solo, and they both nailed it in totally different ways. Right now, they’re sharing principal clarinet duties. Which … is not how that works. So there’s been tension.”
“Do people drop out a lot? The tuition is not cheap.”
A more serious look comes over his face. “It happens. It’s already happened, for a couple who just didn’t like the program, or the people. I’ve heard of people dropping out for better reasons, though! Like they booked a great gig, or something.”
“I can’t imagine giving it all up,” I say. “When I commit to something, I will complete it. To my own detriment, even.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I could say the same thing. Maybe I’m not as disciplined as you.”
“I wouldn’t call it discipline.”
He pauses, and looks at me. My cheeks feel hot, and I know I’m supposed to say something, but I wish he’d go back to his monologue. There’s comfort in that. I did that enough with Megan. Always the passenger.
“So, you talk a lot.” I wince. Why did I say that?
“I do, when I’m nervous.” He doesn’t stop looking at me. “And I get a little nervous meeting new people, don’t you?”
“I think that’s why I’m not talking.”
He laughs, and I join in.
“Anyway,” he starts, “I’m excited to hear you play. There aren’t any oboes at Knightsbridge. And the ones in our school orchestra were all off-key and annoying—or maybe that’s just how they’re supposed to sound?”
I roll my eyes at the oboe slander, but he nudges me with his elbow. “It’s a joke, Marty. I’ve been working up this oboe and trumpet duet for my end-of-term recital with my friend Dani, but she plays it on the flute, and it’s not the same.”
A chuckle leaves my lips. I can play both instruments—the flute was my first way back in middle school—and I know the differences well. They’re two woodwind instruments, both in the key of C, but their similarities don’t go far beyond their key signature.
“If you’re half as good as Shane says you are, I might have to enlist your help.”
“Sure,” I say. It’s hard to tell if it’s genuine, or if it’s just one of those polite offers. But I can picture it, briefly—me on stage at the academy. It’d be nothing like my botched audition.
A jolt in the train car brings me back to the present. I’ve been on subways before. The metro in DC is easy; there aren’t nearly as many stops. Though there aren’t nearly as many trains, so you end up waiting on the platform for two years just to get downtown. New York is fast, like this, but it’s dark and dirty—you need to take an acid bath just to get the bacteria off you. I wouldn’t say I love the tube, but it has its benefits. (But seriously, why don’t people make more sexual jokes referring to tubes? It seems so obvious.)
“But anyway, I think you’ll have a good time here.”
“I … think I will too,” I say. If everyone’s as welcoming as you.
Though he probably knows little about me, he’s already treating me like an old friend. And for once, I feel myself opening up to this unknown situation.
A brief silence settles between us. It could be awkward, but the train’s wheels rattle and the car squeaks, and no one else in the train car is talking, either. I welcome the silence in the stress of the morning, but my leg bounces against his, restless.
Near the doors, a woman stands guard over her behemoth of a suitcase. I think I recognize her from the flight. As the train pulls up to the next stop—Baron’s Court; possibly the fanciest named station, in my opinion—her suitcase rolls away, crashing into three or four people. The woman apologizes, giggles (meanwhile, I’m so embarrassed for her I could die), and a businessman in a well-tailored suit flashes a strained smile, but doesn’t offer to guide the suitcase back to its owner. The moment she turns, the guy scowls and shakes out his newspaper.
“That’s British generosity for you,” Pierce says. “Note the fake smile, the passive-aggressive demeanor. It’s an art form.”
“Hopefully I’ll have time to practice this art,” I say. “Though my parents would probably say I have the passive-aggressive thing down. Megan would too. Okay, maybe I will fit in here.”
“You’re seriously going to love this country. You plan to travel any?”
I think back to the money in my bank account, and my palms start to sweat again.