Before Goodbye Read online

  Today, Lovecats is an affirmation, a celebration of our best-friendness on this perfect July afternoon, in the summer before our sophomore year. Definitely, this is the beginning.

  I slide my hands through the reddish water. The color reminds me of Cal’s guitar . . .

  With a small splash I slip beneath the surface, then come up, next to Laurel. “It was so amazing, having him at the intensive this year.”

  “You mean your Guitar Guy, and the oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-you-spent-ten-days-in-New-York-City-without-me intensive?”

  “That’s the one. He lived a staircase away from me in the residence hall.”

  “Ooh, that sounds convenient.”

  “Pff. It wasn’t like that.”

  “Too bad. So what was it like? But wait—isn’t he always there?”

  “No, you’re thinking of Classical Kids.”

  “Oh yeah. God, you went to that forever. I swear you cut your baby teeth on guitar strings. We were still in Huggies when you first started going.”

  “Ha. Not quite. I was four.”

  “Four. Right. I can still see it: you and your itty-bitty guitar. Did Cal have a tiny guitar, too?” Laurel laughs.

  “He did, but there’s nothing tiny about him now—it’s been three years since either of us has been in Classical Kids, you’re way behind, L. Well, actually I’m way behind—way behind him. I can’t believe he spent the last two summers studying in Spain while I—”

  “Hey, don’t be talking trash about my Lovecat. You’re awesome, Cate.”

  “Not as awesome as him, nowhere near as awesome as him. Do you know what he’s working on? His teacher gave him—”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. I’m a Cate Reese fan. And besides, he didn’t go to Europe this summer, he went to the same thing you did—that workshop, intensive, whatever—which means you guys are on the same level, so you can stop worshipping him. Now, get back to the dirt.”

  “Hmm, okay. Well, first of all, we were inseparable.”

  “We’re inseparable.”

  “Well, yeah, but he’s a guy. It’s a different kind of inseparable. L, I really like him.”

  “Like him, like him?” Laurel smiles her contagious smile, looking like some kind of aquatic Cheshire cat. “But you guys are BFFs, aren’t you? I mean, not like us, but as much as a guy can be. You have that music thing, and you’re more like brother and sister, if you ask me.”

  “Which is why I’m not asking you, I’m telling you—things are different now, between us. I don’t know about other music schools, but Manhattan School of Music has practice rooms that are open 24-7, and one night—”

  “Please! No sordid details.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who asked for dirt. Besides, I told you, it really wasn’t like that . . .”

  “But? I sense a but.”

  “But it could be. If I could just . . . I don’t know. His playing is just so flawless, it’s—”

  “Perfect, yes, I know. You’ve always lusted after his guitar chops, but what about his body? Are you lusting after that now, too? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

  “Laurel! I don’t know. Maybe. But nothing happened. I mean, everything happened. We went to all the afternoon classes together—master classes led by some of the best classical guitarists in the world—and all the evening performances. Afterward we’d sit in one of the lounges, write up the required critiques, compare notes . . .”

  “Sounds like work.”

  “Sure, but it was incredible. We basically lived and breathed music.”

  “Glad you didn’t suffocate. So he’s obviously still cute?”

  “Shut up. Of course he’s still cute. I mean, definitely, he’s cute, but when he plays, he’s just—beautiful. So intensely focused, so—”

  “Busy. He’s like you, right? Practices a million hours a day? Wants to go to a conservatory, wants to—”

  “So?”

  “So you guys don’t have time to go out. He plays. You play. You both have school, boarding school for him. Sutton Prep, right? North Moore? That’s a haul. I mean, he may live close by, but he’s always away. Just saying, Lovecat—well, my gut’s saying—you’re too much alike, and no relationship can survive on emails and music camps—intensives, whatever.”

  “Your gut. Right.” I pinch her waist. “What gut? And don’t forget phone calls and actually seeing each other. We do see each other once in a while. He’s helped so much when it comes to my playing—I would have quit a million times without him. Still, remind me never to tell you anything ever again.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I’m your best friend.” Laurel grins. “I can read your mind.”

