Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Gail holds up a hand in a stopping motion, annoyance biting through her tone. “Miss Westbrook.”
Ivory pauses, peering at the woman expectantly.
With a bothered sigh, Gail gestures at the surrounding walls. “This is Leopold. Not School of Pop.”
Subtly, slowly, Ivory’s eyes shift and connect with mine. In that fragment of a second, I see the heart of the woman I love, and it’s smiling at me with radiant resolve. It’s merely a moment of eye contact, but I feel her as if she were right beside me, assuring me that all is right in our world. My pulse thrums through my veins.
She knows exactly what she wants, and she’s not just telling me. She’s showing me in the most earthshaking way possible. In an audition for her dream. Through a song she identifies most with.
I maintain an expression of indifference and calmly fold my hands in my lap. But inside, I’m shaking beneath the shock of realization. She’s not breaking up with me. She’s saying goodbye to Leopold. What I don’t understand is why? What changed?
Gail leans back in the chair. “Why do you want to attend this school?”
Shoulders back and spine straight, Ivory lifts her chin. “To learn from the best of the best.”
“I see.” Gail adjusts her glasses. “What are you looking for in an instructor?”
Ivory smiles, her eyes alight. “Expertise, of course. A firm hand to push me. An untraditional mind to expand my own. And discipline.” Her gaze flicks to me and back to the judge. “When it’s needed.”
Her answer is directed at Gail, but I know those words are for me. I embody every trait she mentioned. I am her ideal instructor.
Gail’s mouth forms a flat line. “Leopold is a traditional school, and our training concentrates on classical, baroque—”
Ivory turns to the keyboard and busts out the hardest section of Balakirev’s Islamey.
If she doesn’t intend to go to school here, I don’t know what she’s trying to prove. Nevertheless, the shivering intensity of her performance bangs through the room with gusto. There are no rhythm, note, dynamic errors. Every sound she produces is flawless.
All three judges lean forward in their chairs, eyes wide, mouths parted. Yeah, they’re impressed. They fucking should be. I bet they’ve never seen someone attempt Islamey in an audition, let alone pull it off with immaculate skill.
Ivory cuts the piece short and raises a brow at them. I feel my pride all the way to my toes.
Gail rests her fingers over her mouth then smooths back her hair. “Okay, Miss Westbrook. You have our attention.”
Wearing a private smile, Ivory rises, straightens the black dress, and steps toward them. “I’ve spent my entire life saying, ‘I want to get into Leopold.’ Most musicians do, you know? But I’ve been selling myself short. There are some brilliant piano instructors outside these walls. I can happily spend the next however many years perfecting my skill without moving to New York.”
My heart thumps so loudly I wonder if they can hear it across the room. I climb to my feet and step beside Ivory, hands clasped behind my back in silent support.
Gail stands, her expression etched in determination. “I need to converse with my colleagues…” When both men nod to her, she hardens her voice. “We would be honored for you to join us.”
Ivory nods. “Thank you, but I’ve made my decision.”
Extending an arm, Gail hands her a business card. “It’s an open offer. If you don’t find the instructor you’re looking for, this year, next year, or anytime in the future, we’ll have a seat for you.”
Goodbyes are exchanged, and Ivory and I walk silently through the halls, my head pounding with questions.
When we reach an empty courtyard outside, I can no longer hold my tongue. “Tell me why you did that. What the hell changed your mind?”
She wraps her arms around her waist and shudders against the chill in the air. “I don’t want to live here. It’s too cold.”
I hear the smile in her voice and shrug off my jacket, draping it over her shoulders.
She burrows into the wool, keeping her steps in pace with mine. “When I sat behind that piano, I imagined what it would be like learning from an instructor, a mentor, who isn’t you. Then I played the song that fit me instead of the requirements. A song that expresses passion and voice, something I’ve never felt through the textbook pieces. The judges didn’t approve, and that’s when I knew.” She stops and blinks up at me. “If I enrolled here, I would be forced to conform under the instruction of someone who doesn’t know me while practicing music that doesn’t touch me.”
Tendrils of warmth spread through my chest, but I wonder if she’s considered all the ramifications. “You won’t receive a degree under my tutelage. If you’re still aiming for that seat in the symphony, you won’t have the pedigree and prestige to put you there.”