Virtuosity (9 page)

It was hard to tell exactly when I started feeling like an idiot, but it was definitely sometime after I swallowed that chewed lump of pizza and before he started laughing. I refused to look at him.

“Shut up,” I said, but it lost impact because I was laughing too.

“You have one crazy Dr. Jekyll inside of you,” he said.

“No, Dr. Jekyll is the nice one. Mr. Hyde is the maniac.”

He squinted, rubbing his palm over his jaw and the faintest shade of stubble there. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know whether you’re right or wrong, but at this point, I’m scared to question you,” he said.

“Good. And just so you know, I’m not one of those kids who’ve had every opportunity purchased for them. My grandparents bought the violin, but that’s it. Up until last year, I was just an embarrassing reminder of their son’s playboy years.” I shrugged. Why was I telling him this?

He sat quietly, looking down at the pavement.

“As far as they’re concerned,” I added, “I didn’t even exist until I was famous.”

He nodded and said softly, “It’s a weird kind of fame though, isn’t it?” He reached down and followed a crack in the cement with his index finger. “You’re a god to two percent of the population, and a nobody to everyone else.
At least your grandparents are part of the two percent. My dad’s parents aren’t. They’re still annoyed at my mum and dad for letting me skip Christmas for a concert tour last year. And my dad still hasn’t given up the dream of seeing me go to medical school.”

It seemed hard to believe that anyone who played the violin like Jeremy could come from an unartistic family. “Your mom,” I said, “is she a musician?”

“Music lover. Not quite the same thing.”

“True,” I said, thinking of Clark. He was a music lover by marriage. His efforts—coming to my concerts, putting up with the constant shoptalk, just existing in the energy vacuum of my career—were kind of sweet, especially considering he was totally tone-deaf. “Somebody has to buy tickets,” I said, thinking of the full house Jeremy had just performed in front of.

“You think they’re all actually music lovers?”

“In the audience?” I said. “Why else would they be there?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I can’t figure out. Why come if you don’t love it?”

“But what makes you think they don’t love it?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t see how nonmusicians can even understand enough about the music to enjoy it.”

I had no answer. The onstage persona of Jeremy King was starting to make sense. He didn’t think they were even
there to hear him. The tricks and bravado had been tactical, like I’d thought, but covering something sad. I didn’t think about my audience when I was onstage, but I at least assumed they were listening to me.

“I love it because I can create it,” he said. “Don’t you find having to sit and listen to anyone else play frustrating?”

“I guess a little.” I had tonight. Not that I could tell him that. He’d think I was intimidated.

“Of that two percent who know who we are,” he continued. “I’d guess only half really love the music we make.”

“So your mom, is she part of that one percent?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “And yours?”

The question surprised me. I hadn’t really thought about it. My career was her entire life, how could I not know? “I guess. But she’s a musician. Or was.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ve heard of her.”

I had the bizarre urge to tell him about Diana, how the stunted opera career fed her impossibly high expectations. He would have understood. But I couldn’t. It felt like betrayal. Talking about the Glenns was safer.

“My grandparents are part of the two percent, I guess, but not the half that actually enjoy music,” I said. “I think they like to pretend. It’s what people in their social circle do, dress up in Gucci and sprinkle money on the lowly artists. Who knows though, when I win the Guarneri, maybe they’ll hook me up with a trust fund.”

He snorted and leaned over, elbows on knees, fingers laced. His face looked hard, and I knew I’d said something wrong. I shouldn’t have mentioned the Guarneri.

“You sound confident,” he said.

“I am.”

“Hmmm,” he said and glanced back at me, over his shoulder. He didn’t believe me. He knew I was scared. I looked away.

“Sorry,” he said, and shook his head. “I have a hard time letting my competitive side drop.”

“I understand.”

I did understand. One minute I wanted to pick his brain and tell him everything I was thinking, and the next minute I wanted slam his hand in a door.

We sat, not talking, listening to the cicadas chirp, interrupted by the occasional honk from down the path, where the park met Lake Shore Drive.

“You know what I love about performing?” he asked. His tone had relaxed again.

“The applause,” I joked.

