In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(3)
Author: Helena Newbury

Don’t think about Boston.

“Sure,” I told Natasha.

She grinned. “Maybe you’ll meet someone.”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll meet a billionaire who wants me to play the cello for him in his batcave.”

“It’s just a basement, not a—You’re as bad as Clarissa!” She drank the rest of her coffee and then frowned. “Wait, what time is it?”

“Twenty after ten.”

“Shit! Practice started five minutes ago. Miss Kay’s going to kill me!”

She ran for the door, long dancer’s legs eating up the distance, and I was left alone. A good thing, because thinking about Boston, even just for a second, had started a chain reaction in my head and I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else unless I let it run its course. I sat there sipping coffee, outwardly calm, and let the memories surge up inside and consume me.

***

A decision had been made in my life, many years ago now. So long ago that I didn’t know exactly when it was made, or even who’d made it: me, or my father. I honestly had trouble remembering a time before it.

The decision was this: I was going to play with the New York Philharmonic.

That’s a cute dream and a nice ambition when your father’s a normal guy. When he’s a concert pianist with a string of bestselling albums, things are different.

As I began to show promise, he told the neighbors. I’d sit there, little face a mask of concentration, and play Bach Cello Suites and he’d say, “She’s going to play with the New York Phil one day.”

At school, he’d pick me up outside the gates and whisk me off to youth orchestra practice and then to more practice at home. At first I had time for other things, like girl scouts—mainly at the insistence of my mom. Then she left, and one by one the other activities stopped. At twelve, I did my first big solo: Haydn’s Cello Concerto in front of a hall full of people, throwing up in the bathroom beforehand and then nodding and smiling when my dad asked if everything was okay. The man doing the announcements said I was Karen Montfort, who’s already tipped for the New York Philharmonic, and I remember feeling both proud and uncomfortable, although I didn’t know why, then.

My mom had a new life within a year, with a man she claimed made her feel “free”. I didn’t understand what she meant, at the time. I thought she was ungrateful; couldn’t she see how hard my father worked to give us a home, and me a future? I clung even more tightly to him and he to me, and that seemed to push my mom even farther away.

Thanks to my dad insisting I start high school a year early, I was the odd one out. A year is a long time when all the other girls are getting br**sts and periods; spending every night practicing instead of hanging out at the mall didn’t do anything for my image, either. When I graduated, I was glad to be out of there and when I got into one of the top music colleges in Boston I was excited beyond belief. Finally, I thought, I’d be around people who understand me.

People think that if you’re good, training side-by-side with the best can only make you better. And that was true, in a way. We were all the best in our high schools and, naturally, we all wanted to be the best in the college. It was just what we were trained to do—we didn’t know anything else. So every day, you heard the best students playing at a level above and beyond what you were capable of and you tried to match it. And then other kids were trying to match you—a leapfrogging race of ability that was always going to end badly. We’d all made the same mistaken assumption: Only one of us can be the best, and it’s going to be me! It never clicked that all but one of us had to be wrong.

Most of the other students lived in shared student accommodation, bitching about the roaches or the walk to campus. I already lived in Boston, so it made no sense for me to move out of my dad’s house. I went home every night to a home-cooked meal—I thought I was lucky, at the time.

But while every other student could let off steam with their friends, catching a movie or passing a joint around, I had to go home and tell my father that yes, everything was fine. If I messed up a piece, there was no one to commiserate with me over a sneaky beer—I couldn’t tell my father or he’d be disappointed in me. If I started to doubt my ability, or fear that I’d never be as good as the student I’d heard play that day, there was no one to share it with over coffee, no one to reassure me that they felt the same.

I started, for the first time, to understand what my mom had been talking about, but by then it was far too late.

I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t have been any different if I’d lived with the other students. I certainly wasn’t the only one to crack under the pressure.

I was the only one they found on the roof, though.

I didn’t like public speaking. When most people say that, they mean they get a little nervous when they have to stand up and give a speech to their entire company. But I got that way when I had to socialize with one or two people I didn’t know. My eyes locked on the floor, my words had to be squeezed out between lips that were almost sealed together and my voice dropped to barely a murmur. If I had to present to the whole class, I completely locked up. My throat seemed to swell and block and my lungs fought me, refusing to draw air. I’d sit down and shake my head, unable to even start and the teacher would sigh and give me an F. When I went to the music college at Boston, I presumed those days were behind me. I was fine when I was playing in public—it was my voice that was the problem.

