Reluctantly, I sink into the backseat. The interior of the cab smells. It’s dirty. They say you’ve not had a true New York experience until you’ve taken a New York cab. I could do without this experience and the Turkish disco music blaring out of the speakers. I block out the sounds of the city and the car stereo blasting. I move my fingers along the neck of an imaginary cello. The last eight bars of the prelude I never do well. I need to play the notes through.

“Are you a musician?”

I open my eyes. What gave it away? The cello case or the imaginary cello I’m playing or that I’m going to Juilliard? God, that was a bitchy thought. Hangovers make people rotten.

I smile. “Hopefully someday. I have an audition at Juilliard.”

That is it from my New York cabbie. So much for conversation. I stare out the window. Everything is so close and large and crowded. There is nothing around me familiar. Not a single thing here looks like anything at home. I fiddle nervously with the hem of my dress. Nothing familiar except for my dress. I give it a harsh glare. What is the matter with me? I couldn’t have advertised more that I don’t belong here.

That makes me think of Mom and her stark black dresses and knee high boots, the stylish scarves and expensive Italian bags. Lena was always East Coast chic. Mom definitely belonged in Manhattan. She always looked a touch like a fish out of water in Santa Barbara. Or was it the melancholy of her career ending prematurely, was it her illness and the process of dying?

I wish Mom were here with me today. I look up. The cab has stopped. The driver is getting my cello from the trunk. The door is opened and I stare out at the sidewalk.

The driver points. “Juilliard.”

Yep, I recognize those fountains in the courtyard leading up to the doors.

“Forty-seven dollars.”

How could it be? We only went a few blocks. I look at the meter and the bright red lights do say forty-seven dollars. I rummage through my purse, pay the cabbie. I don’t know if I’ve tipped him well or tipped him badly. He doesn’t look as if I’ve done either. He looks irritated that I am getting too slowly from the cab.

I rush through the fast-moving lanes of people, ignoring the stylishly dressed New Yorkers swirling around me. Inside the building I ask where the auditions are, then flush, because there is a giant sign directing me only few feet away. Everything is just so big, busy and crowded here.

Outside of the audition room, there is a long bench, crowded with waiting applicants. I settle on the edge. Twenty minutes pass before someone comes into the hallway.

A confident, urbane voice inquires, “Are you Christian Parker?”

I nod, feeling instantly lame that, for some reason, I’m cowering on the stark waiting bench. The woman doesn’t seem to notice my discomposure, offers her hand, introduces herself, but I am unable to catch her name through the buzz in my head.

The woman makes an almost impossible to see gesture with her hand, ordering me to follow, and walks briskly down the long hallway.

“I should have recognized you at once,” she says, in a voice that is neither friendly nor revealing. “I knew your mother very well. Remarkable woman. Such a tragic loss. Is your dad here with you? I haven’t seen Jack in ten years. You’re the mirror image of him, though I imagine people tell you that all the time.”

Breathe, Chrissie, breathe. Smile and pretend you’re not on the edge of freaking out right here. Why does this woman have to play This is Your Life right before I have to perform?

“Go on in.” She smiles. “Good luck.”

And then she is off in a puff of perfume and a chorus of clicking heels. Steeling my nerves, I try to empty my mind, try to ignore the chide that it is a mistake to dare an audition at Juilliard. I pull back the heavy wood door and enter.

* * *

Jesus Christ! How long have we been sitting in silence? How long have they been staring at me?

The music director looks up over his clipboard. “I expected you, Miss Parker, to be better prepared. Your mother was the consummate professional.”

OK, so the Bach came out a little rough. There is no need to bring my mother into this. I take a deep breath. Smile, Chrissie. Smile.

“Do you want me to play my original composition now?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I thought an original composition is required.”

The music director stands. “It is. The second piece is unnecessary.”

* * *

The elevator doors close behind me and I drop my cello case onto the tile. I find Rene lounging on the bed watching TV in my parents’ bedroom.

Rene frowns. “Oh, Chrissie, what happened? It can’t be that bad.”

I sink down on the bed beside her. “It was so awful, Rene. I sat frozen, unable to play, and then when I finally did, each move was jerky and slow and just awful.”

“It’s all right, Chrissie. It’s all right. It’s only Juilliard and fuck them if they were rude to you. It’s just a formality. You know you’re in.”

“But I’m glad I screwed up. I don’t really want to get in.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t want Juilliard.”

Rene smiles and throws her arms around me. She sits back. She puts on sunglasses. “Well, Chrissie, looks like University of California Berkeley.”

She says it dramatically, like Tom Cruise at the end of Risky Business. I laugh.

“How long have you not wanted Juilliard? Why are we here?”

I struggle to answer her, but it’s as much a mystery to me as to her. I came here on autopilot and something pushed me here, toward something I don’t want.

“I don’t know why I auditioned.”

“You look better than when you left.”

I feel better, sort of like a stay of execution. I would never have expected this failure to feel like such a relief.

“I’m glad you’re in a better mood, Chrissie. I’ve got bad news. Dad wants me down in DC tomorrow. And he asked me to come alone. Something is up. I can’t reach Mom.”

I sit up. “You’re leaving me all alone in New York?”

“I can’t help it. I’ve never heard my dad like this. I’ll be back next week.”

“You don’t think it’s because of the papers?”

“No, Chrissie. Something is going on. I can feel it. Something he thinks is going to turn into a shitstorm between us, otherwise he wouldn’t care if you were there.”

I stare at Rene. I hope she is wrong for her sake. I don’t really like Mr. Thompson. He’s a narcissistic jerk.

“I don’t like you going alone if there is going to be drama,” I whisper.

“I’ll be fine. I’m used to the shitstorms. I just feel badly about leaving you. Don’t do anything I would do, not without me.”

Rene explodes into laughter and I force a smile. She reaches over me to grab the joint I didn’t notice before on the bedside table. She fires it up, takes a deep inhale before handing it to me.

I stare at the fiery tip. “Where did you get this?”

“Jimmy Stallworth. I snaked it from his apartment.”

I take a hit. “What is it about rich, preppy guys always wanting to be called by their first and last name?”

“I don’t know, Chrissie. What does it matter?”

The next morning Rene leaves on the 7 a.m. train to DC. The walls of the apartment close in around me and I am anxious in the quiet rooms, anxious and scattered. Now that I’ve blown my admission to Juilliard it truly feels like there is nothing ahead of me.

I should be reading since I’ve got about five books to finish before the end of break. It doesn’t seem important now. My admission to UC Berkeley is not conditional, unlike Juilliard, which required an audition. I am in. It is where I’m going. Is that good or is that bad? I don’t know.

I go into my parents’ bedroom and curl on the bed, clicking on the TV to flip through channels. There is nothing to watch. Midday TV sucks. I hug the pillow and try to focus on a game show.