Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [30]
He crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. “I don’t know, Andi. I think it sounds risky. Tough to pull off. I think at this stage it would be wiser just to do a paper on Malherbeau alone. Discuss his life and work, and then include a bit about his legacy at the end. You need a decent grade on this.”
I feel sucker punched. So that’s what this is all about. He doesn’t give a damn about music or why it matters to me. This is about grades. Everything’s about grades with him.
I know that. I know him. So why did I get my hopes up? Why did I think it would be different this time?
“What are the other kids doing? What format is Vijay using?”
“He’s writing a paper.”
“Look, I really think that—”
“Forget it,” I say, shutting up. And shutting down.
“Forget it? Forget what? Your thesis?” he says, his voice rising. “I’m not going to forget it, Andi. And neither are you. Do you have any idea how important this is? If you don’t complete your thesis, you can’t graduate. If you do complete it, and it’s any good, it might—I stress the word might—help offset the classes you failed this semester.”
He talks on, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m wishing. Wishing he could hear music. Wishing he could hear me. Wishing that for just a minute or two, he would close his eyes and listen to Malherbeau’s gorgeous Concerto in A Minor, the Fireworks Concerto, and feel what I feel. Feel the sound echoing in the hollows of his bones. Feel his heart find its rhythm in quarters and eighths.
I’m wishing he could hear that bleak metallic sample in Radiohead’s “Idioteque” and recognize the Tristan chord, the one Wagner used at the beginning of Tristan and Isolde. He might know that that particular sample came from a Paul Lansky piece, composed for computer, called “mild und leise,” or he might not, but he’d surely recognize that four-note bad-news chord. He’d know that even though the chord’s named for Wagner, Wagner didn’t invent it. He heard it in Malherbeau’s Fireworks Concerto and he took it and stretched it out and made it resolve to A instead of D. Then he passed it down to Debussy, who used it in his opera, Pelléas et Mélisande. And Debussy passed it down to Berg, who retooled it for his Lyric Suite, and Lansky took it from Berg. And Radiohead took it from Lansky and held it out to me.
I’m wishing he could see that music lives. Forever. That it’s stronger than death. Stronger than time. And that its strength holds you together when nothing else can.
“Andi? Are you listening? If you can turn it around next semester, get an A on your thesis, and get out of St. Anselm’s with a solid B average, you can get into a decent prep school. Spend a year there pulling up your grades and then maybe I can get you seen at Stanford. The dean of admissions is a good friend of mine.”
“I didn’t know Stanford has a music program,” I say.
He gives me a long, hard look, then says, “St. Anselm’s tested you—”
“Yep. I know all about it.”
“—in kindergarten. And fifth grade. And ninth. You scored in the high one-fifties every time. Genius level. Like Einstein.”
“Or Mozart.”
“You can do anything with your life. Anything you want.”
“Except what I want.”
“Andi, music just isn’t enough.”
“Music is enough. It’s more than enough,” I say, my own voice rising now.
I’m trying to keep the anger down. Trying not to start another fight. But it’s hard. Real hard.
“How is music going to pay your bills, Andi? What kind of money can you possibly make playing guitar? We can’t all be Jonny Radiohead, you know.”
“That’s for sure.”
He starts to say something else, but doesn’t finish his sentence because his cell phone rings.
“Who? Dr. Becker’s office? Yes. Yes, I am. Please put him on. Matt? Hi. What is it? What’s happened to her?”
14
My heart nearly stops.
“What is it?” I say.
He holds up a finger. “She did? No, no … of course not … yes, I agree, Matt.”
“What happened? Can I talk to her?” I say frantically.
“Matt, hold on,” Dad says. He covers the phone. “Your mother had