I chuckled.
“Have you ever composed anything original?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said slowly, thinking of how I used to make up songs on the spot. As if the piano keys were singing to me and my job was to help them release the music. But that was nonsense talk. I cleared my throat. “It’s been a while—”
“Good.” Wolfe tossed the Ravel sheet music aside. “You’re going to compose a piece for the spring concert and your Juilliard audition.”
“I’m not auditioning for Juilliard, for one thing,” I said. “And for another, that’s madness. There’s no possible way I can compose something good enough.”
“I doubt that,” Wolfe said.
“Well…bloody good for you,” I said. “But I’m going to embarrass myself. Why can’t I play something from the repertoire? I thought you were supposed to be helping me. To dig deep? Tap, tap, tap, and all that rot?”
“And I will,” he said. “But if you can play from rote memory, it’ll take ages. You’re too good at hiding behind your talent. The audience won’t know the difference, but I will, and it will drive me mad. The fastest way to feeling the music is to write it yourself. To let it move through you, and write it down.”
Write it down. Fucking hell.
“I can’t. I mean…I’m not a composer.”
Wolfe shrugged. “What do you love?”
“Sorry?”
“What do you love?”
“My family. My brothers. Rowing.”
“Boring.” He waved a black-nailed hand. “What else? Do you have a significant other?”
“Y-yes.”
“Do you love her? Him? Them?”
“Her, but it’s new.”
“Perfect. First love. Young love. New love. The ideal subject.”
My face felt hot, and that twinge of nerves came back. Part of me wanted to get started immediately and part of me wanted to slam thedoor on this madman and never come back.
“I told you, it’s not…that.”
“Sure, sure, but she might have potential. What’s her name?”
“I can’t say. She’d rather we not go public.”
Now Wolfe’s eyes widened. “Forbidden love, secret love, illicit love… And how do you feel about that?”
“Is this therapy hour?”
“Yes. Music is therapy. Art is therapy. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”
The light in Ezra Wolfe’s eyes dimmed for a moment. He caught my sympathetic glance and scowled. “Well?”
“I…don’t know how I feel about it. It’s what she needs right now.”
Wolfe sighed. “My God, man. Is thereanythingon this earth that you’re passionate about? That frustrates you? That enrages you, or that fills you with ecstasy?”
I struggled for an answer that wasn’t betraying my parents over my frustration—and hurt—that they left me to cope with my ADHD alone, but Wolfe flapped both hands at me.
