I don’t tell anyone Asher’s class is my favorite and while there are other things I should be doing, I find a way to make sure I’m in my office so I can mock participate from the small space in the back.
When Asher’s classes are done, he hangs back for a few minutes, doing God knows what. I sit in my office practically holding my breath listening to the stillness of the adjacent room until he decides to pack up and head back to wherever it is he comes from. If I were a dreamer I’d hope he were standing there, conjuring up the courage to walk into my office and apologize, even profess his love to me. But I am a realist and I know what happens when you start dreaming: you get your heart broken. The reality is he never enters my office and I’m grateful for that. Feigning indifference is exhausting enough without having to be in direct contact with him.
Today, after Asher’s class is complete and he has left the vicinity, I make my way down to the first floor to accept a shipment we are expecting.
When the shipment arrives, I open every box and make sure they are all filled with the exact books I requested and the precise quantity is here. When I am satisfied with the delivery, I tell the man from UPS he can leave and I bring the boxes into the supply room, myself, to ensure they are where they are supposed to be.
I lock the door to the supply closet and walk the hallway back toward the stairwell when I hear my name said from inside one of the offices. No one is calling my name. Instead, it’s being said in conversation.
“We played Heinz Hall together. They gave her a solo that would have blown you away. It was incredible.”
That is Frank. If I didn’t know his voice, I know he is the only person here who played in the Pittsburgh symphony with me. It is against my better judgment and everything I stand for but for some reason I feel compelled to stop, step closer, and listen in.
“I saw a few clips on YouTube. She was very good.” Asher’s distinct masculine voice echoes through the wall. Why isn’t he back on his merry way to his dark fortress ruling the city? And “very good”? I was magnificent! The term good shouldn’t even be an adjective allowed to describe how well I played. “How is she doing as assistant director?”
“She is possibly the one person who cares about this place more than you do,” Frank replies and is followed by silence. Damn Asher really knows how to take his dramatic pauses. He’s the kind of person who makes you want to say something just to fill in the void. “I’m glad you informed me of her accident.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Well, I’m glad your office told me. I had no idea.” Frank’s tone takes a nosedive into the melodramatic. “Talent like Emma Paige should not be wasted. She’s remarkably brave to have gone through what she has.”
I fight an urge to kick the wall.
“What was she like? Before the accident, I mean?”
Frank chortles. “You mean because she’s so serious? You think it has something to do with the accident?”
I assume Asher is nodding his head, since I can’t see or hear his response.
“What was Emma Paige like a year ago?” Frank asks himself out loud. His seat creaks back and forth and that’s the only sound I hear from a few seconds.
“Fire.” He finally states. “She was fire, like a bolt of lightening striking down on the stage. Emma was fierce and she had this confidence about her that as soon as she walked out on stage, you knew you were going to hear magic.
“She wasn’t cocky though. No, she was kind and shared the accolades. It made it hard for the rest of us to hate her.” Frank laughs at his own joke and then his tone comes back down. “Emma was . . . is . . . very special. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone as genuine as her. Don’t let the frown fool you.