Nobody in Particular(50)
Luckily, I do have superhuman strength, but it’s being tested. I wriggle backward with a pointed look. “A door that could be opened any second.”
“It’s heavy. We’d have warning.”
“Not enough warning for you to climb off my lap and make it back to your own seat.”
“Is that an invitation?” Rose asks with a mischievous grin, and I swivel back to face the piano before I break and decide to risk it.
With a dramatic sigh, Rose stomps back to her textbooks. She studies a whole bunch of languages—at the moment, she’s focusing on Italian and Mandarin—and her tutors bury her in exercises for them pretty much every day. And, given I practice piano just about that often, Rose figured we could do those things together up here and snatch some extra time together. She insists the piano doesn’t make it hard for her to concentrate, and so far she hasn’t complained, so it’s part of our new routine now.
Honestly, these late-night hangouts are my favorite things in the world. Rose dresses down for them in a way I never used to see, in yoga pants and oversized sweaters and even the odd pair of sweatpants. And even though I’m pretty sure they cost more than the most expensive thing in my whole wardrobe, there’s something so normal feeling about it. Like we’re an old married couple doing our chores in the living room after a long day.
Usually, we stop by my room afterward to hang out for a little while before bed. Usually, Rose can wait. But usually, we’re out of here by this time of night.
“I’ll finish soon,” I tell her, and she brightens right up. “Just let me play this through from the top, okay?”
“Okay, sure.”
I go to play the same tune I’ve been working on for the last half hour, but I think Rose’s restlessness rubs off on me, because suddenly the thought of hearing that one more time—and stumbling over the second half yet again—makes me want to snap my fingertips off.
So, instead, I wrap things up by playing an old faithful, a song my fingers know better than my mind does. Maybe a part of me wants to show off for Rose, the way she showed off when she took me skating. And so what if I do? I want her to be impressed by me. I want her to admire me.
I don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around the outlandish fact that she likes me just yet.
All those feelings, the excitement and the awe and the hope, come out easily through this song. I don’t miss a single note of it—I haven’t in years—but it’s hands down the most I’ve ever enjoyed the tune. It used to be pensive and pretty. Now, it’s a song about falling hard for someone you used to think would never see you as anything but a friend. The tempo’s faster now, and it swells where it used to pull back, and I even bring the melody up an octave for part of it.
I’m having fun, and when I finish, I’m proud and satisfied. At least, until I look around to find Rose holding her phone up and filming me. “That was amazing,” she says.
“Delete it,” I say automatically.
She holds up her free hand and drops the phone into her lap. “Hold on. I will if you want me to—”
“I do.”
“But I had a thought while you were playing. Maybe you could put it online? Or Molly could, or something. You have to get used to playing in front of people, right? Could this be an intermediary?”
Put up a video of me baring my soul for strangers to judge and critique? Is she serious right now? I open my mouth to say no, absolutely not, but then I catch myself.
Rose notices my hesitation, and places a gentle hand on my knee. “If you never take the first step toward where you want to be, you’ll stay right where you are,” she says. “You can’t teleport yourself to your destination.”
I’ve never thought about it that way. But maybe Rose has a point. I’ve been so preoccupied by where I want to be one day—an orchestra member in my realistic dreams, and a soloist in my wildest—and how far away from those dreams I am, that I’ve let myself get totally overwhelmed. But I don’t have to become that person yet. The only thing I have to do right this second is a single step.
I can take a step, can’t I? It’s a terrifying one, and the thought of it makes me want to bury myself under my bedcovers and never come out, but it’s not impossible. And, yeah, maybe people will make fun of me in the comments, or in a private chat. But maybe they won’t. Maybe Maddison and her friends were a blip. Maybe it’s time I find out for sure. After all, so far, the Bramppath girls don’t seem to hate my guts. Even if they do kind of hate my clothes.
I’d have to review the video first, obviously, to make sure it sounds as good on camera as I thought it did in real life. But at least this would be controlled. I wouldn’t have to worry about messing up the notes, or panicking, because I’ve already played it.
“Can you send it to me?” I ask finally, and she does.
It’s really late by the time I gather all my stuff and we leave the ballroom. Late enough that we should be calling it a night. In the courtyard, we pass Harriet doing her rounds—every RA is responsible for clearing out and locking up one area of the school each night, and she told me once hers is the library. Even the hallway is empty, which means everyone’s done brushing their teeth and using the bathroom.
But when I go to tell Rose I’ll see her tomorrow, she looks so disappointed, I swallow my words. Besides, it’s not like I’m in a rush to say goodbye. So, looking as innocent as we can, we head upstairs to her room together. I’ll say I lent her my laptop charger if anyone asks why I’m up here, I decide. But I don’t have to use the excuse, because we don’t run into a soul.