Lawless (16 page)

My first term ends and I’m drained. I’m spent emotionally and mentally. I worked my ass off but I never got that compliment from my professor. In fact, after finals he asks me into his office to ‘have a talk’. Those words have never preceded anything good. Never.

“Sit down, Miss Mason,” he commands, gesturing to the hard wooden chair across from his cluttered desk.

The room is dark, the shades partially drawn to block out the last of the early evening light. It’s the start of December and the sun sets around four these days. We’re lucky to get nine hours of daylight and while I know California is getting the same amount of sun, the quality is definitely different. I’m bundled up against the cold that’s been dropping steadily into the thirties and forties while I’m sure everyone back home is still in shorts and flip flops, enjoying the seventy degree heat.

“It’s Rachel,” I tell him, getting settled. “If you don’t mind.”

He smiles faintly. “I don’t.”

“Did you want to talk to me about my test?”

“No. I want to talk to you about your audition tape.”

“Oh,” I reply numbly, taken aback. “What about it?”

“How often did you practice those pieces?” He consults a note on his desk. “Dohnanyi's Concert Etude #6, Gershwin’s Piano Prelude #1, Bach’s French Suite #4, and Liszt’s Années de Pèlerinage.”

“Every day.”

“Every day,” he repeats thoughtfully. He puts his note down, sitting back in his seat to observe me. “I don’t doubt it. I reviewed your tape just last night and you were good. Very clean, precise.”

“Thank you.”

“Was that your first audition?”

I feel myself start to flush with embarrassment. “No.”

“You applied before with the same pieces, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“How long did you wait between applications?”

“Two years. I applied while I was still in high school.” I spread my hands helplessly. “I was denied. Then I spent two years practicing, I applied again last January, and I was accepted.”

“Do you know why you were accepted?”

“Because I showed promise?” I ask slowly.

He shakes his head. “No, because you showed talent. You had four pieces learned down to a science. You could probably play them in your sleep.”

“I think I do.”

“Yes. But what else can you play with that level of skill?”

I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out. I close it, try again, and still nothing. Finally I answer with just that; “Nothing.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees bluntly. “I won’t lie, you’re a very good pianist. Very expressive and reasonably well trained.”

“Reasonably well trained?”

Is he talking about me or a border collie who occasionally shits on the rug?

“I do believe, however, that you’ve done yourself and the school a disservice by repeating your audition pieces.”

“There were no rules against it.”

“No, there aren’t, but audition tapes are difficult to judge. We prefer live performance because believe me, if you’d performed in front of me I would have asked you exactly what I’m asking you now. I would insist you play something new. I would have encouraged you to choose a piece off the cuff and judged your talent by your ability to adapt. By the depth of your arsenal. As it appears, you have no arsenal. You possess but four bullets in your chamber. Hardly what it takes to go to war.”

“I thought the point of coming here was to gather more bullets. More weapons. I thought the entire point was for you to teach me how to be better,” I argue, my temper flaring.

“And I can. I could. You’d get better than you are now, but I have to ask you what your end game is. Where do you see yourself in four years?”

I already know where this is going. What he’s going to say, and I take a steadying breath before I speak to keep from shouting at him. “The Boston Philharmonic.”

“No.”

“Fine. I’d go home. The Los Angeles Philharmonic.”

“No.”

I breathe again, deep and slow. “Do you want me to name every orchestra in the country or should we cut to the chase?”

He nods, sitting forward to put his elbows on his desk. “I’ll teach you. Every professor here will teach you and we’ll do our best to refine your talent, because I strongly agree that you do have talent, but what you don’t have is the
right
kind of talent. You’re creative. Dreamy. You’re not disciplined. You’re not concise, meaning you’re not orchestra material, and if that’s your goal in all of this I feel it’s important to warn you of it now.”

“You think I should drop out?”

“I think you should give stark consideration to your future. A law student who has no head for facts will never be a lawyer. He’ll spend a lot of time and money on school, but he’ll never get hired. He’ll never pass the bar. If being a lawyer is his dream, he’d better find himself a new dream.” He raises his eyebrows at me, thick and bushy. Like crooked spined caterpillars. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I stand abruptly, snatching up my bag from the floor. “I’m undisciplined, not dumb. Thank you for your time and words of wisdom.”

He doesn’t respond to my outburst. He lets me leave, hurrying out of the room as fast as I can go. I nearly run down the long hall toward the exit. I burst through the thick double doors and into the cold that stings my eyes. It pierces my last defenses until I crack. Until I try to breathe in deeply but my lungs fight against the frigid air and I cough, hiccup, and burst into tears that spill hot down my chilled cheeks.

I nearly run home, my head down and my burning face hidden under my hair. It looks so dark in the coming night. More brown than blond and I choke on a sob that climbs up the back of my throat and reaches greedily for my lips.

I just want to be alone. I want to cry and get over it and move on, but I’m shit out of luck. The second I step inside they all look up at me. Asper from the couch, Heather from the kitchen, and Molly from her laptop at the dining table. I hesitate, door open behind me, and I consider going back outside. But my phone is here and I have to call Katy. I have to call someone and more than anything on this earth I want to call Lawson, to have him pull me through the phone to the other side where the sun is shining and the beach is frothing. Where his skin is warm and gritty from the sand. Where my scars are beautiful and my heart is home.

“What happened?” Asper asks, concern creasing his brow. “Are you okay?”

