“That excuses it? We’re artists. We didn’t throw tantrums and break batons.”
They stood right in front of me and spoke as though I wasn’t there at all.
My mother simply stared at my father, who was absolutely a moody artist, known for locking himself away for weeks at a time until he finished a novel.
“Don’t give me that look, Meredith,” my dad said.
“I didn’t say anything, Lindsay,” my mother soothed.
My folks never raised their voices when they fought, they just used names. If ever they get to their full names, it was time to get out.
“You did. With your eyes. And yes, I could be emotional when I had book-brain. But at least I didn’t throw paint at the doorman.”
“That was one time,” my mother retorted calmly. “Artists are fickle. We understand that more than most.”
“He couldn’t even take off that ridiculous hat and mask in our home,” Dad said.
“You know what they say. He’s … different. Maybe he’s found his face makes people uncomfortable.”
My father harrumphed. “I still don’t like it.”
“Just think of the one-on-one instruction she’d receive from such a musical genius.” Mom, in her silk kimono, shifted her attention back to me. Dad wrapped an arm around her in his own matching kimono—because they were exactly that couple. After forty years of marriage they were morphing into the same eccentrically dressed, gender-neutral person. “What do you think, sweetie?” she asked me.
My toes started to tingle. The room unfocused until only their faces were clear. Distantly, I was aware that my breaths were coming quicker. I was tired of being a passive follower in my life, but I didn’t know how to change. It seemed to come so easily for other people: bravery, boldness, and passion. Nobody would describe me with those words. But I did feel those emotions, hidden deep in my bones. What would this opportunity garner? Would I want it? What damage could this decision set into motion?
“I—I don’t know.” Images flashed through my mind. A cello solo. An icy lake. Wild nights. Bad choices.
Devlin came here to ask me to help him with his composition. He was a hulking, leather-clad biker-composer. He wore a mask with a skull and was quick to temper. Everything about him was designed to scare and push people away. He intimidated me, but he didn’t scare me.
What he wanted from me did.
Chapter 2
Always play like you’re first chair, even in the back row.
KIM
He wants me. Devlin wants me.
To play for him. The Devil of the Symphony wanted me to play for him.
“I don’t think I can do it,” I told Erin.
She was my clarinet homie in the SOOK. In rehearsal, she sat in my direct line of sight and we often passed the hours sending each other looks—as no phones were allowed—and trying to get the other to laugh with the most ridiculous faces.
“Why not?” she asked. Her hair was purple today, save her dark roots, and the cut was a sharp bob just above her shoulders. She wore jean overalls over curvaceous hips and a bright green T-shirt. If I was the side table of a room, she was a lava lamp.
Devlin planned to debut his newest—and supposedly, most amazing—composition at the SOOK fall showcase. The spring/summer season had just begun, but with the arrival of the Devil of the Symphony, the gossip was already focused on the September show. This year, the pièce de résistance was to be Devlin’s crowning achievement. He wanted me to help him perfect the cello solo, and to receive private tutoring sessions.
Why me?
Erin and I stood in the corner of the room, huddled together, sipping crappy free coffee before practice. My two days were almost up. Devlin … Maestro … whoever, would need my decision today. Every time the door to the rehearsal space opened, my heart dropped to my toes thinking he would walk in and ask me in front of God and everyone what I had decided.
“I’m just not that good,” I said with a glance to the door.
It was just Barry, second chair cellist, schlepping in on the heels of Carla.
“Ugh,” Erin groaned. “I hear you play at night when I’m waiting for Mom to finish cleaning. I know you’re so good. You come alive when you think nobody is around.”
