Virtuosity (13 page)

It took a moment to clear the sleepy haze mixed with Italy and wildflowers and Nonna’s homemade gnocchi from my head, but then I remembered last night and smiled in the dark.

“Carmen,” she whispered again.

“What?”

She rested a hand on my calf and turned to face me. Her eyes were glossy, her cheeks puffy and raw. She’d been crying. I’d made her cry.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I waited, but she didn’t say more. Maybe that was good. I could assume she was sorry for everything: for the pressure, for pushing Inderal on me, for not believing I could play without it, and for the things she had said about Jeremy. That’s what I wanted.

“It’s okay.”

The words punctured something in her and she deflated before me, dropping her head to into her hands like it was too heavy to keep holding up. Her shoulders began to bounce up and down rhythmically. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I’d never seen her cry before, or at least not like this. It was terrible. The only sounds she made were little gasps between shoulder jerks, but the slumped posture, the disheveled hair, the entire scene was painful to watch. She was supposed to be unbreakable.

“It’s okay,” I repeated lamely. What was I supposed to do? I sat up and put my arm around her, hoping she’d straighten her back and be Diana again.

“No,” she answered, her gravelly voice low and bitter. She shook her head and pulled her fingers up to the scar on her throat. “It’s not.”

Our eyes locked, but hers were dark and unreadable. Then the thought occurred as I stared into them: Maybe she was sorry about something else entirely. Something that had nothing to do with me.

Flowers arrived around ten o’clock the next morning. Stalks and stalks of pink gladiolas, their huge heads piled one over the other, toppling out over the floral cellophane. The card was typed.

Carmen,

Lovely, lovely, lovely. You played like an angel. Make us proud next week.

Thomas and Dorothy Glenn

Chapter 11

S
lipping out on a Sunday night should have been tricky. The fact that it wasn’t made me consider the possibility that fate was on my side, which then made me wonder if my attempts at being a pseudo-Catholic were pointless. God had already shown he wasn’t exactly behind me, but
fate
, and being a
fatalist
…. That sounded much more promising. Fate brings lovers together. Fate is very operatic. Then again, sometimes those fated lovers in operas turn out to be siblings or destined to die in a tomb together or kill each other accidentally.

Regardless, Clark and Diana left in a cab at seven
thirty and they wouldn’t be back until at least one in the morning, probably later. If the last time they went out with Clark’s pack of “Domers” was any indication, they’d be just tipsy enough to go straight to bed.

Just in case, I did stuff my bed with pillows, but more for the experience, to be able to say I’d done it, than because it was actually necessary.

I arrived at the train station five minutes late. I’d had to try on everything in my closet three times before I realized there was no right outfit. Nothing in Diana’s closet worked either. There was too sexy or not sexy enough. I ended up in skinny jeans and a fitted angora sweater, but thinking I probably should’ve stayed with the pencil skirt and belted denim jacket. Maybe neither was particularly sexy. Maybe I had no clue.

Jeremy was waiting at the turnstile, smiling, probably because he knew he looked good in his green sweater and indigo jeans, and hadn’t had to try on everything he owned to prove it. “Hey,” he said.

I felt like I had a tennis ball stuck in my throat—why didn’t he look nervous? “Hey.”

“Ready to go?” He held out a train ticket for me. Was he really not going to comment on my outfit? His smile was easy, casual, clueless. Nope. He was not.

“Depends,” I said. “Where are we going?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Well, then maybe I can’t go with you.”

He squinted and folded his arms over his chest, surveying the slow trickle of Sunday night travelers. “How about I give you a hint instead.”

“Sure. I’m sure a hint’s all I need anyway.”

“You think you’re pretty smart then?” he said, his voice somewhere between playful and cocky.

“I only have to be smarter than
you
think I am, right?” I followed him through the turnstile and down the stairs to the platform.

“Well, now I’m in a position where I have to make it impossibly hard if I don’t want to insult you. That wasn’t smart at all.”

“Oh, wow, just give me the hint already.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “We’re going to a piano concert.”

