“It’s asking for trouble to be so far away from family,” he says, mostly concentrating on the TV now, and confirming what I suspect, which is that my mother got him to bring thisup.
I bite the urge to say,Um,hello? You’ve made a career, a lifestyle, out of being away from family.But that feels like a low blow, so I don’t answer and focus on the screen.
Even though he’s not here activelydoinganything to incite it, it’s times like these I resent my brother. He’s two years older than me, currently at community college—despite decent grades—and still living at home.
There would be nothing wrong with it, if it was what Caleb wanted. But I know that even if he’ll never admit it, it’s not what he wants. He’s always been obsessed with planes like my dad, has dreamed of flying for years. But instead of doing anything about it, he stays in Lyndale, haunting parties and people he has outgrown.
The only thing my parents agree on is crushing any bit of desire Caleb and I have to go somewhere, to move, to stretch the seams of our lives. It’s spearheaded by my mom, but somehow she always gets Dad to agree with her. She’s convinced she can protect us from whatever dangers are out there. I’m seventeen and I have freakingparental controlson my computer.
As hyperbolic as Katy is about it, I know exactly what she means when she says she feels as if she was born for a place. I think I was born for the viola, to play music on one of the loneliest instruments.
But I chose New York because I want something else. The fact that Juilliard is in the same city doesn’t mean I have to go there.
I want buzzing lights and rowdy streets and the Philharmonic and Broadway and Carnegie Hall and artsy, passionate, vibrant people with places to go.
I know it’s the biggest cliché, but I love the idea of a city that reminds you every day that you’re alive. I love that it is different and bigger than Lyndale in every way, and I want to believe my life there will be, too.
I’ve worked so hard to keep my grades up, to stand a chance of getting into NYU.
Now Dad pats my knee awkwardly.
“Let’s think on it some more, okay?” he says.
I nod—Yes, let’s think on it some more—but already I am thinking of all the things that could possibly stop me from leaving, and deciding that they are all things that won’t.
AFTER
January
The next night, I practice longer than usual to make up for yesterday, when I was at my dad’s. As soon as I got home from the hospital on Sunday morning, I downloaded a version of Bach’s “Air on the G String,” and I listen to it now, falling in love again with the way it swoops, in and out, gently, insistently. The millions of stories I can imagine hidden in it. I’ve started trying to learn a viola version of the song, but it doesn’t sound as full and fantastic as it should. Instead of wistful and romantic, it feels desolate. Like someone waltzing alone.
Giving up on it for tonight, I decide to work on our new orchestra pieces. I almost have “Alla Hornpipe” from the second movement ofWater Musicby Handel memorized, but according to Mrs. Dubois, there’s nothing worse than teaching yourself a flawed version of a piece. Mrs. Dubois has a theory about firsts: that the first thing sets the precedent for everything that comes after. The way you first learn a song, the way you approach the first note, sets the tone for the rest of that movement and the whole piece. The first piece in a concert sets the tone for the rest of the performance. She also says the first mistake you make in a performance—and how you recover from it—sets the precedent for all the other mistakes you’ll make. But since I’d rather not have any mistakes, I decide to play from the sheet music until I have it perfect. Except that I left my orchestra binder in my car, which my mother let me drive today.
It’s only seven at night, but it’s dark and freezing out, so I throw my coat over my flannel pajamas and pad outside. I’m still humming “Air on the G String” to myself as I dig through my car and retrieve the black binder.
I’m halfway out of the car when the sight of a person across the road, illuminated by a streetlight, nearly makes me slam my head against the roof. I climb out of the passenger seat and am waving my binder at him before I can stop myself.
“Hey!” I say, watching as he registers my presence and a smile—that smile—stretches across his face. He is wearing the beanie again, but tufts of red hair stick out from under itnow.
“Hi!” he says, and then crosses the road between us so we are both standing in front of my driveway.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He scratches the back of his neck. “I just kind of found myself here, I guess,” he says. “I was taking a walk. You?”
“I live here,” I say, signaling behind me, but instead of looking at my house, his eyes travel down the length of me. Stopping at the place beneath my knee where my coat ends and my Rainbow Brite pajamas are tucked into slippers.
“You weren’t just prowling the streets like that?” he asks, his eyes twinkling playfully. Butterflies brush the cage of my chest.
“I certainly was not prowling,” I say, and scrunch my face up in mock offense. “Anyway, what do you have against Rainbow Brite?”
He raises his hand in surrender. “Nothing. I’m sure she’s a very nice…person?”
“Right. Sure you’re not following me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him, and then my cheeks instantly warm with how flirtatious it comes out. For once, I am thankful for how quickly blood rushes to the tips of my ears when I’m embarrassed. They are currently unaffected by the cold.
Bus Boy laughs, but before he can answer, Caleb’s car revs into the driveway, almost taking Bus Boy—who is standing closer to the center of the driveway than I am—down in the process. Bus Boy jumps out of the way, shaken. Before I have time to form words, my brother calls out his window, “Why are you standing outside, Addison?”
“Oh my God, do you have to drive like a psychopath? And I’mtalking to someone,” I say, waiting for him to apologize for nearly mowing a person down.
