As Far as You'll Take Me Read online

  Why would I ever turn down a chance to impress someone from the London Phil?

  “Okay,” I say with a smile. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

  The rest of lunch is uneventful by comparison. We talk more about Sang and how brilliant he is. I nod along, still feeling the rush of excitement about our upcoming trip. The many different ways I see my life playing out spin inside my head. And for the first time in a long, long time, I’d be happy with every one.

  When I get back to the apartment, Shane’s in the living room. He throws up a welcoming wave, so I take a seat at the dining table across from him. He’s nursing a warm tea, and the bitter aroma fills the air.

  I open up Sophie’s video on my laptop, not realizing the volume is up as high as possible. My performance pierces through the air, and Shane jumps. I rush to adjust the volume.

  “Sorry,” I say, cringing in my chair.

  His laugh replaces the awkward silence. “Is that you? I mean, I’m assuming it is because you play that piece constantly. Where are you in that?”

  “Marble Arch, the tube station.”

  He gives me a confused look, which fades into a smile. “Never thought I’d see that.”

  “I know it hasn’t been long, but I haven’t gotten any bites on jobs. I don’t know how else to stand out. I keep seeing these applications that ask for portfolios, and Sophie thought this would help. I’m starting a YouTube channel.”

  “You don’t even have Facebook.”

  “I used to!” I sigh. “But you’re right, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Here,” he says as he gets up and sits next to me, “let’s work on your social presence. I do this stuff for the bookshop, when they let me.”

  In thirty minutes, I have a website. It’s a pretty weak one: my bio, links to my YouTube (which is still empty), and my headshots. Which are starting to look weird to me. Why am I holding my oboe so close to my face? Why is my grin so creepy? Is this why I’m not getting auditions?

  I play the full video for Shane.

  “This is … epic. Of course your first time busking you’d be thrown into an impromptu duet with Sang.”

  “You know him?”

  “We all do. At least, we know of him. He was in the summer program last year, and got to tour with Jersey Boys recently. All of the Knightsbridge people see him as a god or something.”

  My phone starts buzzing on the table—it’s Megan.

  “Go ahead,” Shane says. “I’ve got your video uploading now.”

  I walk into my bedroom and answer the call.

  “Hey, loser.” Megan chuckles. “I thought you’d suddenly become too good for us.”

  “Hey.” I hear my echo. I’m on Bluetooth. “Isn’t it, like, nine in the morning over there? What are you doing in your car?”

  “Skye and I are making the most out of our summer. First stop, Waffle House.”

  “I think I already miss our breakfast runs. Get your hash browns double covered for me.” In Waffle House slang, that means two slices of American cheese.

  “What’s happening over there? Kiss any charming British boys yet?”

  I pause, searching for a response. Too long a pause.

  “Wait, I was joking.” Megan gasps. “You didn’t!”

  I’m two parts embarrassed, one part flustered. “Just one … time.”

  “Good going, Mart!” Skye shouts from the passenger seat.

  I cringe. Here’s the thing. I’ve been open about my sexuality in London. I feel comfortable telling these people I’ve just met, and it’s not been a big deal.

  But it was a big deal back home. Not because Skye or Megan are gay-haters (they’re not), but being raised in a conservative shithole of a town means you’re around a lot of closed-minded people. People leave divorce court and get in line to picket a gay wedding for destroying the values of marriage.

  And beyond that, this was my secret to tell. I’ve held it for a decade, and she robbed me of a chance to tell Skye in a way that felt right for our friendship.

  “You guys, this is weird. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Come on,” Skye responds. “You can trust us. And apparently you’ve been open about it in London.”

  “Tell us about the kiss, you whore.”

  “Harsh, Meggy.”

  A pause. She hates being called Meggy more than anything. I let it sink in.