“That’s not a hint at all. You just told me where we’re going.”

“I know. I cracked under all that hint-talk pressure.”

I looked down at my pants and sweater. “And I’m too casual, thanks a lot.”

We stepped onto the train and the doors slid shut. “No, you’re dressed perfectly,” he said, looking at me for the first time. I felt his hand on the side of my waist, guiding me to the nearest row of seats. Everything inside me melted. It was impossible to feel his touch without thinking about kissing him again, and impossible to engage in
normal conversation when I was doing that. Where were we going again? A concert. A piano concert.

“Who’s playing?”

“No, the rest is still a secret.”

I frowned at the El map above me. “Where is this concert? Do you know where you’re going?”

“Uptown, and I’ll try not to be insulted by the suggestion that I can’t navigate Chicago’s public transport.”

It was easier to talk to him when we were beside each other like this, close, touching, but without the awkwardness of staring into each other’s eyes. Except it might be nice to look into his eyes.

“But we must be going in the wrong direction. I can’t think of a single concert venue this way.”

“Carmen,” he said and turned to face me. I had no choice but to look up at him, to stare into his eyes just inches away from mine. They were a stormier version of blue than I’d remembered. “Can’t you just trust me?”

The pause was too long. I was distracted by the newness of everything, his smell, the feeling of being looked at like that, the warmth of his leg beside mine. And maybe I didn’t know how to answer the question. “I don’t know.”

“Try.”

We got off at Lawrence, and Jeremy held my hand as we walked through the kind of neighborhood Diana and Clark would have locked the car doors when driving
through. After a few blocks of sketchy buildings and sketchier people, I vaguely recognized the name on a neon green sign up ahead and realized we were at our destination. The Green Mill. It was a famous jazz club, but nothing like the concert venues I was used to.

“Jeremy, I’m not twenty-one,” I said, before I realized how dumb that sounded. Neither was he.

“It’s okay. I know the bouncer.”

“How do you know the bouncer? I didn’t think you knew anyone in Chicago.”

“I don’t really, but I came here the other night because I’d heard the music was incredible. He wouldn’t let me in, but then I noticed he had a Manchester United scarf, so we got to talking about football—or soccer, whatever—and it turns out he used to live in London. Anyway, I convinced him I was here for the music and not for the liquor and he let me in.”

We were standing outside the entrance now. “You’ve really never been here before?”

I shook my head. “I’ve
heard
of it, but never actually been here.”

“Brilliant,” he said. He looked like a little boy, all excited and proud of himself. “You’re going to love it.”

“I don’t know a thing about jazz.”

“That’s okay.” He pulled me toward the door and opened it. “You know music. Jazz will explain itself.
Mikey!” Jeremy grabbed the hand of the mammoth man standing guard at the door. He was about Jeremy’s height and at least double the weight, wearing a leather jacket, a pinky ring, and an earpiece with a microphone. Basically, a textbook bouncer.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed. “Dude, you just missed the Poetry Slam.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Jeremy said. “We’re here for the music, right?”

I nodded, feeling more than a little out of my element. Poetry Slam sounded a little aggressive to me, almost violent.

Mikey examined me. “Dude, I don’t know if I can let the chick in,” he said, shaking his head.

“Carmen? No, she’s cool. Look, neither of us are drinking.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work like that. At least you look twenty-one. She looks fourteen. Barely.”

So the outfit was definitely
not
sexy enough. I considered giving Mikey a piece of my almost-eighteen-year-old mind, but his physical presence (the prison tattoos on his forearms, a neck the size of my waist) had a dampening effect on my irritation.

“I know she looks pretty milk-toast, but would you believe she’s got the Manchester United crest tattooed on her?”

Mikey squinted at me. “Where?”

Jeremy laughed. “I can’t tell you that. Use your imagination.”

Mikey shook his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s a felony. Fine. Go ahead. Just promise next time you’re at a soccer game you’ll think of me.”

“Of course,” Jeremy said and pushed me through the door before Mikey could change his mind.

“Milk-toast? What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

“Um, boring.”