He ignored me. “I love the almost-done. You know, when you’re far enough along and you’ve got the right momentum and you know you aren’t going to screw it up, but you’re still out there, still flying.”

I closed my eyes and leaned into the back of the bench. It hadn’t felt like flying in a long time.

“Yeah,” I said. Deep in my stomach, I felt the sadness again.

I had been wrong about Jeremy understanding me. Nobody could. He came close, closer than anyone else, but then Inderal ruined it. It separated my type of genius from his type of genius.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

I opened my eyes.

Jeremy’s hair still hung in his eyes and the lamplight washed over his features, casting pointy shadows from his chin and nose.

I needed a response. I couldn’t think.

“What time is it?” I asked.

He blinked. It was the wrong thing to say.

“The time,” he said, and leaned back so he could reach into his pocket for his cell phone, “is 1:48.”

“Oh, crap.” I reached down and fumbled for my heels. I had to get home.

“Past your bedtime?”

“Kind of,” I said, suddenly aware that I was talking to someone who was allowed to cross continents unsupervised. He would think I was complete baby if I told him I had snuck out. “I’m performing tomorrow night. I should be asleep right now.”

He nodded, stood up, and took a step out of the lamplight. “You’re one of those people who freaks out if their
pre-performance rituals aren’t just right, aren’t you?” I couldn’t see his face anymore, but scorn had entered his voice. “You seem uptight like that,” he added, more to himself than to me.

My stomach twisted over on itself. He’d said I was beautiful. And then I’d said the wrong thing, and now I didn’t know what was going on, except that it felt like I’d ruined something.

“I wouldn’t call a good night’s sleep a ritual,” I stammered. “It’s just common sense. I’m hardly demanding all the brown M&M’s be removed from the premises.”

“What are you talking about?”

Why did he sound so mean? “Van Halen. It was written into all his contracts. Someone had to go through bowls of M&M’s for his dressing room and remove all the brown ones.” That was Clark’s one area of musical expertise, eighties heavy metal. He had been proud to fill my brain with hard-rock trivia, and I’d been happy to let him because it bugged Diana.

“Whatever.” Jeremy shrugged, unimpressed.

I stood up. He didn’t offer me a hand. Not that I’d have taken it.

We started down the snaking path back to Lake Shore Drive in silence.

“This is weird,” he said finally.

I said nothing. It
was
weird. Wandering around in a
freezing cold park after midnight, that was weird. Hanging out with a guy, sadly that was weird too, not to mention that he was my nemesis, my main competition, the one person who could stand in the way of everything I’d always wanted. Being told I was beautiful, the weirdest of all. Add to that: Jeremy’s completely manic behavior, my lying and sneaking out, and then spending half the night before an important performance freezing to death in Millennium Park, and the big ball of weirdness was complete.

“I’m having a hard time knowing whether or not to hate you,” he said.

“That was honest. At least the feeling is mutual,” I said.

“I want to be nice, but then I remember who you are, and I can’t,” he continued. “So I turn into a jerk, but then you make that difficult.”

“Hmmm,” I said, because I didn’t know what else there was.

He snorted. “It would be more convenient if you weren’t so …”

Finish! If I weren’t so …
But he didn’t.

Instead he said, “Are you nervous?”

“For tomorrow? Not really.” That was the medicated truth.

“No, I mean for the Guarneri.”

“Yeah,” I said, before I could stop myself. So much for my poker face.

But my Guarneri dread was hard to lie about. It wasn’t regular performance fear, the stuff that Inderal could take care of. It wasn’t about performing at all. It was about what happened after.

“Me too,” he said. His voice was quiet but steady.

“I didn’t think you were the nervous type,” I said. “And according to your bio, you don’t ever lose.”

“According to yours, neither do you.”

Losing. I’d been working too hard at keeping the thought from wriggling up to the surface. Now couldn’t possibly be the best moment for letting it through. Making a
what-if-I-lose
plan with Jeremy King was nothing less than self-sabotage.

We had reached Lake Shore Drive without me noticing. Jeremy lifted his hand, and a taxi pulled up beside us.

