"You're crazy," said a voice in Nick's head that sounded very much like the history teacher at his old Catholic school in Scotland – the one for kids who got kicked out of regular schools.
"Mr. Kilpatrick," Nick breathed as he wedged the crowbar between two slats of wood, "now is not the time."
The old music store he'd found was seedier than most – especially since Nick suspected most music stores weren't seedy. It was sequestered deep in the bad side of town, and though it wasn't closed it was perpetually closing.
The windows were broken and unevenly boarded up.
The door didn't fit the frame.
There were four instruments inside and no furniture.
But that didn't matter, Nick told himself sternly. The point was, they had a piano and they had instruction booklets.
And most importantly, no cameras or alarms.
Nick pried off one of the boards. It splintered from the window and flopped onto the street, baring a hole in the glass that was best described as Nick-sized. He tossed the crowbar into the grass and hauled himself inside, ignoring the little shards of glass that poked at him when he crawled through.
Break-in Rule Number One: Always wear long sleeves.
It helps with glass.
With a fairly noiseless tumble, Nick landed on the ground and stood, dusting off his clothes and scanning the very, very dark store. He saw the glint of brass from a saxophone hanging on the wall, and then caught sight of what he was truly after.
The piano.
Hell, he hoped it was tuned.
"Mr. Rush."
Major triads, minor triads, augmented and diminished triads. Arpeggios and root notes, altered fifths and intervals. Nick had read every single bloody music book inside that store and he had spent his morning with a keyboard in the library, with all of Oxford's available sheet music spread out before him. He was so tired.
"Mr. Rush."
Pedal point chords, extended chords, clusters, polychords. And Rush wasn't sure he needed any of those in order to play Mary Had a Little Lamb. Not that he'd be asked to play that at the orchestra – though he'd been pleasantly surprised to get that one right on his first try, even without the sheet music. Maybe he had an ear for this?
"Mr. Rush!"
Nick's head snapped up.
"Huh?" he said. Professor Stanley's face was a horrible shade of purple and he was standing barely a foot away.
"If you would be so kind to join us," the professor snarled. Nick scoffed and looked back down at his music.
He didn't really need to pay attention in Topology, anyway.
"What are you doing?" the professor asked, exasperated. He snatched one of the booklets off Nick's desk, holding it out in front of him like it might be diseased.
Asshole.
"Mathematicians are known for their musical proclivities," said Nick. Professor Stanley glared.
"And will music help you with Topology?" he asked snidely. Nick shrugged.
"Tchaikovsky knew an awful lot about stretching."
There was a long pause.
"OK," said Professor Stanley. He pointed to the door. "Get out."
It was no big loss. Skipping Topology gave him an additional sixty minutes for practicing, and when he played hooky for Number Theory and Applied Probability as well, he was basically home-free.
Until his fingers started bleeding.
"Oh, this is not cool!" Nick hissed, blowing on his fingers and searching 'round his tiny flat for bandaids. "I thought this only happened with guitar."
Eventually, he settled for sucking on his fingers until they dried out, then went back to playing.
"Did you seriously skip three classes today?" said the voice that sounded like Mr. Kilpatrick. "What happened to the little boy who said he'd be a 'fucking mathematician' if he had to 'fucking' kill himself?"
"What's it look like I'm doing now?" Nick demanded, smearing blood over the keys. He swore and looked for a rag.
"Killing yourself," Mr. Kilpatrick admitted. Nick nodded.
"Good. Now shut up and go be someone else's mother. I've got work to do."
Mr. Kilpatrick slowly faded away.
It was Thursday. The day Nick had to call Gloria and tell her he would be there. The day he had to decide whether she'd really, really meant for him to call her in … well, that way.
Nick wasn't one to doubt himself. Doubting was a job for other people to do. The Socratic Method and all.
And did it really count as doubting oneself if it was a separate personality doing all the work?
"You're poor, she's rich," said Mr. Kilpatrick. "She's cultured. She's dignified. You, Nicky, are a dirty and impoverished, coarse kid from the ghetto. When was your first gang fight? Who was the first person you ever tried to stab? You think she'd go for someone like you?"
"Girls like bad boys," Nick muttered with a smirk. As if to prove his point, he plucked 5p for the payphone out of a homeless man's cup and kept walking. He could just see Mr. Kilpatrick glaring at him. Ha! Old bastard.
Nick made it three steps before turning around and dropping the coin back in the cup, along with the pound he'd made in tips.
"I saw that," Mr. Kilpatrick sang.
"Shut up."
Nick stifled his old teacher's voice and headed to the phone booth, where a filthy old payphone hung off the receiver on a wire. He stepped inside, pushed some change into the slot, and punched in Gloria's number. He'd memorized it the night he'd met her.
Holding his breath, Nick stood inside the box of streaked glass walls and waited, listening painfully to every ring.
Pick up, he willed her, lips moving silently. Pick up, pick up.
Click.
"Hello?"
Nick's heart stopped. The voice on the other end was gruff and male, British and peeved.
"H-hello?" he said. "Is … Gloria there?"
"Gloria who?"
Shit. She'd given him her work number – and apparently, more than one Gloria worked for the orchestra.
"The violinist?" Nick guessed. There was a stifled sigh and he heard distant shouting on the other end. Then the phone clattered and a sweet, familiar voice sounded in his ear.
"Hello?"
"Gloria, it's Nick."
"Oh! Nick! Are you coming tomorrow?"
"Of course. Of course."
A work number. A work number! His heart was crushed.
"I'll see you there," said Gloria.
"I told you so," said Mr. Kilpatrick.
Nick swallowed.
"Bye," he said.