  “It was good.” There are more words for this, but I don’t know how to say them. I feel weird saying them. “It felt real, I guess. It was that cute guy who picked me up at the airport for Shane. He kind of held my hand when he was showing me around the town. And I kept feeling this connection whenever we made eye contact, like there was something more there. But it was still so unexpected.”

  “So are you going to date?” Megan says, some seriousness to her voice. “Or is this just a … thing?”

  “Oh, it’s a whole thing. And I don’t know. He doesn’t have the best reputation here, but he’s been super nice to me. I think I want to find out for myself, though, and not just take other people’s word for it.” I sigh. “I mean, that’s what I’d like someone to do if they heard stuff about me. Is that silly?”

  “I get why you’d want to be careful,” Skye says. “But, like, this is a really big deal. I feel like you should be celebrating it. You’re happy about it, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m very happy about it, actually.” The realization hits me, and a warmth floods my body. “It’s all happened so fast, and I think he’s a bit of a risk. But I actually want to take that risk. And I never want to take risks.”

  “Huh. I don’t even know how to handle you crushing on someone.” Megan shuts off the car. “Look, we just got to Waffle House, but we’ll catch up, and you can show us all your hickeys on Friday.”

  “Friday?”

  “Yeah, you committed to our weekly FaceTime.”

  I laugh. “Riiiiight. I think my signature was forged, but I guess I’ll oblige. Call me whenever. I’ll be around.”

  “Lurrrrrves you,” Megan says. Skye cracks up in the passenger seat.

  “Yeah. ’Bye, weirdo. You too, Skye.”

  My breath catches as I hang up the phone, and I blow air out and tighten up my face so I don’t tear up.

  I think of all the experiences I haven’t told them about, and I try to sort through what I will and won’t say. But I don’t even know how to tell these stories to Megan, mostly because before this week, all my stories involved her.

  12 MONTHS AGO

  DIARY ENTRY 3

  I’ve been on British soil for about three days … so I had to have my catch-up call with Megan. You’ll have her in class next year, Mr. Wei. You’ll have many arguments with her, and you’ll lose more than half of them. Also, fair warning, Megan’s already started researching every education law to see if she can get out of doing this project over the summer while you’re not technically her teacher. You probably know this by now, but no teacher makes it through the school year unscathed. I’ll try to be extra calm this year to make up for it.

  We have a balancing effect on people. Which is why I needed this phone call.

  “Got any glitter on you?” she asked me immediately upon answering the phone. “Here’s what you should do.”

  She went on to tell me, in detail, how I should sneak out to the London Pride parade, decked out in glitter and rainbows, and, while that sounds nice, the issue with family trips is that while on them, you can never actually escape your family. Even if Shane and I could get out of here, I’d never be brave enough to do something like that.

  I tried to get an update on her own family trip, but shockingly, I didn’t get much. I know it’s been hard since it became just her and her mom, staying on the same beach they all went to year after year when she was growing up.

  I know this, even though she’s never said it. It’s hard to have a real conversation with her sometimes. Can you really be so close to someone, know everything about them, and still … not know th
em?

  She’s my very, very best friend. But just between you and me, Mr. Wei, I don’t think she knows me either. And that makes me feel lonely.

  THIRTEEN

  The cork part of my reed makes a squeaking sound as I ease it into my oboe. I close my eyes as I do it, inching it closer and closer to the base until it’s in the right spot. Too far in and the tone will be sharp, too far out and it’ll be flat. Of course, I won’t fully know if it’s the right spot until I play, but after you do it fifty thousand times, you have a pretty good idea of where it should go.

  It’s a ritual.

  My breathing’s slowed a bit, and I can feel the tension easing throughout my body. I’m shut in this soundproof box, and I couldn’t be more thankful that the practice rooms on the Knightsbridge campus look, sound, and feel the same as the ones back home. This even smells the same—kind of sterile, lightly perfumed by the wood oboe in my hands and the reed near my face.