  “Can you? What am I thinking?” But before she can answer, I dunk her. And when she comes up spluttering, I tell her that Cal’s playing a concert in the city and I’m going.

  “Groupie girl! Why aren’t you playing?”

  “I am, just not the same night. We’re both playing, as part of Strings with Wings, but my set is during the post-festival wrap-up, in early autumn, and his set’s at one of the pre-festival gala events. Also, FYI? I don’t think classical musicians have groupies.”

  “Well they should. Everyone should. And what the heck is Strings with Wings?”

  “It’s a festival slash fundraiser, for various charities. Venues all over the city participate, and the shows are spread out over weeks, from the Bitter End to Lincoln Center, every kind of show, every kind of player. The only parameters are (one) you must play a stringed instrument, and (two) you must have mega talent. Unless you’re a student, then you’re in the Pupils with Promise part of the program and you can skate on your potential.”

  “As I recall, you’ve never liked skating.” She skims one palm along the water’s surface. “But I remember now, you told me about Strings with Wings. It’s like, a pre-audition audition.”

  “Right. All the schools in the Northeast send scouts.”

  “Jeez, you really have to have your shit together to play that gig, huh.”

  “Yes. And I’ll need a new dress, so you have to go shopping with me. In fact I may need two dresses. Because after Cal’s performance? We’re going out—yes, out, out. On a real date.”

  “Now you tell me! Cool, Cate Cat. But today—the only place you’re going is under!”

  And this time, she dunks me.

  MORPHINE

  DAVID

  I struggle up from the depths of a watery nightmare—

  Jack.

  My pulse is racing. I will it to slow. It won’t. I can’t control it, can’t control—anything.

  Jack. I haven’t dreamed of him in so long. I close my eyes.

  He hadn’t died like that. But. He is gone.

  Gone, yet everywhere.

  After my older brother Jack died, my father tried to replace him.

  With me.

  Over the years, I worked hard at being Jack.

  I became The Fastest. The Smartest. The Most Popular. The Best.

  Then all was well in the spinning world of our family, because my father was happy. He had his Golden Boy, his replica of himself. His Plan to Achieve Immortality was back on track.

  Until now.

  Fingers plucking at crisp hospital sheets, I stare at the acoustic ceiling tiles. The tiny dots that pierce them make random patterns, a universe of pinpricks, of nothing.

  Voices from the nurses’ station carry down the hall. My father’s is among them. Booming. Authoritative. Demanding attention. Demanding respect.

  I don’t really need it for my leg, but I push the button on the morphine drip anyway. Pump it once, twice.

  QUARTET

  CATE

  Because neither of us has a car and we’re coming from two totally different places, Cal and I take separate trains to separate stations and meet on Seventh Avenue, where we fall into an embrace made clumsy by his guitar case and my indecision. I can’t decide whether to kiss him on the lips or the cheek. The swervy little smack ends
up at the corner of his mouth.

  And then there is this big blank moment where things feel, well, awkward.

  Cal and I practically grew up together, at least musically, and we’ve had some of the same teachers. We’ve played concerts together, talked about music for hours, and have nearly identical tastes in music—composed music, that is. That’s all we listen to. Plus we’ve exchanged a million emails (well, I write most of those), so there’s no reason to feel uncomfortable. But I do, and I think he might, too. I’m sure my maladroit kiss didn’t help, but what the problem really is—I think—is the slow crawl of attraction that seems to have started at the intensive.

  It’s like we want to fly from the nest of our childhood friendship, only we don’t have the wings yet. We’re still all eggshells and something too slippery to name.

  So we walk the remaining half a block not talking about music, or anything else. Cal, at least, has an excuse. He’s busy navigating the packed sidewalks with his guitar. Me, I’m busy feeling strangely stiff.

