My nipples turn to peaks thinking about him. I’ve indulged fantasies of him for so long but lately, it’s about more. About us. Being us. Him. Being. Mine.
I turn T Swift to a reasonable volume as we near the orchestra building. It’s a concert hall, three towns over from where we live in Cherryville. By this time in the day on Tuesday and Thursdays, the parking lot is empty of staff and visitors. Now rows of white SUVs and over-priced foreign sedans sit tidily in each space, each one holding a pair of helicopter parents, waiting for orchestra to be done, parked as if in suspended animation, with brake lights on and air conditioning running.
I scan the parking lot for Mike’s bike, but of course it isn’t there. He never waits around. He’s got other stuff to do. With bikes. And muscles. And whatever else he’s packing in those jeans of his. God.
We pull up to the loading zone and I unbuckle my violin from her car seat. I glance from my dad to my mom and back again.
Surely, they haven’t completely forgotten today. Surely one of them will remember. Surely my eighteenth isn’t the year when Tuesday means more than birthday. I decide to give them one more chance. “Does anybody know what day it is?” I ask, with my hand on the doorhandle.
My mom shoots me a look over her bony shoulder. “It’s Tuesday. One week until your chair tryouts.”
I nod, let out a sad sigh, and slip out of the door.
Mom says pointing to the Ziploc back on the back seat, “Jess, don’t forget your….”
And I slam the door hard, cutting off the word celery before I lose my freakin’ mind.
* * *
Practice goes well—Schubert’sNo. 8 in B Minor, the Unfinished—until the very end. Because by the very end, our conductor has been hitting his water bottle of gin and tonic all evening and now he’s getting tipsy. And handsy. His cheeks are flushed with gin-fever redness.
I watch him like a hawk as I carefully pack up my violin, nestling the polished burl wood into its velvet padding. He saunters over to me in uneven steps, leaning on my music stand nearly knocking it over. “So, Jessica.”
I watch him with slow blinks as I rub rosin on my bow. “So, Dr. Markham.”
He sniffs with a smug superiority. He likes that, being called “doctor.” Though I honestly don’t know how a Doctorate in Musical Arts qualities anybody to be called doctor. But whatever. I know full well that it’s best if I stay on his good side, because he will make or break me next week. If I get first chair, it’s my golden ticket to Julliard. If I get second chair, my music career is effectively o-v-e-r.
To be honest, I like the sound of o-v-e-r. But my parents most definitely won’t.
“Next week are your tryouts. How is practice going? Still planning on the Paganini?”
Screeeeeeeechgo the nails on the chalkboard in my head. It’s time for another little rebellion. “I’m not so sure, Dr. Markham. The Paganini is coming along. But I’m also working on something else. Something more… daring.”
I note the greedy flash in his glazed eyes. I’ve heard the rumors—there are rumors like this about conductors everywhere. Basically it boils down to this: if you put out, you get moved up. The music business will always be locked in a time before Me Too and HR complains and Harvey Weinstein and the rest. It’s full of sleazy men taking advantage of young girls and guys. But I have never been able to get a good read on Markham. Until he says…
“If you’re up for something really daring, then we should talk.”
Bastard. Now it’s confirmed and I want to take a cold shower and wash myself clean of his lustful glances. Gross.
“By daring I meant Tchaikovsky, opus six, number six.” I snap making it clear what daring means in this context.
He looks mildly annoyed. And that annoys me, because Op. 6, No. 6 is magic, and all this jerk can think about is nookie. “What a shame,” Markham says.
Is it? I’m not so sure. There’s something about him that just screams antibiotic-resistant chlamydia.
“See you next week, Dr. Markham,” I say. And then slowly, gracefully, stand up from my chair and make my way to the back door. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I karate kick it open with my foot and stomp through the back exit.
Sam is waiting for me, taking a delicate drag on a delicate little French cigarette. “Queen. Calm. Now.”
“I hate him,” I seethe, shoving a handful of pretzels and M&Ms into my mouth. I’m mad enough that I don’t even mind that a few M&Ms land on the hot asphalt. “Genuinely,” I sputter.
“I hate him. Gross, gross, grooooooooosssssss.”
Sam carefully stubs out his cigarette on the brick wall and places it back in his antique case. He only smokes a tiny bit at a time. A pack lasts him six months. “What do you say we walk down to Chilis, get an onion blossom, two burgers, and get shitfaced on a huge wine-a-rita in a fishbowl glass?”
That sounds amazing. But I grip my violin case to my chest. “I can’t.”
Sam pouts. “I’m not receiving you, girl.”