Page 2 of Counterpoint and Harmony

Chapter Two

Accidental:a sign indicating a momentary departure from the key signature by raising or lowering a note

Charlie

“Thank you for coming in,” Dean Andersen says as I take a seat in one of the burgundy leather chairs in front of his imposing mahogany desk.

I nod, pressing my lips together in a tight smile. “Of course. I’m glad you asked me to come in, actually. I thought it would be a good idea to review the school’s policies and procedures for dealing with unwanted media attention. Part of the reason I chose Marycliff is because of how you handled the situation when Jonathan Brasher’s identity as Jonny B was revealed, and he became the target of paparazzi both at his home and on campus.”

Dean Andersen sits back, resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He surveys me for a long moment before letting out a breath. “Yes. We do need to talk about that. As you may or may not know, at the time, Jonathan Brasher was not actively seeking a return to fame. The viral video of him singing was released without his consent. Indeed, my understanding is that he was unaware he was being recorded at all.”

“Yes.” I make an effort to keep my voice firm, neutral, devoid of curiosity or judgment. “Jonathan and I have been friends for years. He told me about the circumstances surrounding the viral video. And his decision to capitalize on his inadvertent return to the public eye.”

“Yes, of course.” The dean sits forward again, resting his elbows on his desk and removing his glasses. He looks older without them, the bags under his brown eyes more obvious, the lack of accessory allowing the eye to return to the iron gray mustache sprinkled with white.

I reach up and adjust my own glasses. They’re no longer necessary. Everyone knows who I am now. Pictures of me wearing these glasses with headlines about Charlotte James have been in every celebrity gossip outlet in the country. Probably in other countries too. I stopped paying attention after a while. But they’re like a security blanket. A barrier. A defense against the world. It’s false, but it’s all I have, here, alone in Spokane.

My mother has been calling me, urging me to return to LA. But at this point I’m still trying to salvage my life as much as I can. Still hoping that Damian will at least talk to me. Hoping that even if he won’t take my calls or return my texts, maybe if I can see him between classes or after rehearsals that I can convince him to speak with me. Get a coffee. At least try being friends again, let him get to know me again, start over.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but right now that’s all I’ve got.

Dean Andersen is talking again. While my thoughts have drifted, I’ve been staring blankly at his mustache. But his mouth is moving, and now he’s put his glasses back on.

“We have to think of the other students, you see. How will the media attention you’re receiving affect them? And the professors? I’ve had calls from dozens of magazines and TV shows asking us to confirm your attendance. The head of the music department has also alerted me that his executive assistant is fielding similar calls, as is the department receptionist.”

I straighten my spine, sitting up straighter in the chair, bracing myself for the onslaught of words. Each one feeling like a personal attack. Oblivious to my change in posture, he continues.

“While you were able to keep a low profile, we were happy to have you here. You performed well in your classes last semester, and by all accounts your professors reported that you were a joy to have in class. But …”

I let the silence hang, unwilling to fill in the blanks for him. Meeting his gaze, unbending. His meaning is clear, though. I’m no longer welcome here.

He sighs. “Marycliff University cannot guarantee your privacy and freedom from harassment here. Our police department still maintains that paparazzi are not allowed on campus, but over the break we’ve had to enforce that rule more times than we did while either Jonathan Brasher or his new wife were here. Our resources are being overly taxed, and the semester hasn’t even started yet. While you’ve done nothing to violate any of the policies of the university, I trust that you’ll make the right choice to guarantee everyone’s continued safety and security.” He raises his eyebrows, giving me a meaningful look.

Ah, so that’s the purpose of this meeting. Not to determine how best to proceed together. Not to reassure me of my place here. Not even to kick me out, though it’s clear that would make his life easier.

No, the purpose of this meeting is to convince me that I need to drop out for the good of everyone. The university doesn’t have the resources to keep out the influx of photographers.

“I understand you’ve made friends here. Think about how your staying will affect them? Affect their ability to get the education they’ve worked hard for?”

What about me?I want to scream. But I press my lips together, holding the words inside. What about the education I’ve worked hard for? Don’t I deserve more than a semester’s worth?

Despite being willing and able to pay full price for my tuition and fees, not needing a scholarship or financial aid of any kind, it seems that my money is no good here. My celebrity is closing a door instead of opening one.

I could fight. I could insist. I could probably make a generous donation to the university, hire private security, and force the issue. Give them a million reasons to let me stay.

But suddenly I’m tired. And I just want to go home.

With a firm nod, I stand. “I understand your meaning, Dean Andersen. I’ll let you know my decision before classes start on Monday.”

He opens his mouth, inhaling as though he’s going to say something. But in the end, he only stands and offers his hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry things turned out like this.”

Placing my hand in his for a weak handshake, I give him another nod. I don’t trust myself to speak right now. Afraid any words will come out choked with tears. That unexpected parting shot of sympathy chokes me up, even if he’s more sorry to see my money go than me.

Head held high, I turn and leave, my body running on autopilot to get me through the door and closing it behind me with a soft click.

What am I going to do now?

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