Virtuosity by Jessica Martinez Page B

pretending not to watch me.
    A knock at the door startled us both. “Five minutes,” a muffled male voice called from the hallway.
    My stomach lurched, and my knees buckled. I would have fallen but my elbow caught the edge of the piano and I leaned into the instrument to steady myself.
    “Carmen!” Diana cried. Was her voice always so shrill? “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Did you forget to eat?”
    “Um …” That was a pretty good excuse, actually. “Yeah.”
    She commenced rifling through her purse, and nattering about the physical effects of low blood sugar and the importance of planning ahead. By the time her rant had come full circle, she’d unearthed a Luna bar, three Certs, and a package of black licorice. She made me eat it all.
    “It’s time,” she said.
    I choked down the last piece of licorice and washed my hands in the sink, letting the scalding water pour over my skin. Maybe that would heat them up. But by the time I’d twisted the faucet off and dried my hands, my fingers were cold again.
    Why was I doing this? Why hadn’t I just taken the Inderal like I was supposed to? But it didn’t matter now. It was too late.
    Diana followed me down the corridor that led to the stage right curtain. A handful of people stood waiting—the conductor, Maestro Chang, giving directions to the stage manager; a new technician I didn’t recognize; a stage hand with two metal music stands tucked under each arm. I stood a little apart from the cluster, took a shaky breath, and closed my eyes.
    I tried to focus, but the music in my head had never been quite so dizzying. Rolling waves of melodic passages overlapped, Tchaikovsky’s beautiful themes all mashing together unnaturally. I felt like I was standing on a rocking boat and staring into a warped mirror at the same time. It was a discordant nightmare.
    Suddenly, my mouth felt wet and I knew. I shoved my violin into Diana’s hands and gave my surroundings a panicky search for something to throw up into. There was nothing. I was about to lose it when I saw the trashcan and rushed over, reaching it just in time. Why couldn’t I be doing this alone? I thought as I retched into the can. Even in the middle of those slow-motion spasms, I was aware of at least five pairs of eyes on me, of Diana’s hand resting on my back, of the dissonant jumble of notes still swirling in my head, of the fact that I still had to perform. One Luna bar, three Certs, a package of black licorice. Of course, she had to make me eat them all. I was done. My jaw ached.
    “Feel better?” Diana asked. Her voice was small and hard like a pebble.
    “No.” I didn’t. I felt weak.
    “I wonder why.”
    She knew.
    I forced myself to look at her, still gripping the trash can, bracing for her fury. But she didn’t look mad. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes watery, her brows arched like she was in pain. She looked wounded, like I’d kicked her in the stomach.
    “Why?” Her voice quivered as she spoke. “Why would you do this now ?”
    She was about to cry. I stared at her, but I didn’t feel anything. At first. Then the anger came, falling on me like a flood of fire. She thinks I’m punishing her .
    “It’s not about you,” I hissed, and pulled my violin out of her hands. The venom made my voice sound like some-oneelse’s. I’d never talked to her like that before. “Why does it always have to be about you?”
    Diana put her hand to her cheek and wiped a tear. It was a poor me move, but it had the opposite effect. I couldn’t feel sorry for her. And did she actually think a guilt trip would fix things now?
    “Of course it’s not about me ,” she said. “I know exactly who this is about. I know who inspired this, this”—she shook her head as she fumbled for the words—“career-ending stupidity . Let me guess, he told you that taking Inderal was slowing you down. Or did he tell you it wasn’t fair? Either way, you’re about to find out just how much Jeremy King