He turned and gave me a rueful look. He was embarrassed. The realization mostly confused me. “Split a cab?” he asked and opened the door for me.

I nodded, climbed in and slid over. He sat down beside me. I rattled off my address, and the cab pulled away from the curb.

“We probably shouldn’t be friends, you know,” he said, but not convincingly. He didn’t seem to notice that our legs were touching.

“Probably not. I mean, right now we’re just rude to each other off and on, but in two weeks, we’ll hate each other. Or at least one of us will.”

“I don’t think I’ll hate you,” he said.

“That’s because you think you’ll win.”

“No.” He paused. “I mean, yes. I think I’ll win. But even if I don’t win, I don’t think I
could
hate you.”

I felt strange. Angry first—why was he so sure he could win?—then light-headed, almost giddy. Saying he couldn’t hate me, was that almost saying he liked me? And when had I stopped hating him and started … not hating him?

The cab swerved left suddenly and the driver swore, jarring my brain back into the moment. I looked at Jeremy. He was staring out the window. Losing the Guarneri to him would suck. A whole herd of lovesick butterflies in my stomach wouldn’t change that. An encore dedication, a midnight walk in the park, being told I was beautiful—those added up to a big fat nothing beside everything that I’d been working for. If he beat me I would hate him. And probably myself too.

Jeremy looked up and smiled. I smiled back. He was either a better person, or a liar. Or he really liked me, but that seemed less plausible. He didn’t even know me.

We rode in silence. Understanding had drained the pressure: we mutually liked and hated each other. Nothing could be done about it. One of us would win, the loser’s
life would be over, and no matter what he was trying to convince himself of, forgiveness would be impossible.

Then he lifted his arm and draped it around my shoulders and I found myself falling into the curve of his body, the gray wool of his sweater prickly against my neck and face. He smelled like cinnamon gum and aftershave. I hoped he couldn’t feel my heart racing.

“So, we’ve got less than two weeks. Are you going to show me around Chicago?” he asked.

Diana’s face appeared in my mind. She had already scheduled every minute of the next two weeks for me. I imagined telling her I was going to waste a day riding the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier and taking pictures from the top of the Sears Tower with Jeremy King. She wouldn’t freak out. She was too dignified for freaking out. She’d just say no.

“Um, maybe,” I stalled.

“Maybe you will, or maybe you’ll come up with a good excuse not to?”

“Truthfully, my mom has me on a short leash.”

“Because the Guarneri is in two weeks.”

“Well … no, it’s more constant than that.”

“Just how short is the leash?” he asked.

I paused. Why lie? “She thinks I’ve been asleep since seven.”

“That’s short.”

“Yes, it is.”

“So she would definitely freak if she found out you were playing with the enemy,” he said.

I nodded, thinking how badly I wanted to reach out and sweep his hair out of his eyes.

“Give me your phone,” he said. I pulled it from my coat pocket and handed it over, watching him as he thumb-typed into it, wondering what I was doing.

“Now you’ve got my mobile number,” he said. “I’m calling it, so your number is in my phone too.”

“‘Mobile,’” I said, and laughed. “So British.”

His dial tone sounded just once from his pocket before he closed my phone.

“Yes, good observation. I’m still British. I’ll probably continue to be that way.” He handed my phone back to me and his hand held onto mine for just a second, then let go. “Call me if you want to do something.”

“It’s not if I
want
. It’s if I
can
.”

He stared at me. “You’re almost eighteen, Carmen,” he said. “What’s the difference?”

I wanted to defend myself, but nothing came. He was staring at me, waiting for me to say I’d call. I felt the taxi slow and pull over, but I kept my eyes on his face.

“Is that your house?” He pointed out the window behind me.

I turned and as I did my stomach fell. The brown-stone
was glowing like a firefly against the black night. My room. Diana and Clark’s room. The front room. The porch. Every light was on.

“Oh, no,” I whispered and reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” he said, putting his hand on my arm, and before I had time to realize what was happening, he leaned forward and kissed me. I closed my eyes and felt his other hand cradle my head against the surprising pressure of his lips. Then it was over. He pulled back.