But despite being very performance-oriented, the course at Boston still required essays—which weren’t a problem—and presentations, which were. As the first big one approached, I became more and more scared. When it came to the morning of my turn…well, that’s when they found me on the roof.

I wasn’t—and I’m pretty sure about this—suicidal. Seriously, the thought never entered my head. But I also couldn’t explain what I was doing up there, when they found me. I had no memory of going up there, or of wandering around six floors up. When they tracked the wailing fire alarm to the emergency door I’d opened and raced up to the roof to see what was going on, apparently I was standing quite close to the edge, just…looking.

A difficult couple of weeks followed. Everyone wanted to help. My dad thought I should go into therapy and then return to Boston. I convinced him that I needed a complete change, and to go somewhere that was less of a pressure cooker. When I found Fenbrook Academy in New York, he hated the idea of “distractions” like actors and dancers being around, and wasn’t happy about me living alone in New York, either. The thing that convinced him was the connection to the New York Phil.

Fenbrook didn’t have the cultural cachet of the college in Boston, but a combination of its location right in the heart of New York and some big name alumni musicians who’d wound up at the New York Phil had led the orchestra to scout there during the final year recitals. It was by no means a sure thing, but if I could pull off a great recital, I had a good shot.

The first few years went well. I liked Fenbrook. I was careful to make friends who were non-musicians, to get away from the pressure I’d felt in Boston, and it worked. I didn’t have time to socialize much, but hanging out with Natasha, Clarissa and Jasmine—an actress—reminded me that there was a world outside music. Being away from my dad helped, too, although he phoned more often than was healthy.

Fenbrook, as I’d hoped, was a less pressurized environment, but it was less performance-oriented than Boston. Credit for the course was divided into four quarters—I liked to think of them as slices of cake. Three of the slices were made up of things you did over the years: performances, essays and presentations, each worth 25%. The last slice—the final 25%—was awarded for your final year recital.

Missing a whole semester had shaved a chunk off each of the first three slices. But my performance slice was still thick and solid and coated with frosting—I’d aced every one of them. My essay slice was almost as good. Half of the cake was already in place.

Thanks to my fear of public speaking, though, there was an empty space where the performance slice should have been—a whole 25% was missing from my credits. Everything depended on the recital slice—if I got almost full marks, I’d graduate well. If, on the day, I froze or couldn’t perform or something, I’d be left with only half a cake and not graduate at all.

One performance to both get the credits I needed and to impress the New York Phil scout. Four years of hard work, and yet my whole future rested on just ten minutes.

No pressure, then.

The annoying thing was that, for the other musicians on the course, the recital wasn’t anything like as scary. By now, they’d amassed almost enough credit to graduate, and a reasonable performance was all they needed to take them the final distance. A few could even scrape through and graduate without it. For me, it was make or break.

I sat there stewing until my phone buzzed to remind me I had advanced theory class in five minutes. I had to have an alarm for everything, or I’d miss a class because I was too busy stressing about missing classes.

Why couldn’t I just be normal?

***

Dan, my duet partner, had saved me a seat in the lecture theater. It was the biggest room we musicians got to see, and after all the hours spent in tiny practice rooms we tended to sit there overwhelmed by the sense of space, like battery hens in a football stadium.

Dan was a cheerful, round-faced Canadian and the single most dependable person I knew. I’d chosen him as my duet partner without hesitation—he might not have been the best violinist at Fenbrook, but I knew he’d practice the Brahms until he had it polished, and wouldn’t fall to pieces on the day; with my whole future resting on the recital, I needed a guaranteed good performance, not the chance of a great one. He was friendly, generous, thoughtful…exactly what I’d want in a boyfriend, if he didn’t have a boyfriend of his own.

Doctor Geisler clapped his hands together, his booming Danish accent filling the room. “Okay! We’re starting today by looking at Schenkerian analysis—”

The door opened and Connor walked in. Halfway through the door, he stopped and frowned.

Geisler paused and stared at him. “Are you in this class?” he asked mildly.

Connor looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know. Am I in this class?”

Everyone laughed—everyone except me. It was alright for him—he was going to flunk out and he didn’t care. Meanwhile, it felt like I was being crushed under the weight of everyone’s expectations.

“Why don’t you join us anyway?” said Geisler. “Maybe you’ll recall whether you’re taking this course. And you’ll learn something either way.” It was always hard to tell whether he was being nice or dryly sarcastic.

Connor nodded and vaulted over the front row of desks so that he could sit down next to a blonde oboist, who giggled even though she probably knew his reputation. Or maybe because she knew his reputation.

“Okay,” Geisler said again.