Page 12 of Nobody in Particular

“Anyway,” Harriet goes on. “Are you missing your old school?”

Briefly, I wonder at Harriet’s persistence to speak to Danni. Then I remember I saw the two of them speaking at length at Molly’s party. Harriet is a friend of mine, but more due to proximity than any true compatibility. At some point years ago, Molly, Eleanor, and I started gravitating toward Harriet and Florence at mealtimes, though they’re the year above us, and gradually bonded over alcohol and weed, usually smuggled in by Florence. Though I’m happy to make small talk with Harriet, who’s nice enough, she’s hardly someone I would choose to spend one-on-one time with. In truth, I find her quite dull.

Danni, however, does not seem to share my feelings. “Yeah,” she says, “I miss my friends, for sure. Especially my best friend.”

Well, if these two get along swimmingly, what does that say about Danni? At Molly’s party, I thought maybe I saw a spark of wit about her. Perhaps, sadly, I imagined it. I was, after all, hideously sober and bored.

“That must be weird. It’ll get better soon, though. You’ll forget all about your old friends soon.”

Danni lifts an eyebrow, bemused. “I hope not.”

Harriet scrambles. “No, I don’t meanforgetforget. Just that you won’t miss them so badly.”

“Right.”

“Obviously you won’tforgetthem. God, imagine?”

As much as I want to distract myself from Molly’s iciness, this particular conversation is physically paining me to eavesdrop on, so my relief is monumental when Eleanor catches my attention. “How did last night go?” she asks me, and I can tell at once she’s not asking in the general sense.

“The same as usual,” I say, as quietly as I can get away with.“Passive-aggressive comments from half the people I spoke to, and pity from the other half.”

Eleanor winces. “I don’t know which is worse.”

“At least the pity is coming from a good place,” I say. “It’s thegleeI can’t stand. When you can just tell they’re thrilled I misstepped, because they’ve been waiting for it since I was a toddler.”

“Missteppedis an interesting way to put it,” Molly says, very quietly, and I regret my word choice at once.

“You’re right,” I say calmly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for being honest about how you see things.”

Well, that’s a loaded comment if I’ve ever heard one. Still, at least she’s acknowledging me. “I don’t see it like that at all,” I say. “Honestly, I’m tired. I haven’t slept much.”

“I know,” Molly says. “You were up all night suffering through passive-aggression. I don’t know how you got through it.”

“All I mean to say,” I catch her gaze out of the corner of my eye, “is that I’m running out of patience for people who won’t simply say what they mean. I can handle criticism. I deserve it, even. So, why not dole it out?”

Molly turns to me coolly. “I guess the thing is, you don’t get to choose what consequences you get for your behavior. That’s why they’re consequences.”

Eleanor glances from me to Molly, something akin to panic on her features. “You know,” she says at full volume, waving her spoon at us. “Everyone is so obsessed with pumpkin soup, but I really don’t get the hype. Give me potato and leek any day.”

Molly and I stare back at her blankly.

“Right?” Eleanor prods. “Molly?”

Molly shrugs and pushes her half-empty bowl away from her.

Eleanor turns pleading eyes onto me. She’s spot-on, of course. This is neither the time nor the place for Molly and me to have it out.

Tomorrow, I think, I will make a point of claiming a seat next to Eleanor. Even if I have to chain her to my side.

SEVENDANNI

My piano instructor, Caroline Al Sarraj, knows her shit. So she should, I guess—she used to play for the Royal Symphony Orchestra before she became a private tutor. She doesn’t only work for Bramppath—apparently there aren’t enough of us who play piano and the harp, her specialties, for it to be worth it. So, she comes here on Tuesdays and Fridays.

I’m nervous as hell when I play for her—she’s a literal symphony pianist, of course I am—but she doesn’t even try to put her critiques in a compliment sandwich. With Caroline—at least, for the first part of our lesson—it’s criticism on the rocks, hold the ice.Slow down, speed up, more emotion, ease up on the pedal. She even tells me to smooth out my legato, and my old teacher, Mrs. Fitch, always told me I was a natural at legato.

To be clear, it’s the first time I’ve been challenged in piano in a really long time, and I’m fucking living for it. I’m buzzing. Honestly, it’s still blowing my mind that I get to work with someone who’s achieved everything I could ever imagine with her piano career, and then some. I’m reminded why I fell in love with piano to begin with. The knowledge that, if I put in the time and effort, I can produce something beautiful. I can make other people feel what I’m feeling.

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