Chapter 29

To sayI was ill-prepared for the Florida heat would be putting it lightly.

Or rather, the humidity, as Dad likes to keep saying with a sort of har-har-har air about him that tells me he knows his joke is lame as hell…but can't seem to stop from throwing it out there every chance he gets.

They warned me of course—Mom and Dad, and even Izzy. And I'm not stupid. I knew, in theory, that it gets hot as fuck down here.

But I was not prepared for it to be quite this unbearable, smack-dab in the middle of September. In July? Sure, yeah, totally. But it's fall.

The evenings haven't been too bad. But the days are sweltering, even when it rains.

On the bright side, we leave tomorrow, and I'll no longer have to grin and bear it through the short-sleeved shirts and khaki shorts Mom insisted I buy when I nearly fainted on the second day, drowning in thick layers of fabric and triple as much sweat as during Pennsylvanian summers.

On an even brighter note, tonight, I get to cover up. Even if it is an ill-fitting suit that makes me look like Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Slicked back hair and everything.

"You do not!" Izzy exploded in a snort earlier when I said as much. "You're fucking gorgeous, JJ. And one day, you better know it."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"It's a fucking fact." And with that she wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, before whirling around and leaving the room in a flurry of black lace and loose tendrils of hair curling in her wake.

If anyone's the gorgeous one tonight, it's my sister.

Gone are the ripped jeans and band tees and Converse.

Gone is the wild mane of long, wavy brown hair—hair that has suffered, much like myself in this humidity.

It's not the first time I've seen my sister all dressed up, obviously. Between recitals and competitions and school dances over the years…it's not at all an odd sight to see.

And yet, there's a sort of glow to her tonight—a fierceness to her that puts all past formal events to shame.

Isobel Montgomery is in her fucking element tonight.

The night she's been waiting for with equal parts anxiety and excitement for months.

The Notre Père Institute of Music showcase.

This is the performance that determines her future. The one where Izzy will play her ass off to impress a bunch of stuck-up pricks in order to snag a donor from their Board, and thus a spot at one of the most prestigious music schools in the world.

If no one picks her…

She doesn't get in.

Simple as that.

Not that I, or really any of us, have any doubt that she won't be…claimed or whatever. She's been on their radar for months, apparently, according to the murmurs I've heard from Mom and Dad. I don't know if Izzy knows that. She's been freaking out enough as it is.

Despite how neurotic and obsessive she's been these last few weeks leading up to tonight—and that's saying a lot, because she's always a bit neurotic and a lot obsessive when it comes to piano—I still stand by my earlier statement:

She's in her element.

That girl thrives under pressure.

Whereas I become as wilted as a century-old pressed flower in a long-forgotten journal.

The lights flicker a couple times in warning, and a hush falls over the semi-packed concert hall. Returning my focus to the here and now, I glance around, taking in all the formally dressed individuals taking their seats and getting settled for the show about to begin.

It surprisingly hasn't been too bad, so far. Sure, I feel like a hunched back alien butler dressed in this awful, poorly fitting suit.

But I'm covered head to toe.

And these strangers? They're just that. Strangers. They don't know me from Adam.

I've gotten a couple looks, sure, but it felt…different.

Felt especially different when one such look came with a wink.

My cheeks heat at the memory, and I slouch down in my seat.

He was…cute, I allow myself to observe now, in hindsight, as the guy's face fills my mind's eye. Older than me, but not by much. A little more…feminine than I think I'd go for.

My knee starts bouncing, and I dart a panicked gaze around, as if someone could be overhearing my thoughts. But no one's paying attention to me.

"Are you okay?"

Scratch that.

I turn my head, and give my mom a smile, nodding. "Yeah. Just antsy. Nervous for her. But, like, not in a bad way."

Mom nudges my shoulder. "I know. Me too."

"Are you sure it's a good idea…"

I'm already nodding, and she trails off. I tell her, "It would kill him to miss this."

Her mouth thins and she nods. "I know. But?—"

"It's okay," I say, and I find that I mean it. "It'll be dark and…and no one knows me here." With my softly uttered words, a solemn sort of understanding moves over her face, making her brown eyes gleam.

"I see," she says gently, and I try not to…bristle…or draw too much attention to myself.

On the other side of her, Dad leans forward, meeting my gaze with forced air of sternness. "If they catch you, just remember?—"

But he never gets a chance to finish what he was about to say, because Mom's batting at him, telling him, "Quiet you," and then the lights are dimming again.

This time, it's a slow descent into darkness, telling me it's time to get moving.

Patting my front pocket, I make sure my phone's still tucked safely inside, and push to a crouched, awkward stand. Shuffling past my parents, I quickly start making my way up the red carpeted aisle toward the back of the auditorium, where seats hide in the shadow of the balcony.

Most of the seats back here are empty, with the attendees having filled up the front row and the balcony above for the best views, or acoustics, or whatever.

At least, that's what Izzy said when we hatched up this little plan of ours.

There's a faint crackle, before a regal voice fills the room from the surround-sound speakers, instructing us that we should remain quiet and seated and silence our phones. No flash photography.

Loopholes, I think, mimicking what Izzy said.

There's no rule about FaceTiming.

And it's not like I'm recording this to broadcast online, let alone recording anyone but her.

