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Tessie sighs and gazes at him, one fist under her chin. How is she even balancing like that?
“Just trust Hayes,” she says. “He knows what he’s talking about.” She moves her hand to run it over his forearm. I mean, they’re pretty cute, but I might throw up anyway.
I make a get-back motion to let Tessie know I’m finished with her. “Thank you for all your help,” I say.
She does a little jump backward off the edge of the counter, and he wraps his hands around her waist as if she might fall if he wasn’t there to catch her. From three inches off the ground. But hey, who am I to say? Maybe she would fall. It’s never happened before, but there’s a real possibility that when he’s around, she needs him to hold her up.
They wave and walk off, somehow clutching each other but not stumbling out the door.
And now I know that I really don’t want to go to Grayson’s apartment and sit around watching him eat pizza. I wouldn’t mind watching him watch football for a while, but not for hours.
I’m not sure what to say besides no, so I wait. There’s always plenty to do at work, so I shelve books, repair a few paperbacks with torn covers, answer emails, and direct kids to what they need until the library closes.
Walking to my apartment at midnight, I feel the buzz of being on campus after curfew. I know. I’m not a student. But it still feels like rebellion. I wave to the same security guy I see most nights, and he waves back.
When I let myself into my apartment (the last one in a row of faculty housing), I turn on all the lights, as always. My tendency to think I’m getting sick or developing diseases does not translate to worrying about walking around alone at night, but it does occasionally make me wonder if there’s someone waiting, lurking in my apartment.
Spoiler: there isn’t. There never has been. But once I think it might happen, the idea takes up residence in my brain and it’s difficult to ignore the thought. So I flick on the switch that turns on the living room lights as soon as I walk in.
Locking the door behind me happens right after hitting the lights. And then thetouch. It’s not a compulsion or anything; I just have to put my hand on my violin case. It’s zipped shut, so it’s not like I have to caress the wood or anything. I just need to know it’s here. On this end table that probably used to hold a lamp. Now it holds my violin, closed in its case. I can’t explain why I need to touch it, why I need to keep it out in the open like this. Maybe it’s a link to my past. Maybe my hands are so used to holding it for hours (and hours and hours) every day, and I just want to connect to that part of myself. I don’t know. I’m not going to play it, but I’m glad it’s here.
And right beside it is the audition invitation.
I slipped the card partway under the case. I’m not hiding it. Just don’t want it to fall onto the floor. I don’t need to see the words, because I read it so often over the last week that I know exactly what it says.
I’m not interested in auditioning.
But I can’t throw the card away. I’m not wondering what my therapist would say about that. YOU are.
Okay, maybe you aren’t. But I’m not either, because I already know.
She’d say that somewhere, deep in the deep depths of me (she believes I’m just chock full of depths) I want to audition.
But I don’t.
I definitely don’t want to sit in the orchestra pit along with a few dozen classically trained musicians and accompany Theodore B. Halverson as he sings with the voice of (fill in your favorite: honey, melted chocolate, angels, whatever).
And it’s not like there’s another place for me to play in this scenario.
But I can’t throw away the card. I’m going to the concert as a member of the audience. I want to be there. Maybe I even need to be there. I don’t require a highly trained therapist to tell me this.
I’m looking forward to sitting in the audience seats. Watching from there. Absorbing the show as a spectator. That’s fun. I like to be in attendance as a witness to the magic.
I have spent many years spectating at concerts like this. Watching and listening and learning from the gifted performers. And then a lot more years in the pit and on stage and behind the scenes. I love music. I love live performance; lately I love it a lot more when someone else is doing it.
So maybe what I need to do is get online and purchase tickets to the event so I can check this off my list and throw the invitation away.
I like this idea.
My laptop is in the kitchen, plugged into the wall behind the bistro table. My mom thinks it’s barbaric to climb up into a counter-height chair to eat, but I like it. It’s not elegant, but it’s fun. Dangling feet are a privilege when you’re an adult, and I eat at tall stools whenever I can. I open the computer and log into the ticket website. Buying four tickets will put a dent in my bank account, which is growing more slowly than it would be if I were still at Berklee with my parents’ approval and a monthly allowance. Since I’m not faculty, I pay monthly rent for my apartment. Again, excellent. Very glad to pay for privacy and convenience. I’m adulting like everyone else, making my way.
I buy the tickets and text Tessie to let her know how much she owes me for hers. I block out the night of the performance on my calendars and email Desi to request a switch of shifts for the day. One of us is always in the library when it’s open, and for lots of hours, we’re both there. It’s a great job, and she’s amazing to work with, but I can see the difference in our approaches. I have a job. She has a career. Again, fine. Good. Best job ever. For now.
And even though it’s very late and I’m sure he’s asleep, I text Grayson. ‘I’m not so into football. How about a wander around campus and a cup of something steamy? You can watch a game and eat reheated pizza at your leisure.’
The response comes quickly, surprising me.‘I don’t know about reheated pizza, but a walk around campus sounds great. Thursday? Evening?’
I pay attention to my body’s response to the text. I feel surprise. Then amusement. Then excitement. Yep. This is good.