  “You look nice,” Cal says with a nod toward my dress.

  “Thanks.” Nearly every piece of clothing I own is as black as this dress, since musicians, especially classical performers, should be heard and not seen. With its flared calf-length skirt and sweetheart neckline, I consider this one of my dressy dresses. I’ve worn it for several performances—recitals, really. “You look nice, too.”

  Cal glances down and runs a hand over the lapel of his dark suit. “Thanks, but . . . I don’t know. Looks like I’m dressed for a funeral, not a gig.”

  “A gig, ha. Like Carnegie Hall is just a gig.”

  “Yeah, well.” He looks down again, not at the suit but at a point near the ground. This looking-down thing gives the impression that Cal’s shy, but he’s not. He’s modest. He’s also the most talented guitarist I’ve ever known. Maybe he’s not as talented as some of the teachers we had this summer, but Cal’s only seventeen and still a student, like me. He’s also my inspiration. He’s the person I play for, when I’m practicing alone in my room. How would Cal play this passage?

  Now he lifts his slightly almond-shaped eyes. They’re dark, nearly as black as his hair, but sparkling somehow. Dad has told me more than once that my eyes are the same shade as the winter sea, so I can’t imagine they’re as interesting to look at as Cal’s lively eyes, but he holds my gaze as if he thinks they are. This is new, this kind of eye contact—part of that slow-moving attraction that’s bringing us closer yet at the same time, somehow, separating us. It’s confusing.

  Before I know it we’re at Carnegie Hall heading into the Stern Auditorium slash Perelman Stage, an elegant space that holds over two thousand people, where I’ve seen my teacher, Marion, perform more than once.

  Feeling relieved, I start to say, “I love this place—” But then someone’s shaking Cal’s hand, ushering him through a door I hadn’t noticed. He presses a ticket into my palm.

  “Sorry. Come find me after, okay?”

  “Okay.” I watch him slip through the doorway. Seeing him from behind, I notice the swing of his hair and the way his dark suit shows the line of his shoulders. He carries himself with confidence and poise. Other people, women mostly, are watching him as well.

  I imagine what Laurel would say if she were here, how her eyebrows would lift.

  Guitar Guy’s looking good. I get it, Cate Cat.

  When I get to my seat, I text her. The text is record breaking in length because it’s not enough to tell her that Cal looks hot in a suit. I describe the way his hair hangs down his back, how sophisticated he seems, not at all worried about his performance like I’d be. Now that we’re actually on a date—well, a sort of date—I tell her how his eyes go bright when he smiles.

  Wow. She texts back. Tks for the book. Does this mean ur going to apply to Manhattan School of Music? That’s where he’s going to go rt?

  No, I tap quickly with my thumbs. It means—

  The lights dim. I quickly power down the phone without sending.

  Onstage, Cal becomes beautiful. The stage lights shine on his hair, on his guitar, as he plays the tried-and-true Albéniz piece, “Mallorca.” I’ve never played the piece, and depending on the transcription, it can be incredibly difficult. The audience seems to understand this, and when Cal finishes, the applause is thunderous.

  He follows the Albéniz with Bach’s Cello Suite no. 2 in D Minor, which has of course been arranged for guitar. All six movements of the piece are so familiar, I can feel them in my fingers. Prelude, Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, Menuets, Gigue—I know them all, but I’ve never played them as well as Cal. For twenty minutes, the audience is nearly as still as he is. I’m on the edge of my seat for him, but he plays every note perfectly and, finally, I start to relax. This is his gig, not mine. He begins Walton’s Five Bagatelles, and I allow myself to get swept away.

  Cal finishes the Walton and leaves the stage, but before the sound of applause has died, he reappears followed by a trio of string players. I’ve never seen this combination of instruments before—it’s basically a string quartet, featuring classical guitar in the place of one of the violins.

