Music From Standing Waves by Johanna Craven Page B

as we climbed off the train in the city centre, stepping on
his heels until he turned and said:
    “Hey Abs, how about a little personal
space?”
    Andrew and Lily marched across main roads,
down alleys and over bridges towards the concert hall, without so
much as pausing to check a street sign.
    “Where are we?” I kept asking. “Do you know
where you’re going?”
    Andrew laughed. “Of course I do. I grew up
here.”
    I decided I’d probably die if I ever went to
New York.
    And then, Dvorak. Few things have had more of
an effect on my life than hearing my concerto performed live. I
floated out of the concert hall like I was whacked up on LSD,
tripping more than once into an old lady with a faded blue rinse.
Andrew grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the foyer.
    “The Dvorak was so brilliant,” I babbled.
Lily reached into her purse and produced the cigarette she had been
rolling during the concert. She slid it delicately between her
teeth and flicked her silver lighter. I danced down the wide stone
walkway, replaying every bar of the performance in my head.
    “I want to be a performer,” I told them
excitedly. “I have absolutely no doubt.” Lily’s cynicism had been
lost two bars into the violin concerto. “I’m going to do a national
tour first and play in all the capital cities, then I’ll go to
Europe. Then maybe America.” I hopped in zigzags over the
paving.
    “How nice to not be old and jaded,” said
Lily, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-six.
    “Shut up Lil,” said Andrew. He stopped to
pick up my hair claw as I jolted it off my head.
    I said for the billionth time that the Dvorak
was so brilliant. We walked along the riverbank. It was almost
eleven, but the walkway was full of lantern markets and buskers.
The dull thud of bongo drums drifted over the water. I was counting
the number of ferries that shimmered by the docks when I realised
Andrew was telling me about his bassoonist friend from the
orchestra.
    “Are lots of your uni friends performers
now?” I asked, wondering how his version of events compared to
Lily’s.
    He shook his head. “It’s a tough industry to
break into. Only the best of the best make it as performers.”
    I wondered if I would ever be the best of the
best, but was too afraid of the answer to ask.
    “What do your other friends do?” I asked
instead.
    “Well…” Andrew walked along, playing with my
hairclip. I wondered if he was reminiscing about uni. I sneaked a
sideways glance at him. Maybe he was thinking about being in Paris
with Lily. Or maybe just being back in Acacia Beach with Hayley and
Oliver.
    “Lots of them teach during the day and play
gigs at night,” he said. “And a couple of my friends are
composers.” He nudged me suddenly. “Hey, you know that ad with the
singing fruit salad? My friend wrote the music for that.”
    I smiled. “That’s cool.”
    Lily tapped ash onto the footpath and started
humming the fruit salad jingle. I walked in silence, watching my
feet pass in front of each other. Finally, I stopped and my stomach
dived.
    “Am I going to be the best of the best?” I
blurted.
    Andrew handed me back my hairclip. “Yeah,” he
said. “Yeah.” He started to walk again and I had to skip to keep
up. Around us, the city glittered. Made anything seem possible.

FOURTEEN
     
     
    My debutante ball is one of those memories
that refuses to be repressed.
    I hovered outside Justin’s front door,
playing with the buttons on my school dress. I must have stood on
that doorstep a thousand times as a child, yet there I was sweating
like a criminal and rehearsing my conversation.
    I longed to be a kid again. A pig-tailed girl
in pink shorts and bare feet. I’d just throw open Justin’s front
door and skip into the kitchen like it was my second home. Inhale
the musky smell of Michelle’s incense and help myself to a Sunny
Boy from the freezer. The most pressing issue between Justin and I
would be whose turn it was to be captain on