Reckless Abandon(75)

I climb the step to the podium, holding the speech in my hand. I unfold the paper with my jittery hands and offer the crowd a smile before I begin. I start by thanking everyone for coming and explaining what an honor it is to be a part of the Juliette Academy. Light clapping is heard throughout the room.

I am halfway through the first part of my speech when I look to a table on the right hand side of the dance floor and see Alexander looking at me.

He introduced himself to me. It was a moment that seemed so ordinary but was it? That was him being real. Giving me something real. It was small, but it was there, and I passed right by it.

I look down at the paper in my hands. These words are as generic as the ones I accused Alexander of saying to me. There is no heart and no soul. They are just figures, numbers, and information. They are not real. And by real, I mean, they’re not true to me. They are not why I am here, not why I started to play music in the first place, and not why this little school in the heart of Manhattan has meant so much to me in a short amount of time.

When I look back at the crowd, I realize I must look silly. I’ve stopped talking mid-speech, and everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to speak.

Feel, Emma.

Be real.

Burn.

“I was ten years old the first time I saw someone play the violin,” I say, my words unsure at first as I’m going off-book, but I continue anyway. “I’m sure I’d heard a violin before but I had never seen someone play. As I watched the woman play, I was moved by the look of her. She wasn’t just playing a song. She was feeling the music. I wanted to feel what she was feeling too.

“For fifteen years the violin was my life. I studied it, pursued it. It wasn’t just my career. It was my life.” I look down at my scar and flex my hand feeling that sting that reminds me why I am here today. “Earlier this year I lost my brother in a horrific car accident, and my world was over. I couldn’t feel anything. I also lost my ability to play that day and I have the scar to prove it.

“Then I met a man and I fell madly in-love with him. He taught me how to feel the music again. And when that love was lost, it was music that got me through the pain.

“You see, teaching someone how to play an instrument is all in the mechanics. You can show a child how to push down on the key of a piano or bang on the head of a drum. But feeling the music? That comes from the heart.

“Most of the kids we teach, they won’t ever play professionally. Many will give up before they get to college. But if we can instill the love of song into every child that walks through our doors we are giving them a greater gift. We are teaching them how to feel. We are showing them how to connect. And we are making them better human beings for it.

“I lost everything, yet I still have something. I have passion. I have the beat in my soul to carry on and the strings in my heart to play it forward. The Juliette Academy is more than a building on Rivington. It is a place of love.

“Isn’t that why we’re here today? It’s not to get dressed up or drink and dance. There are children out there who have lost more than I have. Many will grow up and realize we live in a cruel, harsh world. Yet if we can give them an ounce of the passion and feeling and love we have to offer . . . well, we may be able to save them.” I smile at the thought. “And we may, just may, be able to save ourselves.”

The audience around me begins to clap and a few people rise to their feet and then a few more and a couple more. Soon, the entire room is on its feet, applauding for me. I say a quick thanks and depart the podium quickly. On my way to my table, I glance over at Asher’s table and notice that he’s not there.

I guess I should be used to him disappearing on me.





My taxi pulls up to the curb of my Mott Street apartment. The night was long and my feet are hurting. After my speech, we enjoyed a delicious dinner and then we danced until the event was over. I decided dancing with Crystal and Lisa was the best way to keep from having to answer their questions about Asher.

Asher—who, by the way, never came back. I saw Frank looking for him a few times and I can’t deny I glanced around, but to no avail. He did what he does best. He left.

I pay the cabbie and get out of the cab. I see the familiar figure of a man, huddled in the doorway, and I worry about poor Mattie, who must be freezing in the early December chill. It isn’t as cold as some of my Ohio nights, but it’s not the kind you want to be locked out of your apartment on.

But when he raises his head, I see it is not who I thought it was.

Asher stands up, brushing the gravel off his pant legs. He is still wearing his tuxedo. His bow tie is undone and hanging around his neck. Other than that, he still looks as perfect as he did when I last saw him a few hours ago.

I stop in my place by the curb and approach him tentatively. “What are you doing here?”

Asher’s eyes are sullen and leaden with emotion. He takes a deep breath and when he lets it out I start to hold my own. “My name is Alexander Gutierrez. My mother was Juliette Asher and my father was John Gutierrez—”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, Emma, I do. You asked for something real.” He holds out his hands to the side, open as in offering. “This is me. This is real.”

“Okay.” I pull my coat in, protecting myself from the evening chill. “Go on.”

Asher takes a beat to start, as if the weight of his words are hard to lift off his tongue. His red-rimmed eyes look deep into mine and I know what he is about to say is going to be potent with meaning.