weight?