Everyone laughed—everyone except me. It was alright for him—he was going to flunk out and he didn’t care. Meanwhile, it felt like I was being crushed under the weight of everyone’s expectations.
“Why don’t you join us anyway?” said Geisler. “Maybe you’ll recall whether you’re taking this course. And you’ll learn something either way.” It was always hard to tell whether he was being nice or dryly sarcastic.
Connor nodded and vaulted over the front row of desks so that he could sit down next to a blonde oboist, who giggled even though she probably knew his reputation. Or maybe because she knew his reputation.
“Okay,” Geisler said again.
I didn’t have a lot of time to look down to Connor’s row over the next hour, but what I did see amazed me. First, he borrowed paper from the girl sitting next to him—because he hadn’t brought any of his own. Then a pen, because of course he hadn’t brought that either. I didn’t know why he bothered, because he proceeded to take no notes whatsoever, slouching back in his seat and gazing everywhere but at Geisler.
Once, I thought he was looking at me and immediately felt myself flush. He was probably remembering me almost falling down the stairs.
Unbidden, little details swam back to me. That outdoorsy scent, so cool and clean you wanted to fill your lungs with it. The way his jacket had hugged his shoulders, before flowing down to his tight, trim waist.
Oh, stop it! You sound like one of his groupies!
“So, can anyone tell me where the development section of the first movement begins? Karen?”
Oh God! Geisler was calling on me! I knew the answer: Bar 231. Maybe if I got it out quickly, before my body had a chance to react—
“Stand up, so we can hear you better.”
No, don’t make me stand! He thought he was being nice, giving me thinking time, but he was just giving the fear time to take hold. I got to my feet, my legs like wet paper. My brain’s gears jammed and froze.
“Now, where does Beethoven begin the development section?” Doctor Geisler asked, smiling kindly.
Bar 231. I knew it, I just couldn’t get the words out. What if I’m wrong? What if they laugh? I could feel my throat closing up, soft flesh locking tight as a nut.
“You did analyze this piece?” asked Doctor Geisler, looking a little annoyed now.
I nodded. Yes, of course I did! I’ve even done extra reading! I knew this stuff! I just couldn’t—
“Go on, then,” Geisler told me.
I could feel the panic rising inside me, leaving no strength in my legs and drawing all the blood from my face. I knew I was going to either burst into tears or bolt for the door—probably the second one. Then I’d have to lie and apologize and say I’d been ill. I couldn’t afford to fail another class!
“Bar 231,” said an Irish voice from the front, and everyone laughed.
“I was asking someone else,” Geisler told Connor, pointedly. “But yes.” And he launched into a long explanation, nodding at me to sit down almost as an afterthought.
I collapsed onto my seat and let my lungs slowly re-inflate. I’d been rescued, by the least likely person I could imagine. I risked a look at Connor, but he wasn’t looking at me—probably, he’d just been bored, and saving me hadn’t come into it. How had he known the answer, though? From what I’d just seen, he never even took notes!
That’s twice in one day he’s saved you, a little voice inside me said.
I looked down at Connor. The blonde oboist next to him was grinning and squeezing him around the shoulders in my hero sort of a way, with more body contact than was strictly necessary. That’s why he did it. To impress her.
I focused on Geisler. I couldn’t afford any more distractions.
Chapter 2
That evening, as I pushed through the main doors—carefully, this time—and plodded down the steps, I felt like my brain had been stretched out and twisted into a pretzel. Three hours of lectures and then a long afternoon of practice, working at the Brahms until I swore I could hear it playing in my head everywhere I went, had nearly broken me. My eyes were bloodshot and sore from staring at music and my spine was a knotted mass of pain.
I need a billionaire to give me a massage. Maybe Natasha will loan me Darrell.
Footsteps behind me. A clatter of heels and then, with a rush of perfume and a silken swish of long, auburn hair, Jasmine was snuggled up against me, an arm around my shoulders.
I stopped my trudging and looked back at the icy steps in disbelief. I’d had to be careful even in my sneakers; Jasmine had just bounded down them in three-inch heels. How did she do that? I could barely even walk in any heel over a couple of inches…which was a shame, because they would have helped my height.