“Has she listened to you before?” my mother asks slowly.
I could swear we’ve had the conversation before but apparently she’s forgotten. “No. Half the time she’s sitting in the room, listening to others, but when my name is called, she gets up and leaves. It’s as if she has something against me.”
“I’m sure that is not it, Madison. You’re overreacting.”
Her condescension makes my blood boil.
“What did she say when you spoke with her?” Her jaw is tight as if waiting to be delivered the worst kind of news.
“I’m sure you play beautifully and if I had the time, I’d consider your application. I simply cannot at this time in your life.”
Mom just nods. “Well, at least now you can stop emailing and bothering her.”
“But it was my only chance at a private instructor,” I cry.
“We’ve been over this. You don’t need one. You play fine as it is.”
I blow out a sigh and turn to look out the window. She doesn’t get it. She never will.
Why the hell should I practice anymore? I’ll never get into the school of my dreams, so I might as well give it up and pick something else to do with my life. But, I have no clue what that would be. I love music. It’s in my soul and every part of my being. Songs play in my head, and I need to write them down, but I know nothing about composing a song. Just plunking out keys and writing the notes on sheet music. The only school that can teach me about composition is Juilliard.
Actually, Juilliard isn’t at the top of my list. It’s only there because it’s in New York and I can live at home and commute every day. That would save money.
If I could go to my absolute dream school, it would be Indiana University Jacobs School of Music. But that is in Bloomington, Indiana, and I sure as hell can’t commute from Manhattan to there every day.
I’m not even sure I’d like Indiana. The farthest west I’ve gone is Pennsylvania, and we weren’t even close to the Ohio border. Then, there is always Berklee College of Music in Boston, or Eastman School of Music in Rochester. Not that any of this matters. Without private lessons and getting better, none of these schools will even look at me.
“Why the heavy sighs?” my mother asks when we get into the house.
“Nothing,” I finally say. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Peyton isn’t that good of a friend if she gets you into trouble.”
I roll my eyes and turn around. “You don’t get it at all, do you?”
Mom blows out a long-suffering breath. “What?”
“This is about college. Of being able to go where I want. To study music.”
“We’ve had this discussion, Madison. There is nothing wrong with studying for two years at a community college and then deciding on a university. You are much too young to know what you really want to do in life.”
“I already know,” I cry. “I want to play. I want to compose.”
“So do millions of others like you. When you come up with a plan for a career that will also feed you, then we’ll talk.”
“Just because you and dad want boring careers like being an accountant and cop, doesn’t mean I want the same.”
“I’m a CPA and your father is a Captain, not that there is anything wrong with being an account or patrol cop. Any of those jobs will support you.”
“So, you want me fed but miserable for the rest of my life. Glad we cleared that up.” With that I stomp up the stairs and slam my door. They don’t get it. They never will.
My phone dings and I glance down. I’m not supposed to be on the phone, but it’s not like Mom actually took it away either.
Peyton: Just scored tickets to see Christian Sucato play.
He is the best saxophone player around.
Me: When?
Peyton: Tonight!
Me: Where?
Peyton: Some cancer awareness fundraising event. Mom and Dad can’t go so they gave me the tickets.
I get grounded for breaking the rules and Peyton gets tickets to see the hottest saxophone player ever to live perform. Her parents go to these things all the time though. It’s nothing to them. They are loaded and are always giving Peyton tickets for the events.
Peyton: Come with me?
Me: Can’t. Grounded.
Peyton: Which means you’re stuck in your room all night, right?
Me: Not stuck, but I’m not leaving it. Don’t want to talk to mom again.
Peyton: Sneak out. They’ll never know.
Me: I can’t.
But, I want to. Really, really bad. If I hadn’t screwed up today, my parents would probably let me go. This is Christian Sucato! I’ve never seen him play, but I’ve seen pictures and have his music.
Peyton: Please!
My best friend is a rule breaker. Not really bad rules. She wouldn’t go do something stupid like hook up with a stranger or try drugs or drink or anything like that, but she does have more fun than me. I’ve followed the rules my entire life. Well, except for today, and I can’t get the one thing I want—lessons with Mrs. Dosek.
Me: What time?
Peyton: Seven.
My stomach knots. I can’t believe I’m even considering sneaking out of my house. But, this is Christian Sucato.
There’s a knock at my door, and I mute my phone and shove it under the covers as my mom walks in.
“Dinner is in an hour. Your father is taking John to a basketball game tonight, and I promised Savannah that I’d take them to the movies.”
“Fine!” I grumble. My younger brother and sister get to go do something, not that I want to do either of those things. At least not with my parents. If it were one of my older brothers or even Brisa, my older sister asking, I might go, but Cheng and Brisa were in college and Mashaka moved out and has his own place. That’s who I should call. He could always get around Mom, but he’s