I didn’t have time to be insulted. I was being sucked through a time warp into a 1920s speakeasy. My eyes adjusted to the dark and took in the clusters of people. Women in satiny dresses and fishnet stockings, men in gangster suits and matching hats—was this all real? And the music. My other senses quieted as I focused everything on its elements: a rumbly-voiced woman, fingers trickling over a keyboard, the teasing beat of a bass drum and cymbal. Hypnotic, but totally foreign. Soulful and strong, weightless and easy, all at the same time.

“This is the oldest jazz club in the country,” Jeremy said into my ear, and I felt his breath on my neck, bringing me out of one dream and into another. I looked around. The Green Mill was busy, but not too loud. Conversations were hushed so people could hear the music.

“This is unreal,” I said. “I feel like I’m on a movie set.”

“I know. Amazing isn’t it? I’m so glad you’ve never been here. I like surprising you.”

Our waitress, a slight woman with fake eyelashes and a soft voice, led us across the dark lounge to one of the velvet booths at the edge of the room. Not everyone, I noticed as we walked the length of the bar, was glammed up in Prohibition-era garb, but enough to make the whole place feel strangely authentic.

I slid into the booth. Jeremy sat across from me.

“So you know jazz,” I said, and gave him an intentionally suspicious squint.

He shrugged. “Not really.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Let’s just say I’m a relatively new listener.”

“Just a fan or do you play?”

“I’m a musician. I don’t think I could be just a fan. Trust me, by the end of the night you’ll be wanting to play jazz too.”

“So grab an instrument and get up there,” I teased, gesturing to the stage. “Let’s hear what you got.”

“What, and commit career suicide?” he joked. “What would my classical fans think?”

“Fair enough.”

Jeremy looked up on stage where a new group of musicians was getting ready to perform. “This is the piano combo I heard the other night. This guy is amazing. A
genius. He almost makes me wish I could really play the piano.”

“There are plenty of jazz violinists.”

“Maybe. But nobody wants to be that guy.”

“What guy?” I asked, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“The one accused of bastardizing classical music to cater to a wider audience.”

“Oh, that guy.”

We both knew the rules. The classical music industry is run by snobs, and musicians who try to spice up their images aren’t taken seriously, even if it isn’t just for their image. Even if it’s because they want to test out jazz. We have agents and managers, recording contracts with major labels, teachers and mentors to make sure we don’t do stupid things like moonlight at Chicago jazz clubs.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think maybe you should try bucking a few trends. How about for your next CD you record half bluegrass fiddle music and the other half New Age-y stuff. You could be doing yoga in overalls for the cover art.”

“Sure. And for your next CD I’m going to recommend you play only Metallica songs and for the photo you should be playing an electric violin and wearing a bikini.”

“So tell me what you know about jazz,” I said, changing the subject.

“Fine, no bikini.”

A woman had joined the pianist on stage, a flute in her hand. She sat on a stool with her eyes closed, nodding her head and pulsing with her whole upper body to the beat. The percussionist seemed to be dancing with his drum set, but mostly just listening to the melody on the keyboard. I closed my eyes to listen. The melody meandered but pushed along gently too. I could sit here all night.

When I opened my eyes, Jeremy was looking at me.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“All of the sudden, yeah. Is the food good?”

“Really good.”

On his recommendation, I ordered the fried ravioli; he had scallops in an avocado sauce and we shared an order of gorgonzola stuffed mushrooms.

“I found out about this place online,” Jeremy said between bites. “I realized I was going to be here in Chicago for a few weeks before the competition, so I went looking for stuff to do so I didn’t get bored—did I tell you Al Capone used to hang out here?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it used to be owned by mobsters,” he said and gestured to the black-and-white photos on the walls.

“Do you want a bite of my ravioli?” I asked.

“Sure. And go ahead and try the scallops.”

I reached across him with my fork for a bite of his food. “Is it weird being in Chicago by yourself?”

“No. I’ve been on tour alone before. It’s not so bad. I get to find cool places like this, which I probably wouldn’t get to do if I had someone hovering.”