Transcendence

Living right on top of it all, he must know all the dirty little secrets.

“Well, the scaffolds were put up and taken down for every execution, so they weren’t always in the same spot. Actually,” he says, “most of the beheadings happened on the north side of the White Tower.”

“Which side is that?” I ask.

“Near where they keep the Crown Jewels now,” he says. “In fact, they say that the most famous executions happened near the Green.” Griffon leans forward and studies me. “Right on the spot where you fainted.”

Three

Spring break feels a million miles away as Ms. Lipke’s marker squeaks across the whiteboard at the front of the room. Rayne slides into her seat, glancing up first to see if she’s going to get busted for being late to class again. “So what’s he like?” she whispers.

“Who?” I ask quietly, knowing exactly who she means. It’s pretty impossible to keep anything from her. I’d purposely left Griffon out of my updates while we were gone, but I should have known that Kat would go telling everyone. I’ve spent enough time analyzing my entire conversation with him, and I don’t want to have to go over it with Rayne too. Griffon is a part of the trip that I want to keep to myself. At least for now.

“Kat told Sienna that you two met some amazing guys in London. I can’t believe you’ve been back two whole days and didn’t say anything.”

The minute Griffon told me about the executions, I felt sick all over again. As soon as Kat showed up I made excuses about jet lag and practically ran out of there. He didn’t even ask for my number, and it’s not like I was going to shove it in his hand. And now we’re back home and in school as if everything is the same. Even though everything feels completely different.

“Come on,” Rayne urges, facing forward so we won’t get caught talking. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about something so important. Spill.”

“Nothing to spill,” I say. “I met a guy. He was cute. He didn’t get my info, so I’ll never see him again. End of story.”

“That’s not what Kat says. She says you, like, totally fainted right in the middle of some tower and that this guy rescued you.”

Just thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. Sometimes, when I’m doing the most random thing, a scene from that vision will flash through my mind, and all of the same emotions get churned up all over again. At least nothing like that has happened since we’ve been back. Hopefully that was the worst—and the last—of whatever it was, and the visions stayed in England where they belong. “It was just a cup of tea,” I say. “Hardly qualifies as ‘rescuing.’” Ms. Lipke gives us both a look, saving me from having to explain any more for the moment.

It’s ridiculous how much I think about Griffon, considering we’d probably spent all of an hour together. Even though we’d only had one more day in London, I was tempted to try to get back to the Tower, visions of beheadings or not. We passed the Tower walls in a cab the next day and I pictured him sitting at a table in the cafe, probably talking to some other hapless tourist girl who needed his assistance.

“Should I even ask what you’re doing after school?” Rayne asks as we’re finally released from language arts. “I think some people are going to hang out over at Cafe Roma.”

“Can’t,” I say, leaning my cello case against the wall of lockers in the hallway. I fish around in my backpack for my phone, as much to find it as to avoid her eyes.

“Cello practice again? When are you going to take a break and get a real life?”

I sigh. I love Rayne, but she just doesn’t get it. “This is real life. My real life. There was the trip, and now the concert’s coming up, so I’m way behind.”

I’ve tried to explain that you don’t choose to be a musician, it chooses you. The feeling of transcendence I get when a piece is going well, the combination of contentment and exhilaration that makes it seem like I’m completely outside myself, is impossible to explain without sounding like a crazy person. It’s something that pushes me from the inside, that makes me anxious if I don’t get in practice every day. I like to blame it on my parents just so that I won’t look like a complete music geek, but the truth is, I don’t just like to play—I have to play. I doubt that people who are training for the Olympics and spend hours every day at the ice rink or in the gym have to make excuses like I do.

“Just don’t call me when you’re a fifty-year-old spinster with arthritic hands and thirty-two cats.” She grins at me. “So are you giving a lesson or getting one?”

“Both,” I say, relieved we’re off the subject. “I have makeup lessons all week with Steinberg for an hour, and then I’m giving a cello lesson at five.”

“Who’s the student?”

“That fifth-grader from Yeshiva Day,” I say. “He hates the cello, but his parents think it’s good for his ‘enrichment.’” Students who are forced into lessons are the hardest to teach. Adults who are really into learning how to play are the best—a little overenthusiastic sometimes, but at least they practice and don’t mess around. Overindulged private-school kids with hovering parents are the worst. And the kind of students I have most often.

“Sounds fun.” Rayne makes a face as we head toward the bus stop on the corner. “Talk later?”

I sit in my usual seat on the city bus with the cello case propped up beside me like a silent guardian. Mom used to pick me up and drive me home every day, but she finally let me start taking the bus a couple of years ago, and I like the few minutes of quiet that bridge the two parts of my day. As we roll toward the studio I press my forehead to the window and stare at the people swarming the sidewalks. I always like watching people from the safety of the bus, catching a few seconds of their lives before we rattle on down the street, them never realizing I was there at all. In the middle of all of this chaos are things that are like signposts in each neighborhood as we ride down Geary: the guy sitting in the folding chair on the tiny strip of sidewalk between the Chinese restaurant and the Indian market, or the people clutching their cups and staring intently at their laptops inside Peet’s Coffee.

As the bus idles at the light, a woman looks up from a window table and gazes out at the street. With a start, I recognize her as one of my cello students. I wave as the bus pulls into the intersection, but Veronique has already turned back to her work.

I lift the cello out of its seat and pull the strap over my shoulder as I get off at my stop. I use the lighter carbon-fiber cello for travel and running around, but with the case it still weighs a ton, and I’m glad there aren’t any hills to climb as I head toward the studio. My good Derazey cello has to be content with practice at home and occasional orchestra visits, ever since my parents took a second mortgage on the duplex to buy it a couple of years ago. The graceful curves of a nearly two-hundred-year-old instrument don’t come cheap. Whenever I think about the money they’ve spent over the years on instruments, gear, the conservatory, and private lessons, my chest feels so heavy I can barely breathe. If the guilt starts to settle in too heavily, I just put in a few extra hours of practice.

As I step into the studio, the familiar, safe feeling sits close around my shoulders, and I inhale the combination of rosin, antique instruments, and sweat that only exists here.

Portraits of famous musicians line the walls, and I touch Guilhermina Suggia’s frame for good luck like I always do when I come through the door. She was one of the first female cellists, and whenever I feel discouraged, one look at the painting of her fiery red dress, her head tilted at an angle that’s full of attitude as she attacks the cello, always makes me feel better.

In the back, I can hear the rich, mellow sounds of a cello echoing off the wood-paneled walls, and I feel my blood surge as I listen to Steinberg play. I creep down the short hallway, avoiding the squeaking boards next to the coatrack, until I can see him sitting bent over the glossy wood, both hands working in harmony to wring every ounce of feeling from the instrument, his eyes closed, everything abandoned to the music. In the years we’ve worked together I’ve learned to match him note for note. I’ve mastered the technical skill to play complicated pieces without a mistake, spent hours copying his fingering. My heart races as his bow glides over the strings, an unspoken communication that fills the room, replacing the air with sound and emotion.