Consent (21 page)

My breath has formed a faint, foggy circle on the cold glass pane. I wipe it away with my sleeve. Dane is flipping through his score with an expression of great concentration. A lock of hair falls across his forehead, and he pushes it back.

Just then he looks up and sees me.

I jerk back from the window and glance around wildly for a quick escape route. But my feet slip on a patch of ice, and I tumble onto the sidewalk. My shopping bags fly through the air and land in a messy heap.

Somehow Dane is already by my side. He extends a hand, which I grab, and he helps me up.

“Are you all right?” he asks breathlessly.

“I'm fine!”

I realize that he is still holding my hand, and I pull it away. Blushing, he reaches down and picks up my shopping bags.

“How are you?” he asks, handing the bags to me.

Embarrassed.
“Good. Shopping. How are you?” I ask, brushing snow and ice from my parka.

“Fine. Actually, I'm taking the red-eye to London tonight.”

“To see your family?”

“Yes.”

“And, um . . . you're coming back after that?”

“Actually, I'm moving to New York City.”

“You're . . . what?”

“There's really no reason for me to . . . If I'm accepted to one of the master's programs there, I'll stay on. If not, I'll relocate again next fall, to Boston or elsewhere.”

“Oh!”

This news stirs up a wisp of emotion in me—sorrow, regret,
something
—and just as quickly, the wisp is gone. “Well, I hope you're happy there,” I rush on. “You know, in New York City or Boston or wherever.”

“Thank you.”

He gives a little cough and busies himself with his gloves. I can tell he's trying not to look at me, but he is, just as I'm trying not to look at him. Why hasn't he miraculously turned old and
ugly? He's still so gorgeous—even more gorgeous than before, if that's possible.

Of course, it's only been a month, and I'm being ridiculous. I shift my shopping bags from my right arm to my left and check out the fake Santa with great interest.

“So have you heard from Juilliard?” Dane is asking me.

“I'm sorry, what?”

“Are they going to give you a live audition? What about your other schools?”

“I haven't heard from anybody yet. January, I think.”

“Yes, of course. I knew that. Have you picked out a piece for the twentieth-century requirement yet? For the live auditions?”

“I'm trying to decide between my Prokofiev sonata and ‘Jeux d'eau.' ”

“I would go with the Prokofiev. Not many people can play that, and it will impress the judges.”

“Really? Okay, thanks.”

“Not that you need to try hard to impress them. I'm sure you'll bowl them over, no matter what you play.” Dane pauses and peers at his watch. “So, um, I'd better get home and pack.”

“Of course!”

“I'm very glad we ran into each other.”

I guess he's too much of a gentleman to point out that we didn't exactly run into each other. “Me too.”

“I hope you have a nice Christmas.”

“You too. Um, Dane?”

“Yes?”

I meet his gaze. His face is a polite mask, but his eyes, his ocean eyes, fill suddenly with hope. There is so much I want to say to him. The words, the emotions, swirl around in my head and clash against one another. Is there a future, any future, that is possible between us? I don't know. Perhaps I'll never know.

“Nothing,” I murmur, turning away. “Have a safe trip.”

Just then he reaches out and touches my cheek as lightly and fleetingly as a snowflake. “Will I ever see you again?” he asks softly.

I want so much to lean into his touch, but it's gone.

“Beatrice?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.”

This time I walk away for real, and he doesn't try to stop me.

When Dad and I drive up to Juilliard, there is a small group of students waiting for us. Incredibly, they all start clapping and cheering, as though I were a rock star instead of a newbie nobody arriving for freshman orientation.

“What on earth?” Dad exclaims, slamming on the brakes.

One of the students gestures for Dad to pull up to the curb. We get out of the car, and the clapping and cheering continue.

“Welcome to Juilliard!”

“Don't touch those bags, we'll carry them up for you.”

“You're Bea Kim, right? I remember you from audition week.”

“It says here you're on the eighteenth floor.”

“You have one of the A rooms, those are the biggest!”

And just like that, the five smiling students in their
matching orientation T-shirts load my luggage into a giant wheeled cart. Three of them head for a freight elevator with the cart. Two others direct us to the check-in area.

“I don't remember this kind of red-carpet treatment at MIT or Columbia,” Dad says to me as we start down the sidewalk.

“Yeah, it's pretty awesome. I could get used to it.”

When we reach the front entrance, Dad pauses and looks around. His eyes tear up.

“Dad?”

“Yup.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine, honey. Let's go inside and get you settled.”

He turns away and pinches the bridge of his nose. Oh, God, he's going to start crying. Fortunately, he won't be the only one. Just inside the revolving door, some mom is sobbing into a handkerchief.

Still, he's doing pretty well, considering.

Upstairs in the check-in area, we join the line for last names beginning with the letters
K
through
R.
A volunteer offers Dad and me bottled waters. “Are you music, dance, or drama?” she asks me cheerfully.

“Music. I'm a piano performance major.”

“Hey, me too!” She points to her name tag:
NAOMI, PIANO, TORONTO, CANADA.
“Welcome to Juilliard! Whose studio are you in?”

“Annaliese van Allstyne.”

“Holy crap, you're
that
girl. Everyone's talking about you.”

“What? Why?”

“The Schumann Fantasy and Prokofiev Six, right? A couple of the doctoral students heard your audition back in March and Totally. Freaked. Out.”

I grin, embarrassed. “Really?”

“I am so going to suck up to you and become your best friend. Oh, and I can tell you how to score the best practice rooms. There's no formal sign-up system, so it's a bit nutty. The diehards will
literally
camp out with their favorite pianos so they can claim them twenty-four/seven. Other pianos, though, the action is so stiff that you can't even press the keys.”

“That's good to know. Thanks!”

