Page 90 of Echoes of a Silent Song
“Thank you.”I took it from him and walked out the door, cool as a cucumber, then turned back.“Oh, and one more thing, Victor.When I write that letter to Whitehall, I’ll tell them I gave my piece to my former boyfriend.Because I deserve someone who loves me.Not just someone who wants to use me to get ahead.”
Without waiting for a reply, I took off down the street as fast as I dared.I half expected him to chase after me, but he didn’t.Since his father was at work, the car was gone, and Victor would have had to run.
He hated running.
And I was pretty sure he didn’t care about me enough to chase me down.
Had he realized I’d taken my music notebook back?
Well, even if he had, I was too far away now for him to catch me.And if he came to my house, I’d have Flora tell him to go away.That I didn’t want to see him, now or ever.
Sure.He could have my notebook.
Over my dead body.
Chapter Thirty-Three
March 19,1970
DEARPROFESSORHochsteiner,
I’m not sure how to start this letter, but since you’ve probably never received one like it, you might not know how it should start either, so I’m just going to dive in.
“I Am My Beloved’s,” submitted for your consideration by Mr.Victor Nelson, was actually my piece.I wrote it entirely on my own.I am enclosing another one of my compositions as proof.I think you will see the similarities in style as well as handwriting.
Why would someone voluntarily submit their own work under someone else’s name?I’ve been asking myself the same thing, and the answer that keeps coming to mind is that at the time I thought it the right thing to do.Victor’s number was drawn early in the recent draft lottery, and we both were afraid for his future.He was so afraid, in fact, that he could not come up with an idea for his audition piece on his own.Desperate to help him and under the pressure of the approaching deadline, I offered himmy work, and he accepted it and submitted it under his name.
Since “I Am My Beloved’s” is mine, not Victor Nelson’s, I am humbly and respectfully requesting that the spot you awarded him be given to me instead, or that an additional space in the program for next fall could be carved out for me to attend.As I am the one who wrote the piece, I am the one who earned that spot, and thus I believe a spot is rightfully mine.
If our mutual deception is so grievous that you cannot accept either of us, I understand and won’t bother you any further.But since in your note to Victor you expressed an eagerness to work with the composer of “I Am My Beloved’s,” and since you said such things as “a remarkable talent” and “a brilliance rarely seen,” I wanted you to know the truth.Whatever decision you make regarding that truth is yours alone, and I will respect it.
But if you find it in your heart to accept me to Whitehall, I am all yours.
Most sincerely, apologetically, and hopefully,
Miss Iris Wallingford
I removed the sheet of paper from my father’s typewriter, scribbled my signature at the bottom, then grabbed an envelope and a stamp from the desk drawer.My heart hammered.I still feared Victor pounding on the front door and demanding my notebook.But I’d left his house hours ago and had seen nothing.Heard nothing.
I wondered whether that would still be the case if he knew what I was doing now.
But coming clean was the right thing.Whether Victor agreed with me or not, I needed to do this.I doubted they’d reward me with his spot at Whitehall.But nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Even if Whitehall wasn’t part of my future, I’d be fine, because I wasfree.I’d freed myself of Victor and all his self-centered drama.I still didn’t know what real love with a boy felt like.I knew now what it was like to love one.But I didn’t know what it was like to be loved by one, because Victor hadn’t truly loved me.
Though I was sure I’d feel sad about that at some point, I now felt more relieved than anything else.Two and a half more months of high school and then Victor would be out of my life forever and I’d never have to see him again.I could cut ties and move forward and find someone who loved me for me.Or not.Maybe I’d be happier on my own.Maybe I’d become a famous composer.Maybe a music teacher.For a second it was tempting to dream.
Oh, well.Whatever God decided.He had a wonderful plan for my future.
Plan.
Dream.
Future.
Melody rushed into my heart.Harmony followed close on her heels.A piece entered my head.Just a motive, a few bars.But it was beautiful, and I had to write it down.
Wait.No.I had to mail the letter to Whitehall first.
