Nocturne(3)

Nathan squeezed my shoulders and smiled bigger than I’d ever seen him smile. “You’re in, baby. You’re in!”





Savannah


“I’m glad we were able to put off this class until Madeline was teaching it.” Nathan stretched his arm across the back of my chair as we settled into one of our last required Music Theory classes.

It was spring semester of my junior year—his senior year—and while there was still a light covering of snow on the ground, since it was late January, I was thrilled to be taking a class with Madeline White. She was a flutist who I’d had the pleasure of working with off and on for the last few years, and she’d been my private instructor since I entered the conservatory. Most importantly, she shared some of the same liberal music theories we did.

“I totally agree. Our last two classes were painfully boring. At least we have a chance of staying awake this semester.” I chuckled and rested my head on his shoulder for a second.

Nathan and I are both natural flutists. That’s not bragging—it’s a damn relief. We were able to tackle harder note runs and the highest and lowest octaves before most of our peers, opening a wide range of opportunities for us when we got here on campus.

While our technical abilities might lead some to assume that we would spend our days digging through the vast historical music library to conquer pieces written before the founding of America, sometimes we did just the opposite. We played with the music. We took the gift we were each given and tried to make it fun, alive. I love the classical pieces, don’t get me wrong. There’s something chilling about playing pieces written during the middle of a plague when the world was falling to total shit. However, being able to take notes invented before certain cultures and languages, and turn them into something fresh and new was invigorating. White, we knew, felt the same way. While I knew we’d have to cover a lot of the nuts and bolts of music and scales and the way pieces were written, I was happy to work through the tedious material with someone as bright as Madeline. She always told us to call her Madeline while we were at camp, and I wondered if it would be the same in class.

“It’s ten after.” Nathan shifted in his seat. He can’t sit still for long. Which, by the way, is hilarious to watch him try to control during a performance. “Where the hell is she?”

Just then the door opened, and the class sighed in a mix of disappointment at having to stay in the class, and relief that it would get under way.

“What the hell?” I groaned as Nathan pulled his pencil out of his bag.

He sat up and looked to the door. “What’s he doing in here?”

It was Gregory Fitzgerald, smugness wrapped in a cello, from my audition three years prior. I had, obviously, gotten into the conservatory. Not only did I get in, I’d received glowing accolades from the judging committee upon my first few months here. From everyone except him, that is.

Whatever.

I hadn’t seen much of him around campus since getting in, but, three years later, he was walking into Madeline White’s Music Theory class. With his cello case. He still had the same beard, though it was slightly shorter. It was well-groomed but made him look a bit older than the thirty-one years I knew he was. That was probably what he was going for. I read an interview with him once, in the BSO newsletter that was sent to my grandparents’ house every quarter, along with newsletters from the other four Big Five orchestras. The reporter asked him what he thought about being one of the youngest first-section cellists for the Pops. He shrugged it off, arguing that age and experience were trumped by hard work. His dark hair didn’t seem to have any grey in it, though I assumed that would change quickly if he never wiped the scowl off his face.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced unapologetically. “Unfortunately, Madeline White has had a personal emergency and will be out for the whole semester.”

Nathan leaned over and whispered in my ear, “And they couldn’t find someone else to fill in for her today but him?”

I shrugged. “We should call Madeline after class and see if she’s okay,” I whispered.

“I know. I really don’t want to have to find another instructor. I’ve worked with her forever.”

“Compassionate.” I smacked Nathan’s arm and shifted in my seat before I turned my eyes back to our new, attractive professor.

“So,” Fitzgerald continued, “I’ll be taking over this class.” A cacophony of complaints and cheers filled the class.

Christ.

Gregory Fitzgerald was a surprisingly divisive topic amongst students, given how little time he spent with the actual student body. Most of the population was in agreement about his ability; there was little you could do to argue that he was at the top of his field. And, most of the females seemed to be in agreement about his looks. As the guys around us began to frown at not getting to have class with the beautiful Madeline White this semester, the girls took on blushing grins, suddenly looking much more interested in music theory. His allure didn’t come exclusively from the clear blue of his eyes, but from the way they sought me out. Like prey, as he surveyed the field of students and targeted in on me.

Breathe.

The disagreements, however, began when we all tried to break down how it was he got there. He was known to spend twenty hours a day practicing before he made it to the Pops. Sure, that’s fairly typical, I guess. But, what wasn’t typical, were the rigorous hours he put in on a regular basis. Ten, fifteen hours every single day was the rumor, and it was only slightly less on performance days. Work, work, and more work was definitely his reputation, and my excitement about music theory this semester bottomed out in an instant.