I wipe at my face and close the door behind me. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re crying,” Molly points out.

“I know.”

Heather leans against the counter with interest. “Why?”

“It’s private.”

“Oh come on, we don’t keep secrets here.”

“You mean
you
don’t,” Asper corrects. “The rest of us do. It’s called privacy. Now let her have it.”

Heather rolls her eyes. “We all know what your secret is.”

“I only have one?”

“You’re gay. Get over yourself. No one cares.”

Asper laughs in amazement. “I’m not gay!”

“I am,” Molly says in her perfect monotone.

We all look at her for half a second before Heather starts to laugh.

“What do you mean, you’re not gay?” she demands of Asper. “I call bullshit!”

“What have I ever done that made you think I was gay?” he spits back.

“Um, only everything? You wear Mr. Rogers sweaters, your underwear always matches your socks—“

“How the hell do you know that?!”

“And you haven’t hit on me even once since you got here.” She points at him accusingly. “Gay!”

“Sorry to break it to you, but I’m straight as an arrow, and the reason I haven’t hit on you is because you’re a rich bitch and I don’t care how hot your body is, your personality is repulsive.”

“Hey, you guys,” I say slowly, looking between the two of them, “let’s take it easy.”

“Whatever,” Heather barks at him, steaming down the hall.

She slams her door, making Asper and I jump slightly. Molly keeps clicking away on her keyboard like nothing happened.

“So, I’m gonna… head to my room for… just for a bit to… yeah,” I tell the room awkwardly, not even sure who I’m talking to or what I said.

I spin on my heel and hurry back to my bedroom, closing the door and resting my forehead against it. I stare at my feet on the floor, blinking rapidly, replaying what just happened in my head.

I’m surprised as shit when I start to laugh instead of cry.

***

Almost a week later and I haven’t told anyone anything. Not my roommates, not my family, and not even Katy. I’m still trying to sort it out. I want to know how I feel about it before I tell anyone, and that bit – my feelings – is what has me confused.

I’m not sad.

I cried when my professor told me I wasn’t good enough to be in an orchestra, but it was more humiliation than anything else. When I really thought about it, when I lay down that night to sleep, what I felt was relief. It’s the shark bite all over again. It comes with a freeing sense of euphoria. A weight lifted from my shoulders.

I’m not good enough.

End of story.

So what do I do now?

“Hey,” Asper says quietly. “You’re still up?”

He’s standing in my doorway in his pajamas (full fucking pajamas with lapels and everything), his hands on the frame and his body leaning inside. His glasses are off and his hair is casually mussed. A little too casually to be real. But his face is open and earnest and I find myself smiling at him from my seat at my desk.

“Yeah, I can’t sleep.”

“Me either. I’ve gotta take Molly to the airport in the morning. My ass is gonna be dragging.”

“Where is she from?”

“Mars as far as I can tell.”

I stifle a laugh, careful not to get too loud and wake up Sleeping Beauty across the hall. Heather and Asper haven’t spoken since their fight. I’ve never seen Asper so relaxed.

“You’re not going home for Christmas?” he asks, but he knows I’m not. I’m the only one who isn’t. Day after tomorrow I’ll be alone in the apartment for the next three weeks. Through Christmas and New Year’s.

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Can’t afford it. I’ll be here watching Christmas specials and eating all of Molly’s sugar cubes.”

“God, that’s depressing.”

“That’s the holidays.”

“What about the guy?”

I shrug. “What guy?”

“Don’t act dumb. You know the guy. The one you don’t talk about.”

“How do you know about him if I don’t talk about him?”

“Because he sent you that package. Lawson, right?”

My back goes stiff. “What package? Where is it?”

He frowns. “You don’t have it?”

“No.”

He turns and goes into the kitchen with me close on his heels. He looks around, spinning in circles and retracing steps I don’t know, but he comes up empty. Then his shoulders slump.

“She’s unbelievable,” he groans.

“Who?”

He storms down the hall, passing me quickly. “One guess.”

I’m shocked when he throws open Heather’s door. He flicks on the light and starts rooting through piles of clothes that cover every surface.

Heather sits up in her bed slowly, blinking against the light.

“What’s happening?” she moans.

“Where is it, Heather?” Asper demands. He tosses a hot pink thong at her face before toppling a pile of skirts to the floor.

She glares at him with a pout, then turns her angry stare to me. “Will you please remind that asshole that I’m not speaking to him and will you tell him to get the hell out of my room?!”

“Not until you tell me where the box is,” he tells her hotly. “The one I told you to give to Rachel.”

“Rachel, please tell the asshole I don’t remember anything and I won’t remember anything until I get an apology.”

“Heather, where is it?” I ask her urgently.

She shrugs, looking away like a petulant child. “I don’t what you’re talking about. No one gave me a box. Must have been a ghost.”

I move in close, leaning over the bed on my knuckles and putting my face up to hers until she can’t look away. Until I’m in her eyes and her space. “You better tell me where that box is,” I warn her softly, “or the only ghost around here will be you, do you understand me? I’m from Cali, bitch. You don’t wanna fuck with me.”

She’s all talk. Pure bravado and attitude used to hiding behind her daddy and his money that crumbles under my stare.

“Top shelf of the closet,” she tells me quickly, her eyes tight and worried.

Asper steps over more mess and reaches for the shelf. He pulls down a small cardboard box with brown packaging tape around the outside. Tape that’s been cut.

“She opened it,” he tells me, handing it over.