Page 47 of A Wistful Symphony

Deranged Fugue

B oth you and Benson were expelled.

There was little Headteacher Fischer could do after my assault, since it happened outside the school grounds.

But now that Benson had harassed a disabled student and engaged in a fight in the middle of the canteen, the headteacher had the perfect excuse to get rid of the long-time troublemaker.

The downside is he had to let you go on the same grounds.

Though I suspect you wouldn’t show your face at school, regardless.

My days are dull and grey, and my nights are even worse.

I call you constantly, but you never pick up.

You text me saying you’re busy with work and will see me soon, except Astro told me you’re hanging at the club all the time.

You made friends with some punks who roam the place and linger around, getting high long after your shift is done.

You lied to me. Something I never expected from you.

About a week later, your black SUV is parked in front of the performing arts building. I hurry towards you, relieved to see the bruises on your cheek and knuckles have faded. You kiss me softly by the gates, not minding who might see us.

“Sorry for staying away. I needed some time alone.”

My heart soothes. It’s the first time I’ve heard your voice in days, and despite your lie, the relief that you came back to me surpasses my resentment. Who am I to judge when I stayed away even longer to recover from my hearing loss? I’d be a hypocrite to complain.

With a melancholic smile, I shake my head. “I’m just glad to see you.”

You wrap your arms around my body and hold me tight, as if the wind could blow me away.

“I’m so glad to see you too.”

We don’t talk about what happened. We never talk about anything that matters.

After you pick me up, we hang by your place, making idle conversation until it’s time for you to go to work.

An intangible curtain has fallen between us, one I’m not sure how or why exists in the first place.

But it’s there. And I have to find a way to deal with it.

I just don’t know how.

One afternoon, your car isn’t parked in front of the conservatory. Instead, you stand by a second-hand bicycle at the rack, right next to mine.

“What happened to the SUV?”

“Nothing. I sold it,” you answer nonchalantly, picking up the bike.

“Sold it? Why?”

“Needed the money.”

“What exactly did you need the money for?”

“Jeez, Eric, is this an interrogation? I have bills to pay, and keeping that kind of car is expensive. So I sold it and got myself a bike.”

It’s a reasonable answer, but twist your fingers and won’t meet my eyes when you speak.

“Is that so?” I can’t stop my jaw from clenching.

“Yeah. Cheaper and healthier, right?”

Another lie.

On most evenings, we hang by the river after my practice. The orange summer sun is slowly dipping its feet into the water, just as we are. Casually flapping my legs, I try to hold a proper conversation with you. A meaningful one, I hope, masquerading as chitchat.

“Today was the last A-levels test.”

“Oh. How did you do?” you ask.

“Good, I think. Hoping it’s enough for the RAM’s application.”

“Nice.” You blow cigarette smoke away from me.

Every fibre in my body urges me to say you can try again in September at a different sixth form.

Take the A-levels and get into a university, whatever one you choose.

You don’t have to try for the Royal Academy of Music like me.

However, on quiet days like today, you’re rarely open to my suggestions.

Who am I kidding? You’ve shut down to me entirely.

I try to keep the ball rolling. “I also visited the RAM’s campus last week. The quality of the rooms and staff is freaking amazing. And the instruments, a dream!”

“Oh? Tell me about it.” You put out the stub on the floorboards and turn, eager for once.

“They have a Steinway & Sons grand piano in the auditorium.” Stars must be coming out of my eyes.

“No shit!”

“Yes shit.”

“Damn, I wish I could’ve seen that.” You heave a dreamy sigh. “You pianists are so lucky. The only way I could get my hands on a Stradivarius is if I rob a bank.”

Your lacklustre smile withers, and you grasp the cross on your chest.

“What?” I ask.

“Dad promised to buy me one if I ever got a chair in a Symphonic,” you say in a strangled voice.

I want to soothe your feelings. Tell you that your dad doesn’t deserve you and that a Stradivarius is a poor reward for a lifetime of not being accepted as you are.

I could even be delusional and say we could save for one ourselves.

But afraid any of those could strike a nerve and push you further away, I change the subject.

“I’ll probably need to live in the dorm for the first year or so, which will be a nightmare.” I throw in a chuckle, fidgeting with a splinter on the wood. “Can you imagine me sharing a room with someone else?”

A hint of a grin threatens to reach your lips. “You can barely share a house with other people, let alone a dorm room.”

