Consent by Nancy Ohlin

Author:Nancy Ohlin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse

TWENTY-FIVE

We have arrived at Juilliard.

It is smaller than I expected and also more spectacular. The main entrance is all glass with THE JUILLIARD SCHOOL spelled out in silver letters. On the other side of the glass is a massive staircase that ascends up, up, up to some mysterious apex.

Being here, I am filled with sadness and wonder. This was her place. I don’t know a lot about her years here—just what Grandma Min told me a long time ago. She said that Mom and Dad started dating when she was a freshman and he was finishing up at Columbia Law School. She said it was love at first sight, at least for Dad, who couldn’t stop talking about her to the family.

She also said I should stop feeling guilty about her death, but I can’t seem to do that.

Dane and I stand on the sidewalk as students come and go through the revolving door, chattering easily:

“It’s for three-handed piano and four soloists.”

“Three-handed piano?”

“Two pianists on one piano, but the one closest to the audience has only a single line.”

“Hey, who’s applying to Verbier next summer?”

“Dude, no one gets into that.”

“Jonathan did last year.”

“Yeah, well, JONATHAN.”

“Anyone go to the master class yesterday?”

“Uh-huh. Tabitha got spanked.”

“Why did she pick ‘Caténaires’? Her contemporary technique sucks. . . .”

An icy ball of terror has begun to form in my stomach. “I can’t do this,” I whisper to Dane.

“Yes, you can.”

“I don’t belong here.”

“Nonsense, of course you do. Come on, let’s go inside.”

He puts his hand on the small of my back and gently nudges me through the revolving door. A gust of air stirs my hair and rustles my dress. As we start up the staircase, we pass more students—talking, texting, cradling instrument cases between their legs. I overhear bits and pieces of conversation—“Banff,” “vocal collab,” “circle of fifths,” “Horizons requirement”—and it is all a foreign language to me.

Did Mom speak this language too? How did she manage to fit in?

The top of the staircase opens up to a vast, starkly beautiful lobby. Security guards preside at a long desk. Several professor types confer with a man who is the spitting image of Yo-Yo Ma.

Wait, it is Yo-Yo Ma.

The beyond-famous cellist and Dane wave at each other.

“You know him?” I gasp.

“I’ve met him on several occasions. Very nice man. He’s playing with the Phil, I believe this evening.”

“You mean the New York Philharmonic? The orchestra?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Dane gives our names to one of the guards, who glances at a clipboard and admits us through the turnstile. A few minutes later we are on the fourth floor in search of a practice room so I can warm up.

As we proceed down the hall, music pours out from behind closed doors: “Vissi d’arte” sung by a pitch-perfect soprano; the cadenza from the Sibelius violin concerto; an impossible passage from the piano transcription of Stravinsky’s Petrushka. The icy ball of terror grows larger. I am so out of my league here, it’s not even funny.

“Beatrice.” Dane squeezes my shoulder.

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