Jacob had been in Flem's class, and Fiona knew he was good. He sat on the stool, looking cooler and more relaxed than Fiona could ever imagine being. He put his violin on his shoulder and said, "This is just something I've been working on."
A few minutes later, he lowered his violin. Fiona couldn't say if he'd played a waltz or a pop song. He could have sprouted horns and danced an Irish jig, for all she knew. But when Weitz said, "Thoughts?" Fiona was all ears.
"I'm not familiar with that technique," said Redhead. She tilted her head, like she found this discussion oh, so interesting. "It seemed almost self-taught. Did you train with any trained musicians?"
"Several," Jacob said calmly. "I was first chair in the Boston youth symphony."
Normal people might have been impressed, but not Redhead and her bloodthirsty friends. Flute Guy, Yankees Hat, and a few black-clad drama majors offered the following helpful insights: Your fingering looked awkward. Was that intentional? Are you certain your violin was properly tuned? I didn't really hear anything original.
Ten minutes later, when Jacob's work had been picked apart until it was nothing but a senseless pile of quarter notes, Weitz let him go and called Fiona up.
With shaking hands-her cuticles were a mangled mess by now-she pulled her guitar from its case, brought the whole stack of Moleskines up front, and sat on the stool.
"You're a singer and musician, yes?" Weitz said, looking at her notes. "Your composition will come with lyrics, I assume."
"I was only going to play," Fiona said. She was near enough meltdown from just that.
Weitz raised an eyebrow-then nodded to Fiona's guitar. "When you're ready, Ms. Doyle."
Fiona clenched her jaw, swallowed, and began to strum.
It didn't start well. She played like someone taking a test. She sounded like a paint-by-numbers painting-formulaic, emotionless, and without any nuance at all. As she picked the melody, it only got worse. Each note was a painful and-now-I'm-going-to-play-the-A experience.
She sucked.
When she finished, Fiona kept her eyes on the strings, terrified to look up. There was complete silence.
Professor Weitz cleared her throat. "Yes, well. That was . . ." She looked at the class. "Anyone have thoughts to share?"
It was an assault.
There was a glimmer of something intriguing, but it was hard to pinpoint it in the mess. The progressions came off stale. It's a case of proficiency without spirit. I wasn't sure of the point. I found myself craving more emotion. It was trite. It had no soul.
You're really a music major?
It wasn't just Redhead and her ilk, either. Almost everyone-even French Horn Girl, who was normally as quiet as Fiona-had something to say. "I think it needed a little something more."
Fiona sat on the stool, paralyzed and taking it.
"Did you write lyrics to go with this composition?" Professor Weitz eventually asked.
Fiona nodded, forcing herself to say, "Yes."
"Play it again, please. With the lyrics. We might get a better sense of intention."
The students murmured lukewarm agreement to this idea.
Fiona's eyes darted from her persecutors to their leader. "Um, I hadn't really prepared-"
"You've had weeks to prepare." Weitz leaned back in her chair. It creaked in a sharp D. "As this is a significant portion of your grade, I suggest you try once more."
Fiona exhaled, sucked as much air back in as she could, and tried again.
I got ripped down the middle / Accidentally
Her voice creaked as she reached for the A. She hadn't warmed up her vocal cords at all.
I heal little by little / Coincidentally
The chord change worked better here, now that it was paired with words. Still, it highlighted some awkward spots in the phrasing.
It's piracy / It's mutiny / God I hate the scrutiny
What was she thinking, putting this chorus with these lyrics? They didn't make any sense together. She wished she'd worked with the words, when she'd done the rearranging.
Dates create me and narrate me / Fate dictates me and negates me.
And back to the ridiculous refrain about pirates.
As the last note bounced around the room, Fiona forced herself to face her tormentors head-on. She hadn't looked up the first time, so she wasn't sure if these expressions were any better.
"Anyone?" Weitz said, and it began again. I wasn't sure how the phrasing was meant to underscore the lyrics' intentions. The meter was off, it distracted me. There wasn't any real marriage between the lyrics and the composition; they just felt put together without much thought; it was like three different songs. It didn't make sense. And then the worst one of all: The lyrics confused me-was I meant to feel pity?
"I agree with the class, Ms. Doyle," Weitz said. "I think you have some work ahead of you."
Fiona nodded. Weitz looked at her watch. "Okay, everyone. Next week then."
Fiona kept her head down and gathered her things. She zipped her guitar up as quietly as she could and slid it on her back carefully. She took each step from the music building to her dorm as if the path was covered in ice, walking as if to minimize the impact of her every move.
Her throat burned-not from singing with cold vocal cords but from the lump stuck right in the middle. Her mind may have been numb from the whole thing, but her eyes seemed to work fine. Warm tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she walked home.
She'd go back to her room and stay in bed the rest of the day.
Head down in the dorm lobby, she collided with another body on the way. Books slapped to the floor. She and her victim stooped to pick them up. "Sorry."
And of course it was Jackson.
One of her hands clutched the Moleskines as the other went to wipe her cheeks. She wanted to erase the evidence. Why did she always cry in front of this boy?
"It was bad?" he asked.
Fiona didn't respond. Surely the answer was clear enough.
"Sorry," he said.
She shrugged. His eyes went to her face-to the area that always seemed to mean everything. Slowly, he began to back away. When a good ten feet separated them, he said, "I can't make it tonight. Something came up."
She watched him continue his path backward, her hand on her cheek. Then, like he'd done the day they'd discovered their "coincidence," he turned away. Through the glass doors, she watched until he'd disappeared down the path, swallowed by the icy branches on the leafless trees.
She turned toward the stairs. On the way, she passed the row of three trash cans-brown for garbage, green for glass and aluminum, blue for paper. She took only the briefest look at her Moleskines before dumping the lot of them in the blue one.
Maybe one day, they'd be turned into something useful.
FI
Fi was still in her pajamas-well, sweats and a T-shirt-when she opened the door. Jackson stood on the porch, more appropriately dressed in jeans and a button-down. It was three in the afternoon, after all.
"Late night?" he asked with a smirk.
Fi glared back. It was after one in the morning when she got home from the disastrous night at Ole Miss-and hours later before she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Her mood-and breath-was foul. Her eyes were swollen, her throat felt raw from crying. She may or may not have lost her best friend.
And now her dead boyfriend's obnoxious brother was smirking at her. "Do you need something?"
He held a wrapped package out to her. "Peace offering."
She eyed the package-and Jackson-suspiciously. "For?"
"Traditionally speaking, peace." He held it higher, nudging it toward her. "It's not a bomb."
She took the gift-it looked like a book-weighing it in her hand. "Uh, thanks."
"Now we're at the part where you invite me in."
Fi stepped aside. When he hesitated in the living room, Fi realized he'd never been in her house before. How odd-he'd been such a basic part of her life the past two years, but he didn't know where her kitchen was.
"Come on," she said. "I haven't eaten yet. Are you hungry?"
"Sure."
Fi pulled out apples, cheese, some crackers. She grabbed a knife, the cutting board, some glasses, and a pitcher of iced tea, and sat across from him. After pulling together a cheese-and-cracker plate that would have made her mother proud, Fi centered it between them.
Jackson took an apple. "Are you going to open it?"
"Oh. Right." Fi inspected the package, mentally preparing herself for an oh-it's-just-what-I-wanted expression. Sliding her fingers along the taped edges, she pulled the book free and turned it back and forth in her hands. "A journal?"