“I know! What if their feet stink? Or worse, what if they don’t wash their underwear? What if it’s an oboist who throws dirty socks and briefs on my bed and wanks himself while I’m there?”

That makes you laugh out loud and I feel pleased with myself.

“What if he wanks himself with the oboe?” you add between chuckles.

“Ew. You never know, oboists are psychos. And they carry knives.”

Your smile fades once more. “I’ll miss having these talks with you.”

The sudden implication that we’ll be separated, that you expect me to leave for London in a couple of months while you stay in our hometown, is like a claw carving its nails into my heart.

“You don’t have to,” I offer.

“How come?”

“Well.” As I bite my lower lip, the splinter I was messing with crackles between my thumb and index finger. “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about. What if you came with me to London?”

You turn to me wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. We could share a flat. Far from central London, because it’s way too expensive, but still.”

“We’d … live together.”

“That’s the idea, yeah.”

“And you’re sure you want that?”

“I’m the one suggesting it, aren’t I?”

The corners of your lips widen in a crooked, unsure way. Are you happy? Are you having second thoughts? I can’t tell.

“That’s … way more than I could ask for,” you whisper.

The last rays of sunlight warm my playful smirk. “I bet you’re easier to live with than Delia or Zoe.”

“Fingers crossed.” You utter, facing the river.

“It’ll be awesome,” I blabber. “We’ll get a cool little one-bedroom flat. We could practise together, and go for walks in Hyde Park, and watch musicals on the weekends, and—”

A sudden splash cuts me off mid-sentence. You jump in the lake, clothes on and everything, and let your body go under. Sinking. Far beneath the still waters.

“Andrew?” A deep crease splits my brow. “Come on, what are you doing?” I plead, thinking this must be a prank.

But you don’t come back to the surface.

“Andrew,” I shout, kneeling on the pier’s floorboards, seeing your blurred features slowly disappear. “Andrew! Don’t do this to me!”

I scream and scream. With shaking hands, I yank off my T-shirt, cold sweat running down my neck as my heart threatens to rip open my ribcage. I’m halfway through taking off my hearing aids when you return to the surface between deep, deranged gasps.

“What the hell was that?” I shriek as soon as you climb out of the water.

“Nothing. I felt like taking a dive, that’s all.” You tremble, soaking wet under the blueish twilight.

“You felt like—?” I huff. “Give me a break, Andrew. I’m not that stupid.”

You turn your back on me and stomp towards your complex. Seeing red, I sprint and grab you by the arm. “Do you realise how much you scared me just now?”

You yank your arm away. “I’m sick of you worrying, Eric. So freaking sick!” You’re yelling, something I’ve never seen before. “It’s summer. I was hot and wanted to swim, that’s it. If you think there’s anything more to it, maybe it’s because you’re cra—”

“Don’t!” I spit through gritted teeth, my eyes burning. “Don’t you fucking dare call me that.”

You look down and bite your lower lip, face twisting in regret. “I’m sorry, but I think you should go home,” you say, before leaving me alone in the dark.

Every second I’m not with you, I devote to practising the piano.

I’m fully immersed in Rachmaninoff’s Presto, trying to do my best with the hearing aids.

It’s better, but not enough. Luckily, I have a lot of muscle memory from before the assault, but as far as dynamics go, I’m in the dark.

Low pitches and soft notes are the hardest for me to hear, and I hope I can adapt to how they sound with the hearing aids quickly enough for the audition.

Ollie whined at school, saying we barely see each other anymore, but I know it’s a friendly joke. My audition is less than a month away, and he’s also trying out for the full-time programme at the Royal Ballet. We’re both in a pivotal time in our lives, and I know Ollie understands that.

The same cannot be said about Delia or Zoe.

The first claims that I should spend more time with my boyfriend—which is something a fourteen-year-old would say—and the latter keeps pestering me to confine my training to the performing arts building, because she can’t stand the freaking Presto anymore.

It’s one of those nights when I’m practising the decrescendo on bar 26 and Zoe is grunting every time she passes through the sitting room.

She mutters something after grabbing a sandwich from the kitchen.

I snap, “Your whining won’t make me stop playing.”

“For fuck’s sake, Eric. Couldn’t you do this in the afternoon? Or, like, in your room with headphones? You’ve been repeating the same notes for half an hour. This is near torture.”

“The keys’ weight is not the same in the digital piano, and I need to make the best of my time until the audition. Also, I’m going to Andrew’s later, so I need to do this now.”