I knew what Fitzgerald was looking for when he gave us those assignments. He wanted us to play by all the rules that held his brain in his head. Rules that would make our compositions indistinguishable from the composer at hand. As much fun as that sounded, I was determined to breathe new life into old music. To keep it alive and fluid and moving. Snobby professor-be-damned.
Nathan chuckled. “I wish I could play along in your effort to make his head explode, Savannah, I really do. But, I put off this class for the last minute so I could take it with you, and if I fail it, I’m screwed.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.” Idly, I found myself wanting to see what my latest composition looked like through those gorgeous blue eyes that belonged to Gregory Fitzgerald.
“Whatchya thinking about?” Nathan asked as he wrapped his long arm around my shoulders.
“Oh,” I sighed, “just what a fucking long semester this would be if I didn’t have you to sit next to in that theory class.”
He smiled and kissed the top of my head. “Anything for you, doll.”
I tilted my chin to meet his eyes. “I might hold you to that if I end up in jail for strangling him. He’s so boxed in it drives me crazy.”
Nathan just laughed and kissed my head again. “Please do your best not to end up in jail, Savannah.”
“I’ll try,” I smiled, “promise.”
Savannah
A couple of weeks later, I stared at my perfectly glossed lips in the mirror one last time before meeting Nathan in the entrance of the dorm.
It’s going to be fine, Savannah. Just ... it’s going to be fine.
“Happy birthday, Savannah.” Nathan linked arms with me and we headed down the stairs to go meet my dad.
“Thank you, gorgeous.” I smiled, playfully messing up his short, dark curls. I was definitely excited to enjoy my night with the people I loved.
Twenty-one.
I guess that would mean something to someone who did things in an ordinary fashion. While I’d moved back to the States with my dad when I was eight, spending summers in Europe led to me having my first drink out in a tiny restaurant in Italy when I was sixteen. It was a vintage Pinot Noir my mother had ordered for the table. I was worried that I’d disappoint her, somehow, if I hated it. I didn’t. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Smooth and smoky, it sucked me in, and now I’ll rarely order anything else if an Italian Pinot Noir is on the menu.
“Hey Dad!”
My dad, Stephen, leaned against the entrance to the opera house. He wore a black tux underneath a grey cashmere and wool overcoat. The plaid scarf I’d purchased for him on holiday in Scotland when I was twelve made me smile almost as much as his warm brown eyes.
My mother was prima donna at Teatro Alla Scala for the last fifteen years, and my parents and I lived together in Italy, traveling Europe as her schedule permitted. My dad moved me back to Philadelphia with him right before eighth grade, and we lived with my grandparents so I could go to school like a “normal kid.” As normal as could be expected when your mother is a world-renowned opera singer.
Of course, middle school isn’t the ideal time to relocate countries and be normal. One of the reasons I think Nathan and I became so close was because he was one of the few people I met then who really understood me.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” My dad gave me a tight squeeze and then reached out to shake Nathan’s hand. “Good to see you again, son.”
“Great to see you, Mr. Marshall.” Nathan quickly brushed his hand off on his pants, even though both of them were wearing gloves, and he shook my dad’s hand.
My dad grinned and ran his hand over his increasingly thinning hair. “Oh for God’s sake, Nathan, for more than ten years I’ve been insisting that you call me Steve.” He chuckled.
Before heading up the stairs, I smoothed my hands over my floor-length emerald gown. In my everyday life, I found it a major facade to have to “dress a certain way.” Just to make a point, I had underdressed for my audition to the conservatory. You could say that my point was made, since I got in, but Madeline White softly scolded me about it later. However, tonight wasn’t my everyday life. Yes, it was my birthday, but tonight my mother was performing as a special guest in Tosca. I’d never seen her sing this particular opera, and I was anxious and excited. I was thrilled to see her, and respected every bit of pomp and circumstance that went along with the opera.
“Is it lame that I’m really excited to see your mom sing?” Nathan whispered as we made our way to our excellent, “special guest” seats.
“No,” I whispered back, “I’m super excited too. It’s been a long time for me.” The anticipation alone gave me goosebumps.
While Nathan and I have been friends for more than ten years, my mom worked so much—and most of it overseas—that he’s never seen her perform live. And it’s always better live.
As we settled into our seats, I couldn’t help but wonder what Gregory would think of all of this. While his class was proving to be thoroughly more irritating than I could have even imagined, the image of him playing that Bach piece on our first day of class was still seared in my brain. The man was a walking contradiction. He spent the last several weeks trying to prove to us that music was all science and math. His point of doing that Bach piece, he told us the next day, was to illustrate that if you study how music is written, you could, in theory, start a piece and finish it on your own, even if sight reading, because everything is a formula. He said the trick, however, was to still be able to put feeling into it, which, in his mind, came from more practice.
That was an incredible lie I really think he believed. What was going on with his body and on his face while he was playing that piece was anything but practiced. I wondered, idly, if he’d ever seen himself play. Surely he has recordings of his Pops performances? Whatever his reason for insisting that practice really does make perfect, natural talent or not, he was hell bent on teaching the class his way.