In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(48)
Author: Helena Newbury

We moved into the second section, the one Connor had written when we’d first started, sad but with a thread of hope running through it. I hadn’t had any idea, back then, of what he’d been thinking about when he composed it. Now I had a pretty good idea—his own life, his lack of a future, the dyslexia…the only thing I didn’t understand was what the thread of hope represented.

Back then, we hadn’t made any attempt to change how our instruments sounded. We were combining what we knew, trying to join two things that didn’t quite fit. The cello was just a little too timid, too flighty, edgy and nervous as it climbed through the notes, chased by the guitar. The guitar was too confident, too loud, drowning out protest, chasing that slender thread of happiness but always breaking off at the last moment—

Just as we played the final note, it hit me. A sharp, arcing current that started in my brain and slammed straight into my heart.

The thread of hope was me.

I turned to look at him, open-mouthed, and he seemed to know what I was thinking. He gave me a slow nod.

Someone in the audience started clapping, even though it was only the end of the first pair of sections, and then stopped when they realized they were the only one. I looked round in time to catch Jasmine red-faced, being poked in the ribs by Clarissa and Natasha.

I risked a look at the judges. Harman was dour-faced, while Geisler looked uncertain. Parks was leaning forward as if interested. I didn’t have time to check the scouts because we were launching into the next section.

This was the one I’d written as I got to know Connor, the one that described him, or at least the Connor I knew at the time: angry and stubborn, intimidating…and deeply hot. As he played the harmonies with me, it hit me how much he’d changed. Not just the obvious stuff—rehearsing instead of goofing off, writing essays instead of getting drunk. But opening up to me, sharing how scared he was inside, how he doubted his own skill. The Connor I’d unwittingly described in the music, all swagger and attitude, had only ever existed as a shell—but it was the shell that everyone had seen the whole time he’d been at Fenbrook. Every girl he’d slept with, every guy he’d got drunk with…they’d never known the real Connor. Only I did.

We flowed smoothly into the fourth section, the one Connor had written—the one I’d eventually realized was about me. Just as I had, he’d based it on the person he thought he knew. Only he’d got a lot closer than I had, capturing not just my nerves and my shyness but what lay underneath…he’d portrayed it with a slow rhythm that built and built—the mousy librarian with powerful, hidden passions—and I flushed at the idea that he’d thought of me like that, even back then.

We stopped again, a brief pause before the final pair. When I glanced at the judges, Harman had sat back in his chair and Geisler was tapping his pencil on his teeth. I had no idea whether that was good or bad.

This was it, then. A handful of minutes that would decide our future. I looked down at the front row to see Natasha give me a reassuring nod.

I took a deep breath and touched my bow to my strings. There was absolute silence.

It was the section I’d composed after we’d first had sex, the one that was about sex, and I knew that I should be embarrassed to be sharing it with everyone…to be sharing us. The old Karen would have been, but sitting there on stage with Connor just a few feet from me, our music blending together…all I felt was proud. Do they know? I wondered, do they know I can feel his hands on me, every time I play this part? Do they know this is him licking my br**sts? That this, right here, is where he thrust into me for the very first time? We’d played it so many times that we didn’t need to look at the music. We could gaze into each other’s eyes as my hand moved, as his fingers worked the strings. Never let this end, I prayed. Even if we don’t graduate, I want to always be able to play like this with him.

We moved straight into the final section, the one he’d written. His version of sex, written up on the roof after our second time. Urgent and hard and building and building, those blue-gray eyes sparkling as he stared at me, coaxing me, dragging me with him, higher and higher until our rhythms locked together perfectly, the cello and the guitar becoming one, until there was no melody and no harmony, until we were two equals, playing together.

Forever.

The final flurry of notes came in a rush, the last few bars leaving me breathless. In the seconds of silence that followed, I could hear my own heartbeat very loudly, and then I couldn’t hear anything at all. I’d gone deaf.

I looked across at the judges and Harman was smiling. And then he stood up. Why was he standing up?

I looked around at the audience, and they were all rising to their feet, too. What the—

And then my brain got around to processing the sound, and I realized I hadn’t gone deaf. They were applauding.

A hand clasped mine, our fingers entwining, and Connor drew me to my feet. The applause was like a physical force, pressing in around us as my panic attacks used to. Only this felt nothing but good, like a warm wave you could bathe in. We bowed, and the applause got louder. And then, halfway back on the left-hand side, someone stepped out of their aisle seat so that I could see him better, his hands pounding together so hard they must have hurt.

My father.

Harman spoke briefly to the other judges and they all nodded. Then he said something to us and Connor pulled me close.

“What?” I said stupidly.

Harman grinned. “I said that’s an A for both of you. Well done.”