  When Cal, the single violinist, the viola player, and the cellist tear into their instruments and wrest out a version of “Paradise” by Coldplay, the hair along my arms rises to stiff attention. “Paradise” is string-heavy, anyway, so the cover makes sense, but when the musicians add eerie vocal parts and start tapping the sides of their instruments, I’m blown away.

  Finally the piece winds down, but the audience is wound up. The concert hall vibrates with the sound of clapping and calls of “Bravo!”

  Covered in goosebumps, I’m vibrating, too, with emotion. Before the musicians have even left the stage, I’m turning on my phone, completing the text I’d started earlier.

  It means—I’m in love.

  STITCHES

  DAVID

  Being still is the hardest part.

  Not that I’m hyper or anything. I know guys like that, and I’ve never been one of them.

  What I have been—among other things—is a jock. I’m used to being in motion.

  Right now, I’m a patient, one who’s misbehaved and disregarded doctors’ orders to take it easy. I’ve overdone it, ripping open the long, neat row of stitches that snakes up over my hip bone.

  When it happened the first time, I was appalled to discover that the fiery pain along the split in my skin was strangely satisfying.

  When it happened again, I skipped straight to satisfaction.

  The pain is like a sea of white noise I can slip into. At the same time, it slips into me, filling me up, so I can’t think. Can’t think about what happened, or about what I’m learning from sitting still. What I’m learning about myself, about the other things that I’ve been besides some kid who plays sports really well.

  I have to embrace the pain anyway, because I won’t take anything for it. When I was in the hospital, the morphine gave me nightmares, so I won’t take the prescribed pills. I don’t need my reality twisted. What’s happened is nightmare enough.

  Books by my bed, movies on my laptop, porn on the Internet—there’s a whole world at my fingertips, full of things I’ve enjoyed in the past, but now, no. Just like the texts, emails, and phone calls from friends: these things don’t interest me.

  It’s because of what happened in Canada—obviously—but also because of the stillness, what it’s showing me. Things that are more painful and ugly than a gash that takes eighty-four stitches to close. More painful and ugly than broken bones jutting out of bloody skin and a smashed skull—

  Jesus. I can’t stop seeing that day. Can’t stop seeing Dan.

  Because, of course, it was not Jack, long dead, who was with me in the water that day.

  If only, if only, if only. If only he hadn’t come after me.

  I understand now why sitting still is something so many people avoid.

  Shifting on the bed, I pull the damp T-shirt away from my chest. Th
e humidity’s crushing, pressing down on me like a weight. I feel almost dizzy as I reach over to the bookshelf next to the bed, grab my headphones.

  Because there is one thing that helps.

  Music. Listening to music.

  Letting it wash over me.

  BLOOM

  CATE

  Riding my bike along Chapel Hill Road, I inhale the scents of summer. There are a couple of precious weeks left before school starts and everything is green, green, green . . . The well-kept world of Middleburn is overgrown and wild.

  This is the secret side of New Jersey, a voluptuous, verdant side that tourists, their eyes on the state’s white coastal beaches, rarely see, let alone explore, that New York City transplants caught up in their rush to return to the hive on their daily commute often take years to discover.

  The horse fences running alongside the road become a blur of white as I spin past the endless fields. Shadows fall across the road where the woods begin.

  At the edge of the woods, the prevailing scent is of sunbaked pine needles. A little farther in, it’s the moist, warm odor of earth—at least that’s how it is in back of the barn behind our house. The woods are thick with low bushes and tangled vines, mountain laurels, and spike-leafed hollies.

  The red barn is almost as old as the invisible British campsites along Chapel Hill Road. The historical marker at the bottom of our street where it Ts into Chapel says the soldiers left in 1778. After we moved here for real in June and this place morphed from weekend hideaway to home, I started wondering about the soldiers, who they’d been, if they’d made it home, or if they’d died here. The barn, with its dark horse stalls filled with Dad’s paintings, started to creep me out. The way the ceiling of the rickety building disappears into shadow high above the tilting floor of the hayloft, making me think of some kind of primitive cathedral, decaying.