12. Niles

Chapter twelve

Niles

“ H is type is the reason I uninstalled that infuriating dating app. Do you know how many closeted men I had dinner with? They’re lured by the idea of being out, but when faced with reality, they’re cowards. God, I’m too old for this shit.”

“There is no god.”

“Shut up, Koa. Let me despair about the woes of being a single gay man in peace.”

“More wine?” He drew the bottle forward and uncorked the top.

“Yes. Please.” I pushed my empty glass across the island. The dirty plates from our long-finished dessert remained. I stabbed a finger in the graham cracker crumbs of what had once been a cherry cheesecake piecrust before Jersey admonished me and took it away to be washed.

The hulking ex-hockey player fit surprisingly well into Koa’s life. Although nothing alike, Jersey brought Koa peace, and for that I was grateful.

Koa spoke as he returned my topped-up glass. “The closeted population have their reasons. We live in a controversial society. Not everyone wants to deal with people and their unsolicited opinions day in and day out. Not everyone is as openly affectionate as you.”

“Can I offer an opinion?” Jersey closed the dishwasher, pushed a few buttons to start the load, and slung a dish towel over his shoulder as he helped himself to his refilled glass of wine. “As a bisexual man who spent a good portion of his life in the spotlight, sometimes it’s easier to be who the people want you to be rather than ruffle feathers because, let’s face it, someone’s feathers will always be ruffled if you claim to be anything but heterosexual. I wasn’t closeted, per se, but I was careful not to allow myself to become a walking billboard for equality in the NHL. It would have caused potential conflict with teammates, fans, and sponsors. Harassment was a real concern, so I kept my personal life as personal as possible.”

“But you would flaunt a woman on your arm,” I pointed out.

“Of course. No one balks at that.”

I glanced at Koa. “Doesn’t that sound like a bisexual erasing themselves? Isn’t that the war they fight day in and day out?”

Jersey chuckled. “It absolutely is, and no one does it better, especially if they aren’t confident in their skin. Being straight is easy. Being bi is a lot to explain, and most people don’t understand. I didn’t say it was right. I didn’t say it wasn’t toxic and perpetuating stereotypes. I’m just saying, that’s the reality of fame and being anything but cis het.”

“August is not a hockey star.”

“He’s a world-renowned musician,” Koa said. “In his circles, it could be equally damaging to be out. Think about it. Many European cultures aren’t as accepting as we are on this side of the world, and most of his career has taken place across the ocean. Germany, Greece, Austria, and Russia, to name a few countries. It could be the difference between working or not working. Homosexuality is still criminalized in sixty-four countries.”

“Well, it’s not here, and he’s been in North America for several years, so your argument is faulty.”

“What about his family?” Koa asked.

“What about them? My parents would love it if I was straight, but alas, I live to disappoint them.” I drew a scented candle forward and dug through a wicker bowl of junk that perpetually decorated Koa’s kitchen island until I found a book of matches. I didn’t want to talk about August anymore. I heard the argument and knew I was playing the petty card, unfairly judging someone whose life was not mine.

I lit the candle and stared into its flame as it trembled and grew brighter. The truth was, I was lonely, and it had been a long time since an intelligent man had drawn my attention. Despite the green pallor of envy, I harbored an admiration for August. I wanted to know everything about him and live vicariously through him.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m exhausting all this energy, bitching about a man who will be gone in a few months. What do I care? Why are we even talking about him? Are you two coming to the concert on Thursday?”

The pair took the change of topic with grace, neither one pointing out that it was me who wouldn’t let it go. It was me who was bothered. It was me who was hurt.

***

The week progressed as anticipated. Hours upon hours of August occupying the chair beside me as we listened to students’ solos. For privacy, we confiscated a practice room. The four walls grew especially close between performances when we were left alone to confer over grades.

We did not discuss the jazz club or the near kiss in the parking lot, and although he offered plenty of quality feedback—if not harsh at times—on the solos, I found myself irrationally irritated and arguing for the sheer sake of it.

August touched his tie and shook his head as he scanned the marks I’d given a senior flutist. “No. I disagree. I don’t feel she interpreted the piece correctly. The style of a rondo is not the same as an intermezzo. She didn’t prove she knew the difference. Plus, she ignored the dynamic markings altogether. The slow, melodic sections should have used more air across the embouchure and less tongue. Her attack and release were all wrong.”

“She was giving it her own artistic flare.”

“By destroying what the composer set out to do? Mozart would be insulted.”

“Well, Mozart isn’t here, and Natalie showed guts by taking on a difficult piece and daring to put her own spin on it.”

“Classical music is not meant to be reworked to that degree. Is this the kind of thing you teach?”

“What? Free expression? Yes, in fact, it is. Is that a problem?”

August tossed his pen on the table with a huff. “What do I know?”

“Nothing when it comes to teenagers. Believe me.”

A low blow, and the moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

Each subsequent battle grew progressively worse.

On Tuesday, I waved a hand over the aggressively marked form he’d completed on a clarinet player named Rianna. “What is this? We’re not grading poise and posture. It’s not a category.”

