Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Or my parents. I’m not sure anymore, it’s hard to differentiate between what I want from what they want.
But, Sam and I make the best of practice time, for sure. And I happen to think we go together just exactly like pretzels and M&Ms.
We are so attached to each other that when my parents held me back, Mike held Sam back, too. It was the nicest thing in the world but Sam also had struggled with a learning disability when he was younger so in essence it was kind but also the right thing for Sam. And it meant I went from the girl who had to repeat seventh grade to girl who had to repeat seventh grade with her best friend. It made all the difference.
I watch Mike weave back and forth between cars, hugging the center line. “No matter how long it’s been, I still can’t believe that man is your business partner and best friend,” mom says, all judgmental and icy. And then turns away in a huff.
I press my thighs together. I honestly can’t believe it either, but I’m so very, very glad. Because I don’t have much of a private life, but whatever I do have in my head that is private features Mike Hawthorn. All. The. Time.
My nipples turn to peaks thinking about him. I’ve indulged fantasies of him for so long but lately, it’s about more. About us. Being us. Him. Being. Mine.
I turn T Swift to a reasonable volume as we near the orchestra building. It’s a concert hall, three towns over from where we live in Cherryville. By this time in the day on Tuesday and Thursdays, the parking lot is empty of staff and visitors. Now rows of white SUVs and over-priced foreign sedans sit tidily in each space, each one holding a pair of helicopter parents, waiting for orchestra to be done, parked as if in suspended animation, with brake lights on and air conditioning running.
I scan the parking lot for Mike’s bike, but of course it isn’t there. He never waits around. He’s got other stuff to do. With bikes. And muscles. And whatever else he’s packing in those jeans of his. God.
We pull up to the loading zone and I unbuckle my violin from her car seat. I glance from my dad to my mom and back again.
Surely, they haven’t completely forgotten today. Surely one of them will remember. Surely my eighteenth isn’t the year when Tuesday means more than birthday. I decide to give them one more chance. “Does anybody know what day it is?” I ask, with my hand on the doorhandle.
My mom shoots me a look over her bony shoulder. “It’s Tuesday. One week until your chair tryouts.”
I nod, let out a sad sigh, and slip out of the door.
Mom says pointing to the Ziploc back on the back seat, “Jess, don’t forget your….”
And I slam the door hard, cutting off the word celery before I lose my freakin’ mind.
Practice goes well—Schubert’s No. 8 in B Minor, the Unfinished—until the very end. Because by the very end, our conductor has been hitting his water bottle of gin and tonic all evening and now he’s getting tipsy. And handsy. His cheeks are flushed with gin-fever redness.
I watch him like a hawk as I carefully pack up my violin, nestling the polished burl wood into its velvet padding. He saunters over to me in uneven steps, leaning on my music stand nearly knocking it over. “So, Jessica.”
I watch him with slow blinks as I rub rosin on my bow. “So, Dr. Markham.”
He sniffs with a smug superiority. He likes that, being called “doctor.” Though I honestly don’t know how a Doctorate in Musical Arts qualities anybody to be called doctor. But whatever. I know full well that it’s best if I stay on his good side, because he will make or break me next week. If I get first chair, it’s my golden ticket to Julliard. If I get second chair, my music career is effectively o-v-e-r.
To be honest, I like the sound of o-v-e-r. But my parents most definitely won’t.
“Next week are your tryouts. How is practice going? Still planning on the Paganini?”
Screeeeeeeech go the nails on the chalkboard in my head. It’s time for another little rebellion. “I’m not so sure, Dr. Markham. The Paganini is coming along. But I’m also working on something else. Something more… daring.”
I note the greedy flash in his glazed eyes. I’ve heard the rumors—there are rumors like this about conductors everywhere. Basically it boils down to this: if you put out, you get moved up. The music business will always be locked in a time before Me Too and HR complains and Harvey Weinstein and the rest. It’s full of sleazy men taking advantage of young girls and guys. But I have never been able to get a good read on Markham. Until he says…