Assobio a Jato.
My senior recital wasn’t for over a year, but I knew I’d be playing this piece as part of my program the second I heard it. It’s a piece for flute and cello, and I planned on asking my friend and roommate, Marcia, to accompany me. I was lucky Gregory Fitzgerald hadn’t overheard me practicing this piece when he saw me the other day in the practice rooms. I’m sure he would have given me an earful about how I was “doing it wrong,” since he didn’t seem to like me very much. At first I assumed his gruffness toward me was because of my mother, but he didn’t seem to have an idea of who she was. Well, he probably knew who she was, but not that she was my mother. I chuckled a little, recalling that I’d put my mother’s married name any place on the application that asked for my parents’ names. I’d wanted to get in on my own.
Each year there was always a fresh batch of rumors about who got in and why. Some people were accused of bribing members of the pre-audition committee in various ways, but others, reportedly, took it all the way to the top and went for the jugular. Paying off the school.
I knew there were enough people at the conservatory that knew who my mother was, but the fact that Gregory Fitzgerald didn’t calmed me somehow.
Marcia rolled her eyes when I told her Fitzgerald was the new instructor for my music theory class. Luckily, Madeline was able to set me up with a trusted colleague of hers to provide my private instruction for the remainder of the semester. Marcia actually had Gregory, as he requested she call him—which shocked the hell out of me for some reason—for her private instruction. She was thrilled to learn from the best cellist at the conservatory, and, really, in the country, but she found his style a bit militant.
I shook my head, lifted my chin, and resumed practicing.
Open throat. Don’t let your fingers get ahead of your eyes.
I don’t know why the hell Gregory Fitzgerald got under my skin.
Yes, I do. He was an arrogant, snobby musical stereotype of the worst kind. He barely looked out into the class when he was talking, and when he did, his clear blue eyes shot through me like ice. He was only ten years or so older than me. His thick, black hair and fairly tight physique spoke to that. But the grim, smug expression he plastered on his face aged him another ten. Easily.
Seeing him at Murphy’s with James Mahone that day caught me off guard. I wanted to blow him off, ignore him the way he ignores all of us when we’re out in public. But, he wasn’t ignoring me. I’d caught him staring at me, and it didn’t infuriate me. It excited me. I felt his eyes on me as I took off my coat, and when I turned toward him, those blue eyes pulled a juvenile hi from me before I could filter it. He grinned back, returned the greeting, and I wanted to melt. He might be human after all, I thought.
Before I knew it, I stumbled across a string of notes that should have been an easy run.
Shit, see what happens? Focus. He’s still awful, even if his smile did that to your insides.
I took a deep breath, exhaling all thoughts of the annoying, lifeless professor, and started the piece over again. This time, it was good. Not ideal—I had to slow down a few times over some of the runs, and my throat was definitely going to be sore in the morning, but it was good. I groaned at the thought of the exercises I’d have to get back into doing to pull off this, and other pieces, with solid tone.
“You know,” Nathan startled me as he walked into my dorm room, “they have soundproof practice rooms so you can grumble in private.” He sat next to me on my bed as I put my flute away.
“I know, jerk,” I teased, “I just wanted to get one last go at this piece before quiet hours. How many pieces are you playing for your recital?”
Nathan ran a hand through his thick, dark curls as he sighed. “Three.”
“Don’t sound too excited, or anything,” I toned out sarcastically. He didn’t laugh. “Hey,” I put my case away and placed my hand on his leg, “you okay?”
He stared at my hand for a second before shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m fine. You ready to go out?” He stood and held out his hand for me. I took it.
“Absolutely. Just don’t drink as much as you did last time. You got all weird.”
Nathan stopped at the door, dropping his hand from mine. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “You just drank a ton and then got all … I don’t know … sad.” I shrugged again, indicating I had no idea what he was going to say that night.
“Sorry…” he trailed off, running both hands through his hair.
“Don’t be. Just don’t drink all the liquor at the bar tonight.” I giggled and took his hand again. An easy smile spread across his face as he followed me down the hall.
“So,” he seemed eager to change the subject, “that piece you were playing when I walked in requires a cellist.”
“Uh-huh, I’m going to ask Marcia to do it, I think.”
“What?” Nathan asked as he held the main door open for me. “You don’t want the dashing professor to do it?”
I let out a full-throated laugh. “Yeah, can you imagine? I’m going to have a hard enough time passing the newest assignment.”
“I don't understand why you keep poking the lion. You deserved a way better grade on your canon, it was brilliant.”
“I know," I said. “But I’m excited about it, because I think I can turn the piece into something really exciting—”
“He’ll fail it,” Nathan cut in.
I nodded. “I’m sure of it,” I said with a smile.