  I place the reed between my lips, and force air through it. A warm sound fills the space, and my fingers pad the keys without my mind expressly giving the order. I’m transported back to my hometown bedroom, practicing runs until my cheeks go numb. I slow down, though, and pull air into my diaphragm.

  Though I mock it from time to time, I really do love this instrument. There’s nothing like it. Clarinets don’t have the character; flutes can’t pierce through you in the same way.

  As I practice, my mind keeps nudging me back to the cross necklace that’s stuffed into my bag, for some reason. For so long, music was how I escaped religion, escaped feelings of inadequacy and shame, and just got to be myself.

  But my oboe playing isn’t too different from a religion of my own: the steady rituals, the inpouring of emotion, the full belief in something more than you. In that way, it’s almost filled that god-shaped void in my heart. I was always there for my religion, but my religion was never there for me.

  And I guess I’m still not over it.

  But I manage to feel full and find peace here, in these moments, connecting with music. Finding god in my own rituals.

  I think back to my duet with Sang, or the jam session in the park. A smile tugs at my lips, breaking my embouchure and pulling my tone sharp. That’s a kind of organized religion too.

  A knock at the door shakes my already broken focus, and I jump when I look through the soundproof window.

  Dr. Baverstock walks in, and my mind goes flying.

  I’m not supposed to be here.

  He witnessed the absolute flop of an audition I had last year.

  By the caution in his expression, he one-hundred-percent recognizes me.

  “Mr. Pierce, isn’t it?” he says, before I can spiral anymore.

  “Ah, yep. You can just call me Marty. Hi, Dr. Baverstock.” I pop the cork out of my oboe and reach for my case. “Sorry, I know I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “No, it’s quite all right. A bit slow today, wouldn’t you say? Sorry to interrupt, but I was taking the short distance between the orchestra space and my office when I heard a most unusual sound.”

  I don’t respond, but he smiles. “You see, I don’t have any oboes in my orchestra. It is my principal instrument, so I’m naturally very picky when it comes to the instrument. And we had one promising young lad audition with this piece just last year. Came all the way from America to do it.”

  My cheeks must be glowing red. I wish I could just melt into the padded walls. But he gives me a genuine smile, and his support is what’s keeping me together right now. Just barely.

  “Marty, I don’t know what exactly was going on last year, but I do know that if you had played that piece how you just did, I would have happily accepted you into the program.”

  Embarrassment creeps over me. I’m overwhelmed with the feeling of failure that followed me all the way back to the States. I wallowed in that feeling for so long, until Shane helped pull me out. Until I made a new plan.

  “Thanks,” I say. “But … I didn’t. So.”

  “So you figured something else out?”

  I pause, and let my gaze drift. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good.” He gestures toward me. “What you have here is special, the hold you have over music and how it connects perfectly with your emotions. I can teach technique all day, but I can’t teach people that.”

  I nod. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

  “And for technique,” he says as he flips my sheet music back a page, “get this run under your fingers with a metronome first. When you drop and build after the sforzando, you start to lose it by the end. It’s almost there.”

  I grab a pencil out of my bag and make some light notes on my music.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Are you sure it’s okay I’m in here?”

  “I hear you’ve been recruited for Mr. Reid’s end-of-term recital,” he says. “Since you’re helping Knightsbridge, for what I assume is no pay, the least I can do is give you access to the practice rooms whenever you want.”

  He winks and then steps out of the room. The heavy door closes with a hiss. And I’m alone. I can’t help but flash back to the audition I ruined. How everything fell apart. How I fell apart.

  The pieces of my oboe are spread around me. And I know the only thing that’ll put me back together is to start the ritual all over again.

  FOURTEEN

  There are moments, like this, when the landscape flies by my window and it feels a little like home. Straight roads, livestock farms, and not much else.

  But then I remember we’re driving on the left side of the road. And I’m on the right side of the car, but the driver is in the seat in front of me. And all of the farms have sheep. Miles and miles of sheep. And every few minutes, we course through a roundabout, which is like an intersection that never stops moving in a circle, and by some magic you learn which lane you’re supposed to be in when you exit.