Naomi takes off to help out another student. Why did I think Juilliard was such a scary place? Everyone here is so nice.

After Dad and I complete the check-in process, we split up so he can deal with some forms at the registrar's office. We agree to meet on the eighteenth floor of the dormitory building in an hour, unpack my stuff, and say hi to my roommate, Sulema, who is a singer from Austin, Texas. Dad and I are
planning to have dinner with Sulema and her parents later at a restaurant in the neighborhood.

But first, I decide to make a detour to the fifth floor of the main building to see if Annaliese is there. Along the way I snap some pictures—of random students, Paul Hall, the cool electronic boards that display events—and text them to Plum.

After a moment she replies:

SO AWESOME! I'm at the mall with Mommy and Daddy buying sheets and towels!

I write:

Get crimson ones!

We exchange lots of
x'
s and
o'
s and promise to talk later. I am so happy Plum got into the school of her dreams, the one with the big pink heart around it in her Golden Notebook. Over the summer she pored over the Harvard course offerings, took the online placement exams, and Skyped with her roommate, Vimbai from Zimbabwe. We've already picked out a couple of fall weekends to visit each other.

Another text comes in:

Good luck, Bumblebee.

My chest tightens. Theo. I haven't heard from him in months—not since Dad made him come to my high school graduation.

I write:

Thank you! I hope you'll visit me in NYC!

No reply.

I slip my phone into my pocket. At least he reached out. It's a start, anyway.

I make my way up to Annaliese's studio. Through the closed door, I can hear the faint strains of Debussy's “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.”

When the last chord fades away, I knock on the door.

“Yes?”

I poke my head inside. Annaliese's face lights up when she sees me. “Beatrice! You have arrived! Come in, come in.”

She rises from her chair and clasps me in a warm hug. “How was your journey? Is your father here with you?”

“He's at the registrar's office.”

“Perhaps we could all have lunch tomorrow? I would very much like to meet him. How are you doing? Did you work on the Schubert sonata over the summer?”

“Yes! I need your help on the second movement, though. It's so . . .” I hesitate.

“Ethereal? Understated? Yes, I know. Why don't you sit down and play a little bit of it for me?”

“Right now?”

“Please. My next appointment is not until two. Oh, and before I forget, I have something for you from Gabriel. He came by to see me before he left for Boston.”

She picks up a package and hands it to me. For a second I forget to breathe. I haven't seen or spoken to Dane since last winter, when he moved to New York City. He wrote to me a few times, but I couldn't bring myself to write back. It was too hard, too confusing. And then he wrote to me in May, letting me know that he had been accepted to the Juilliard, Manhattan School of Music, and New England Conservatory master's programs and that he had chosen NEC. He didn't say why.

The package is wrapped in cream-colored paper. I unwrap it carefully. Inside is the Schumann Fantasy sheet music,
although the cover looks different. Puzzled, I flip through the pages.

It is the version with the original ending, the one that contains a secret message for Clara. Clara Wieck, who later became Clara Schumann.

I scan the pages again. There is no inscription.

Annaliese peers over the top of her glasses. “What did he give you?”

“The Schumann Fantasy. The
urtext
edition, the one with the original ending.”

“Ah!”

Dazed, I sit down at the Steinway and open the piece to the last movement. I put my hands on the keyboard and re-create the familiar notes. And for a moment I am transported back to that time when Dane and I were in this room together. I was a different girl, frozen in place between the past and the future. Then he held me in his arms, the first of many firsts, and my future began.

Now the music shifts and becomes unfamiliar: the other ending.

I stop. Some things are too personal, too private.

“Beatrice?”

Annaliese leans forward with a smile. “Are you ready to play the Schubert for me?”

“I'm ready.”

I put aside the Schumann and reset my hands on the keyboard.

Will I ever see you again?

Yes. No. Maybe.

I close my eyes, find my breath, and begin again.

First up, I want to thank Liesa Abrams, Sarah McCabe, and Annette Pollert for making me a better writer and for encouraging me to take big, scary risks. I am so lucky to have had three such capable and caring editors on this book.

I can't say enough about the rest of the Simon Pulse team, especially Mara Anastas, Mary Marotta, Kayley Hoffman, Katherine Devendorf, Sara Berko, Teresa Ronquillo, Carolyn Swerdloff, Christina Pecorale, Jodie Hockensmith, Faye Bi, and last but not least, Karina Granda, who designed the amazing cover.

I am very grateful to Lydia Wills and Nora Spiegel for finding the perfect home for
Consent
and for always believing in me.

Thank you, Cindy Nixon, for being an ace copyeditor and for loving this book.

Three experts shared their vast experience and wisdom with me in three different areas. Jens David Ohlin advised me on matters of law. Dr. Marice Pappo helped me understand my characters' messy, complicated psyches. And I owe a special debt of gratitude to Christopher Reynolds, who vetted the manuscript many times over from a pianist's perspective.

Nancy Holzner and Jeanne Mackin: I could not have written
Consent
without our caffeine-fueled mornings at The Shop. Thank you for keeping me company in the trenches, for your endless support, and for your friendship.

Hugs, chocolates, and wine to the Binders! I'm honored to be part of this smart, savvy, generous group of women.

Many thanks to my fabulous fellow bloggers at Young Adult Outside the Lines.

Huge props to the folks at We Need Diverse Books.

To all the writers, readers, bloggers, teachers, librarians, booksellers, and other book people out there: Whenever our paths cross, whether at a literary event, on the street, online, or elsewhere, I am reminded that I belong to one of the best, most interesting, most dedicated communities in the world. Let's keep it going forever.

Christa Desir, there are not enough adjectives in the dictionary to describe how awesome you are.

To my family: You are my reason for all of this. I love you guys.