***
I’d emailed Professor Harman in the early hours to tell him I needed to see him urgently. On my way in to Fenbrook, I stopped off at a Starbucks and picked him up a latte. Not a bribe; a gift. I figured I could use all the help I could get.
I’d never been in his office before. In keeping with his position as the head of music, it was intimidatingly large and the desk was so shiny I felt like I shouldn’t put coffee on it, so I stashed the drinks down by my feet instead.
Professor Harman was in his sixties, with a close-cropped white beard and little round glasses. He nodded soberly as I told him about the mugging, and took the time to check that everyone was okay.
Dan, he confirmed, would graduate just fine without his recital. His grades were strong across all his courses and the loss of the recital would only drop his degree one level.
Then the conversation turned to me.
“I know that the deadline for choosing pieces is tomorrow,” I told him. “Obviously I’m going to need to change now I’m solo. I was wondering if I could have an extra day or two to decide on the new piece. I want to make sure—”
He was shaking his head.
“You can’t let me have an extra day?” I asked.
“I can’t let you play solo,” he said.
“What? But—my partner’s injured! That’s not my fault!” It was so outrageous, so unexpected, that I didn’t have time to be scared.
“Indeed it isn’t. But recitals have to be performed by a group of two or more. Managing your rehearsals, working as a team…that’s all part of your training here. If you were allowed to play solo, it would give you an unfair advantage over the others.”
I sat there open mouthed for a moment. The fear was starting to kick in now, serpents of panic coiling and twisting in my belly. “Okay…I’ll find a duet and ask them to change to a trio,” I said desperately. “We can pick a new piece and start rehearsing—” I saw him press his lips together. “What?”
“I can’t let you disrupt an existing group. Even if they agreed, if the three of you were to get anything less than top marks, they could complain that they were treated unfairly by having to start over. You’d have to form a duo with someone who hasn’t chosen their piece yet.”
I went cold. “But we all picked our pieces weeks ago! The deadline’s tomorrow!” I stared at him in disbelief. “There isn’t anyone who hasn’t chosen yet!”
He nodded sadly. “I do believe that’s the case, yes.”
I couldn’t speak for a second, my tongue desert dry. “But…but I have to do the recital,” I told him. “Professor Harman, I need to play for the panel—for the New York Phil scout.” Then realization hit and my stomach flipped over. “I don’t have the credit without my recital. I won’t graduate!”
He took off his glasses. “I know. I checked before you came in here. Your performances have been excellent and your essays are fine. It’s…unfortunate that you’ve neglected your presentations so completely.”
I couldn’t do them! I couldn’t stand up in front of everyone and—That’s not my fault either!
His words seemed to come from a great distance away. I was falling into such a deep state of panic that I barely heard him.
“You’re an exceptional musician, Karen. I’m truly sorry there isn’t another way.”
I could feel nausea rising inside me; I had to get out of there. “Excuse me,” I said as I sprang to my feet and ran for the door. I hit something heavy and warm with my ankle and realized I’d kicked the coffees over, but I couldn’t stop.
I left his door banging behind me and ran for the bathroom, pushing past students arriving for class. Crashing into a stall, I fell to my knees and vomited into the toilet bowl.
On the rare occasions I’d been sick, I’d always felt better afterwards. This was different. This wasn’t something inside me making me ill, something that could be got rid of. This was everything outside me squeezing inwards, crushing me until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
I’m not going to play for the New York Phil. I’m not going to play for anyone. I’m not going to graduate.
My dreams of being a musician were gone, in the space of a few minutes. My whole life had changed.
I sat back against the cold wall of the stall. I wasn’t crying. I was too far gone for tears.
Screaming inside my skull was: How am I going to tell my father?
***
I stumbled out of the bathroom at some point—I don’t really remember. People asked me if I was okay, but I couldn’t speak and just sat down on the steps leading up to the next floor. Normally, I’d have been worried about inconveniencing people, but it didn’t even occur to me that I was in the way.