  “I can’t believe how calm Baverstock was today in recitals,” Ajay says.

  Each Friday, all of the school comes together for an hour of short recitals, where a few people perform one piece each. They’re technically open to the public, so Shane and I were able to sneak in and watch.

  Rio and Sophie both performed solos—possibly to prove a point—and it was clear to see why the conductor, Dr. Baverstock, can’t decide on a first chair. They’re both extremely talented in different, but equally captivating, ways.

  “What did he say—he’s ‘never been so impressed by a crop of summer musicians.’ ” Pierce dons a posh accent while quoting him.

  Dani shakes her head. “I’m tired of talking about those recitals. Sorry, Soph—you were epic. But I don’t want to talk about school anymore.”

  “No offense taken,” she replies. “I’m just glad I got through it.”

  “What I want to talk about,” Dani continues, “is how you and Marty just happened to run into Sang, and then he gets to go and play a duet with him.”

  “The video’s really good, mate,” Ajay says. Pierce grunts in agreement.

  “You’re welcome,” Sophie says. “If anyone else wants to commission me for an iPhone recording, I’ll send over my prices.”

  Pierce nudges me. “Your portfolio is going to be looking great.”

  “I don’t know if it’ll make much difference. I played one song. From a movie. That I’ve been playing since eighth grade. I’m nothing like Sang—he just figured it out and played it alongside me, acting like we’ve practiced this our whole lives.”

  Pierce releases a dry laugh. “Hey, sometimes it’s okay to ride on someone’s coattails, if it gets you where you want to go.”

  A chuckle escapes me, and my gaze falls to my hands in my lap. I try to ignore Pierce’s hands, when I notice they’re fairly close to mine. Yes, hand-holding was all the rage at age twelve, but I kind of missed out on that, and the one time we’ve done it was not enough to satiate this need.

  Pierce puts a hand on my leg, near my knee. But I’m wearing shorts, so his hand is def
initely touching my leg hair, and that’s a gross thing to think about, but it’s definitely sending chills up my leg and into my special regions, but I can’t show how this is affecting me, so I turn to him and smile like I’m the most normal kid in Normalville, meanwhile I’m shaking on the inside, and shit I forgot to breathe and …

  His body slides down a bit in his seat. He’s smaller than me in every way, so when he slouches and leans into me, he’s able to rest his head softly on the side of my arm.

  I glance over his head to see Sophie’s eyes widen. She looks to me and nods in approval.

  This is real.

  No amount of googling can prepare you for this moment. When you inch your way toward a relationship, testing boundaries and learning limits. He made the first move, putting his hand on my leg. He made the second move, resting against me.

  If I don’t do something fast, he’ll pull away. He’ll think I’m rejecting him.

  I take a deep breath and coach myself through this. My lungs are about to burst with excitement, but I have to keep my cool.

  I slowly lift my arm and lean back against the window. This prompts him to pull into me, resting his head on my chest.

  (Side note: I am definitely getting excited in ways that are one-hundred-percent not okay in a car full of people.)

  I place my arm around him and pray I don’t look as awkward as I feel. He’s warm on my chest—it’s warm in here—but I could let him stay forever. The fresh, fruity smell of his shampoo hits my nose.

  We stay like that for a minute before I can breathe again. I see him rise and fall on my chest as I take in air, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  He made two moves. I made one.

  Time to even the score.

  His hands are pressed together and rest somewhere in the void between my leg and his lap. I bring my hand around and place it over his. God, his hands are warm and mine feel like they’ve just come in from a blizzard.

  This moment is sweet and it’s never going to last.

  Sophie’s stopped watching, but I wonder what she’s thinking. I can’t get her warning out of my head. She thinks he’s just going to make me fall for him, then kick me to the curb.