“It should be. Humility has no place on stage. The sooner she learns that the better. She must command and control the audience the second she walks out there. She must exude confidence. Arrogance. Plant her feet, lift her chin, and prove herself worthy. A person can’t afford to be meek and mild in this business. You don’t slouch. You don’t tap your toe to keep the beat. You are poised and professional. Both feet rooted to the floor at all times. Firm. Confident. You don’t grimace when you make a mistake. There is no room for flaws when the spotlight is on you.”

I blinked several times in astonishment as August explained his position. He’d lost his mind. “What the hell are you talking about? These are teenagers, and we’re in a high school music room. Do you see a spotlight? Rianna is sixteen. What stage?”

August blanched and glanced at the harshly marked form, then at the practice room surrounding us. He balled the paper in a fist and excused himself.

I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

The worst exchange came on Thursday when it was Constance’s turn to perform. I’d considered how to approach the situation all week.

“You can’t be part of this. Not when she’s your daughter,” I said before Constance appeared. “It would be seen as favoritism.”

“I won’t grade her, but I’d like to watch.”

“She doesn’t need undue pressure.”

“My daughter is a performer. If she can’t operate under the strain of having a parent in the audience, she has no business pursuing a music career.”

“She’s fourteen.”

“And aiming for Juilliard.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The friction between us mounted by degrees. Every exchange turned caustic. Under it all was the ever-present attraction we pretended didn’t exist and the kiss we never shared. In place of lust grew anger, but who were we angry with? Each other or the situation? I was forty-four, far beyond miserly games and quibbles, but there we were, battling it out like we were fresh out of high school. Pointing fingers. Accusing. Name-calling. All because August refused to have an adult conversation.

“We’ll leave it up to Constance. If she asks you to leave, you leave. If she’s okay with you staying, you keep your goddamn mouth shut. You don’t get an opinion on her grade. Period. I will take this to Dr. McCaine if I have to.”

“Yes, go tattle to your boss. Tell her the highly acclaimed professional doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“My god, you’re insufferable. I’m glad you didn’t have the balls to kiss me. That would have been a mistake.”

August’s dark eyes smoldered with rage, but he bit back whatever comment must have been brewing on his tongue when Constance opened the door.

She glanced between us, cold and indifferent toward her father, warm and smiling with me. I smugly enjoyed the contrast.

Constance placed her music on the available stand. Chin high, she acknowledged her readiness with a slight dip of her head. Although I sensed no notable discomfort from the young teen, I wanted to offer her options before she began.

“Your father has asked to remain in the room, but you should know, he won’t be part of the grading process. If you’d prefer that he leave, that’s perfectly acceptable.”

Constance’s expression didn’t change as she dashed a quick glance at her father and back. Since her hands were full and she couldn’t sign, I asked, “Do you want him to leave?”

Constance shook her head, seemingly undisturbed.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

As she commenced, I found myself watching August as much as I watched his daughter. I’d seen plenty of parents at concerts, radiating pride as their children performed, but none of them were ever so scrutinous. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know August dissected every note and pitch, analyzed her poise and posture, and critiqued her technique and interpretation.

Constance wasn’t a child. She was a project. She was his personal masterpiece to sculpt and display at will. It curdled my stomach.

When I tuned into her playing, the indigestion got worse, not better. How could I objectively grade this girl?

No mark would suitably match whatever August had already assigned in his head. Too low would be insulting, and I’d suffer his wrath. Too high would justify his claim that I knew nothing about the nuances of classical music. To be critical would suggest superiority, and August would never see me that way. I was a lowly high school teacher. I had never attended Juilliard or any other revered music school. I’d never played with a symphony orchestra or graced the stage as a renowned musician. I was mediocre at best.

The truth was, for a fourteen-year-old, grade-nine student, Constance’s performance was flawless. Stage-worthy. On par or better than anything I could have done. He knew it, and I knew it.

Constance finished and lowered the violin, offering a graceful bow of the head like she’d done weeks ago on the stage at Roy Thompson Hall. A virtuoso at fourteen. Hiding my turmoil—my envy—I smiled. “That was incredible.”

She signed thank you and collected her music, pointing at the door with a quirked brow.

“You may go.”

I waited for August to say something or stop her from exiting. Any regular parent would have at least offered their child a reassuring smile. Praise. He did not. He focused on the blank marking sheet I’d not permitted him to fill out. I had no doubt he was taking notes inside his head.

When the door closed, he shifted to face me, the anticipatory look waiting for feedback.

The only thing I’d written on my page was Constance’s name and the title of the piece she’d performed. I turned it face down, hedging, unsure what to say. “It was perfection. I’ll have to consider the finer details before giving her a grade.”

“Constructive criticism will help her improve.”

“There’s not a lot to criticize.”

“There is always room for criticism. Perfection doesn’t exist.”

“It does when it’s your daughter, and her skill outshines the teacher’s. Anything I say will be wrong. She shouldn’t be in this class. I haven’t managed to teach her a single thing. The joke’s on me, isn’t it? If it’s not you making me feel inferior, it’s her.”

I stood, collecting the stack of marked forms and banging them into a pile. “No more today. I have a concert tonight, and I need to prepare.”