In my mind, the scales that represented my future suddenly lurched from one side to the other as Harman heaved a breezeblock-sized weight onto the positive side. I’d just graduated. I’d just graduated well.

The applause finally started to die away. Connor squeezed my hand and I smiled at him, blinking back tears. And then, after a second, I squeezed back, harder.

It wasn’t over. We’d saved me, but now we needed to save him.

Chapter 35

There was only one other group crazy enough to enter the improvisation challenge—a harpist named Lucita, who was as placid and spiritual as her instrument suggested, and her partner on the violin, a very serious guy named Cho. Both of them already had more than enough credit to graduate, and I suspected the challenge meant different things to them. Pure fun, for Lucita, and a chance to impress his parents, for Cho. From the few times I’d spoken to him, I got the impression that his folks were even pushier than my father.

We watched them listen to the melody they’d have to work with—we’d be given a different one, so we couldn’t gain any advantage. Then the two of them hurried off to a practice room and the clock started. The audience milled about and drank free wine. For us, the thirty minutes seemed to drag on forever. For the two musicians, it was no doubt gone in a flash.

Lucita and Cho hurried back in. Lucita looked vaguely unsettled, but Cho looked downright terrified. They took their seats on the stage, glanced at one another and started to play.

At first, I couldn’t see what they were worried about. They’d come up with an inventive, elaborate piece that wound around the melody, approaching it from a few different angles. But then the harp separated from the violin for a solo and, as it handed back to the violin, I could see Cho panic as he came in too early. His own solo didn’t match—it was note-perfect, but the style didn’t gel with Lucita’s at all.

I knew exactly what had happened, because we’d done the same thing in our early trials. They’d worked out the first part together and then, running out of time, agreed to compose separate solos, with no idea of what the other one would do. We’d found out the hard way that that didn’t work.

When they joined again for the rest of the piece, they were both shaken and clumsy. Lucita would make a mistake and Cho would amplify it, and that in turn would make Lucita more nervous. They were both incredibly skilled, but there was no trust.

When they finished, we applauded harder than anyone else because I knew exactly what they’d just gone through. When Harman announced their grade—a D—they took it well, but I felt my stomach sink through the floor. Lucita and Cho were two of the best in the department and if they couldn’t pull it off, what chance did we have? After the D Connor got for the essay Ruth “helped” him with, he needed a B to graduate.

We took our places on stage. I closed my eyes as the melody we’d have to work with came over the speakers. It was simple and almost featureless—frustratingly so, like a minimalist house with a white couch on a white rug in a white room. It gave us no help with tone or style and part of me swore that it was a tougher piece than Lucita and Cho had been given…although deep down, I knew it was probably no worse.

We stood, and I saw Harman look at the clock on the wall. I half expected him to say, game-show-host style, “And your time starts…now!” But he just nodded to us and smiled—after all, the recital was done. This was just a friendly challenge—a bit of fun. And for him and everyone else—even me—that was true. For Connor—a band clenched tight around my heart—for Connor, this was make or break time.

The same sophomore who’d showed us onto the stage led us up to a practice room—the same one we’d used for our very first rehearsal. I wished we were allowed to do it on Connor’s roof, or even in my apartment. The tiny space only added to my rising panic.

“Do you have any idea what to do?” I asked as soon as the door was closed. “I have no idea what to do.”

“Karen,” Connor said firmly. “Chill. You’ve graduated.”

“But you haven’t.” My breathing was getting faster now. They’d given us a room with a clock, of course, a ticking clock and with every tick it seemed to be speeding up, eating away our precious time and all the oxygen in the room. “It’s all on this—it’s totally unfair, that melody is ridiculous and if we screw this up you’re not going to graduate and I don’t even know where to start and we only have twenty-eight minutes left and—”

“Karen.” His warm palms settled gently on my shoulders.

I stopped.

“We can do this. But I can’t do it without you. I need you with me. Take a deep breath.”

He was right. Connor was great at turning ideas into music, but in our improvisation practice we’d found that the initial spark of inspiration, the angle we took, usually came from me. I took a long, shuddering breath and managed to suck in some air.

“Now help me,” he said. “What comes to mind when you hear the melody?”

“Nothing!” I looked at the clock. Twenty-seven minutes left.

“Close your eyes. Stop looking at the clock. Come on, Karen. There has to be something.”

I sighed and shook my head. “It’s just neutral. Soulless. Mechanical.”

“Mechanical?”

I considered. “Like machines in a factory. Industrial.” Without opening my eyes, I grabbed my bow and tried something. It sounded awful, but the glow of the idea held back the freezing fear. “Not that. More like….” I tried again, and this time inspiration came—a short, jerky riff, repeated over and over. “There. Like that.”