This party is a delight.
I was not missed.
So I walk over to the grand piano, and I’m just about to slam the fallboard down onto Sam’s prancing fingers, when Li pulls me back.
The music and merrymaking stop. All eyes are on us.
Li says, “Time for the rager we were promised, Sam.”
twelve
SAM
I am not against drinking. But I can’t say I enjoy it very much when my friends drink excessively.
I’m trying to stay at the piano. Because if I keep playing, no one’s going to ask me why I’m not getting plastered. I’m trying to keep it jaunty—some Gershwin, some ragtime.
I don’t think anyone’s listening.
They are raiding Czarina’s liquor cabinet, which, if we’re honest, is more of a closet than a cabinet. Ilsa’s dispensing its contents to everyone like she’s the Florence Nightingale of gale-force nights.
I am not going to be the guy who tells everyone else what they shouldn’t be doing. I am sick of being that guy.
I want someone else to be that guy.
I want someone else to step in.
Nobody else is stepping in.
Johan’s letting Ilsa mix him a G & T. Jason’s swilling whiskey like its post-marathon Gatorade. I am not looking in KK’s general direction because I don’t want to know what’s happening there. Parker has lined up seven beers on the windowsill. Li doesn’t seem to be drinking. Neither is Ilsa, but I’m thinking she’ll start once everyone else has been given their pillage.
I wish Johan were still playing beside me. That felt good, to be harmonizing without having to open my mouth. His strings. My strings. Vibrations overlapping in the air.
But now he’s laughing at something Ilsa’s said.
I want to play louder. Drown everything else out.
Impossible.
Maybe that’s why I gave this up. Playing with other people around. It wasn’t making anything better.
I forgot that.
But that’s not really the reason. No, the reason is that audition. That failed audition. I’d wanted to go to Juilliard for years. It’s the best music school in the city, which to a New Yorker means it’s the best music school in the country. My rehearsals were flawless, my preparations impeccable. But as I waited there for my name to be called, I started to drown within the importance of what I was about to do. I got flustered, and when they asked me to come in, I didn’t even hear them at first. When I finally did hear them, when I finally was given the chance to shine, I sputtered. My thoughts were too loud. I couldn’t hear the music. I made mistakes. Probably not that many, but enough to throw me. I was fine—but the audition required me to be great.
When I got home, I couldn’t keep it hidden. I told Ilsa everything.
Her response? She told me, “If you can’t stand the pressure, then don’t put yourself under the pressure.”
I think this was her way of being supportive. But it also kicked away the last of the beams that were holding me up.
“Can I make a request?”
It’s Jason at my shoulder. Jason, whose breath is proof enough of how far gone he is.
“Sure,” I say.
“How about ‘How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?’ ”
I shake my head. “I don’t know that one.”
“ ‘Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry’?”
I’m sensing a theme. I say, “Jason. Stop.”
He slaps his hand down on the side of the piano. “Fuck it,” he says. “I’ll settle for ‘You Belong to Me’—either the standard or the Taylor Swift version.”
“I think the Taylor Swift song is ‘You Belong with Me’—”
“Well, fuck YOU.”
I’m playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and I keep playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
“Jason, I think you’re drunk,” I observe.
“Well, I think you’re sober. So there.”
“Is there a problem here?” Johan sidles over and asks.
“No problem,” I say.
“There wasn’t until you came over,” Jason spits out.
“What does that mean?” Johan asks.
“I think it’s pretty straightforward,” Jason replies. “It means you’re the problem. Jesus. You can’t just come over here and take him. You have to put in some time.”
“Nobody’s taking me anywhere,” I point out. The song is too fast under my fingers. I hit a wrong note. I keep going.
Johan moves to get the Maker’s Mark bottle out of Jason’s hand.
“Here,” Johan says. “Let me take this and bring you some coffee instead.”
But Jason won’t relent. He stabs out with the bottle. “She sent you over here, didn’t she? I HATE YOU, ILSA!”
“Feeling’s mutual!” Ilsa calls out.
Jason lets go of the bottle. It knocks the G & T out of Johan’s hand. There’s a shattering on contact, then another, more muffled break when the bottle and glass hit the floor.
“Shit!” I yell. I stop playing and jump off the piano bench. “What else can go wrong?”
Before I can get an answer, I go to the kitchen for more paper towels, a broom, and a dustpan. I notice that it isn’t two seconds after I stop playing that the stereo starts to blast a cake’s worth of Drake. Li’s been waiting by the controls, waiting for her opening.
When I get back, Johan and Jason are shoving each other, working the glass and the drinks further into the floor. There aren’t enough Altoids in the world to cover up the smell of intoxication coming from the rug.
“Stop it!” I shout, wondering why no one else is halting them. I mean, this mess is universally recognizable as not good. And Ilsa’s mixing Li a drink.
Johan stops, but Jason’s still in his space.
Parker takes the broom, paper towels, and dustpan from my hands.
“You take care of Jason, I’ll take care of the spill,” he says.
It’s worse than a spill, I want to tell him. We’re never going to clean this up. Never.
It’s a stain.
We’re leaving a stain.
But if I don’t get Jason out of here, he’s going