The lights have nearly completely dimmed by the time I disappear under the overhang. Someone bumps me in the shadows—so dark under here, I didn't see them in my haste.

I murmur a quiet, "Excuse me," and hear something mumbled back in…

Russian?

Turning my head, I catch the back of a dark head of hair, and a black suit jacket, before facing forward once more, squinting and slowing my steps so as not to run into anyone else.

The doors back here are all sealed shut, allowing no light or noise in from the lobby beyond. Save for the very faint aisle lights along the floor, and the spotlight cutting a line over everyone's heads, aimed right at the thick, red, velvet stage curtain, it's pitch black in here now.

But it won't be for long.

I quickly slip into the aisle seat in the very back row, right up against the curved wall. Pulling out my phone, I tuck it between my oversized jacket, and unlock it. I already dimmed the brightness as low as it'll go earlier.

Pulling up my contacts, I click M, squinting to find his name.

There.

Izzy's the second performance tonight. So I don't click the Skype icon just yet. But it's locked and loaded for when I do.

The curtains part slowly, the rolling sound echoing in the deafening silence.

A boy enters from the left wings with the neck of a violin in one hand, and a bow pinched between his fingers in the other. He stops and turns center-stage, facing the microphone and the audience right where the spotlight spears through, lighting him up, and even from way back here I can see how…how calm he is.

I'd be shitting bricks.

Slinking down in my seat, I wait with bated breath and a nervous sort of thrill that I could get caught at any second as the guy on stage starts his piece. This is a ticketed, highly exclusive event after all. Despite how many seats there are—how many empty seats—they only permitted three guests per performer max.

Hence why I'm the only one here with my parents, and not Mason and Waylon too.

This trip was paid for by Notre Père in its entirety—flight and room included. An all-inclusive package, despite this just being one night out of our total stay of six.

Makes me wonder who's trying to woo who more.

The mad, high-pitched, and crazy-skilled rush of what was the peak of the guy's performance, fades into a low, somber, almost mournful trailing end.

When he finishes, and takes his bow, and the curtain closes, the concert hall doesn't explode into cheers like I was expecting. There's a very formal, stilted sort of…speculative atmosphere in the room as they clap. It's all very methodical, almost like the performers are being auctioned off on a conveyor belt.

It's not even a whole ten seconds before the curtains start to open once more.

Quickly unlocking my phone screen, I hit the button to video-call Mason.

He knows to expect this, so when he answers after the first ring, and our gazes meet—our faces pale in the surrounding shadows displayed on the screen, telling me he's watching this in the dark too—he just gives me a smile and a nod.

And then I tap the screen, flipping the camera, and lift my phone as high as I dare, zooming in on where Izzy, with a surprising amount of grace, all but floats toward the white baby grand that wasn't there during the first performance.

Izzy's long brown hair has been pulled up into a sort of braided up-do, with tendrils curling around her face and neck. Her face has been all painted up, and she wears a black lace dress with a high collar, a cinched waist, and billowy sleeves that are fastened tight above her wrists, giving her plenty of freedom to play.

And she's wearing heels—low ones, but heels all the same.

And tights—flesh-colored.

My gaze drops to my phone screen. The box in the corner shows Izzy just as she lifts her hands, placing them with practiced ease and grace on the keys.

Filling the rest of the screen is Mason, his face bigger than it was moments ago, like he's trying to get as close as he can get, from thousands of miles away.

A small, bittersweet smile creeps up my face as I watch his throat bob. He mouths something—his lips hardly moving. Too subtle for me to decipher. Probably I love you, or some variation of that.

But that's all quickly forgotten, as in the next breath, she begins to play.

It's a piece you'd think even I would be able to knock out at this point, with how often I've seen and heard her play it these last few months. Especially in the last week, whether it be her playing on her keyboard in our room, or practicing on the piano in the lobby, or just humming it without seemingly even being aware at every moment between…

It's a song I fear will follow me to the grave.

And yet, right now, flitting my gaze between her grandiose, rippling movements on stage as she owns this piece, and the face filling my phone screen, expression slackened with awe…

I realize, I've never heard the song quite like this.

Mason rolls his lips together, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He's nodding, and nodding, and fighting a smile, and he's?—

He's beautiful.

Try as I might to tear myself away, I can't…

Not when it hits me—really hits me—that this is all I'll ever have of him. That this is the only way I can watch him, with my heart cracked open, and him no more the wiser to it. Because his heart's too busy beating for someone else, so loud it drowns out anyone else's.

Drowns out mine. In a rhythm that was never meant for me.

It was never just my sister I had to compete with…

I see that now more than ever.

It's his love for music.

And both are so intrinsically tied, there's no one without the other.

I think of their matching tattoos, and as much as it kills me…

I get it now.

A Mason without Izzy is unfathomable…

Because a Mason without music is unfathomable.

And with that realization, as I watch the guy I'm pretty sure might be the love of my life…watch the love of his playing her actual heart out up there on stage…

It's all too easy to make my decision.

Whether or not I get into CalArts next year makes no difference, or any other school. Come a year from now, if not sooner, should I graduate high school early—something I can definitely make happen if I need to…

I'm leaving Shiloh in the dust, and I'm starting over.

Starting fresh.

Alone.