It takes restraint, but I don’t message her again all night.
SIX
Anna
THE FIRST THING I DO WHEN I WAKE UP SATURDAY MORNING IS check my phone for messages from him.
There aren’t any. Of course there aren’t. I’m not surprised. Really, I’m relieved. But I’m a little disappointed, too. Just the tiniest bit.
Still lying in bed, I read over our conversation from last night. That same giddy excitement fills my chest, and I smile as I bite my lip.
I did it. I met someone online, we talked, and then we set up a date. If I’m being honest with myself, it was kind of nice. He likes octopi! Better than that, I was able to be myself. I didn’t pretend. For once, I feel like I’m in control of my life. It’s a heady experience.
It took me forever to fall asleep last night because my mind wouldn’t stop. I should be dragging today, but I’m buzzing with nervous energy instead. The hours fly by.
Halfway through my practice time, when I find myself starting over again and again just like usual, I impulsively set the Richter piece aside and decide to try something else, like Jennifer suggested. Clearing my mind and taking a series of deep breaths, I set my bow to the strings and let the opening notes of Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending” sing.
This is my dad’s favorite song. He requests I play it on his birthday and whenever we have family events or his friends are over, so the notes are deeply ingrained in my muscle memory. I’m not sure which pleases him more—the music itself or showing me off to people. It doesn’t really matter to me. I just like making him happy.
The music slowly pours from my violin, fluttering erratically upward on changing currents of air. It transports me, so sweetly passionate that for a moment I get caught up in it. I forget time, I forget me. There’s only this beautiful feeling of soaring over vast fields of open green. And I realize I’m playing, truly playing.
This is the reason I breathe.
I hear it then. My timing is just a hair off. It’s been so long since I’ve played this song that my bow work is a bit sloppy. I can do better.
So I start over. It’s such a signature piece that if it isn’t just so, critics can be vicious. I won’t give them an opening. I can outmaneuver them. I can be more vicious to myself than they are, and in so doing, I will win.
Art is war.
It’s still not quite right, so I start over just one more time. I try harder to get the timing exact. And I hit it. The notes trill and climb like small wings beating on updrafts of wind. Only to snag. Not enough emphasis in that part.
I start over.
And I start over.
And I start over.
Until the alarm on my phone pulls me out, and I turn it off and stare blankly about the room. I’m back where I started. At the beginning. My throat aches, but I swallow the tightness away.
There was that brief moment when the music sang to me and I forgot to listen to the voices in my head. That’s something.
I’m so close to beating this. I can feel it. The solution is right there. I can see it. If I can just wrap my fingers around it, I will unlock my mind, and everything will go back to how it used to be.
Determined, I put my violin away and prepare to battle in a different manner. I’m going to have a date tonight. I’m going to flirt. I’m going to have fun. I’m not going to torture myself by watching his reactions and trying to be what he wants. Inevitably, because I’m me, I will embarrass myself. And I’m going to try my hardest not to care about any of it. I have no reason to care—not beyond basic human decency, at any rate. This man is completely wrong for me. I have no intention of ever seeing him again. I don’t need his respect. I don’t need his approval. I don’t need his love.
And that makes him perfect. With him, I will experiment with being brave.
I shower and shave my legs, brush my teeth, do all the hygiene things, and put on makeup and fix my hair, like I’m preparing for an important concert. I suppose tonight will be a concert of sorts, one where my performance is based entirely on improvisation. After putting on the red dress and stepping into my nicest high heels, I take a picture of myself in the mirror and send it to Rose and Suzie, along with the message Going on a date. Wish me luck.
Suzie replies first this time. OMG, you look great! Have fun!
WHAT?! WHO IS HE? WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE? TELL US EVERYTHING!!!!! Rose demands.
I smile with dry lips as I type, Gotta go. So nervous I could barf. I’ll tell you about it later.
With that, I drop my phone into my purse and venture beyond the security of my apartment. I make a detour to the pharmacy, where my merchandise is confusingly located in between ovulation kits and men’s diapers and the high school–aged kid at the cash register is too embarrassed to look at me as he rings up my purchase. Still, I arrive at the bar early enough to grab the last open booth with a view of the street.