an instant photo of a neon OPEN sign [https://i2.wp.com/theendandtheinstant.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/Instant-26-min.jpg?w=1500&ssl=1]
Oli has hope that, with the X-files cases neatly in line so their spines spell out the series’ title, the DVDs will be in some kind of order. Lark has lower expectations. He considers telling Oli about the time Max rearranged the boxes to say “sex life” but decides it would make them both seem childish.
Oli checks the DVDs one at a time, pulling any that are wrong or empty off the shelf until he has a small stack of boxes. “Reed doesn’t even watch these. I mean—how did it get this bad?” he says, an empty case in each hand. “I cannot believe it.”
“I absolutely can. This is classic,” Lark says, passing the X-files DVD to Oli, who presses it into its correct case, replaces it on the shelf. Reed was always scattered and disorganized but hid it well. Tidy, but not orderly, he presented a relaxed competence, layered thick over his innate chaos. Reed had assured conversations on the phone while Googling words he’d already said. He showed up to meetings in pajamas.
“Oh, I know. Still disappointed.” Oli is trying to look serious, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Lark thinks Oli must really love Reed to find this inconvenience endearing at 3 am. “You guys are cute,” he says.
Oli laughs. “I think that’s the consensus. Cute space boyfriends.”
They sit in silence for a while, then, working through the DVD cases. Lark is more interested in getting them all in order than finding the Fellowship disc and starts checking all the cases, methodically working through the bottom shelf, near Oli’s knees.
“What brought you back to the east coast then? If you didn’t go to conservatory?” Oli asks him.
“I did go,” Larks says sharply. “The year I was in Portland I got in. I got the scholarship to a place in San Francisco.”
Even though Oli remembered Reed telling him that this was true, that Lark had been to conservatory, he’d begun to imagine Lark as someone else. As the person he looked like, maybe, or just the person he presented himself as: someone who failed to get what he wanted, again and again.
“Sorry,” Lark shook his head, let his hair fall into his face. “That sounded more defensive than I meant it to.”
Oli watches Lark go through the DVDs. Lark keeps his gaze resolutely on the floor, but he holds the discs upwards, his slender fingers lightly gripping the edge, careful not to smudge their silvered data sides, flashing light into Oli’s eyes.
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a neon OPEN sign hanging outside a greenhouse [https://i0.wp.com/theendandtheinstant.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/exit-strategy-min.jpg?w=1500&ssl=1]
Acceptance letters started arriving from my conservatory auditions. The thick envelopes that I had gotten so excited about two years ago filled me with a cold dread now. My one rejection came early: a slim letter from Curtis’ fully-funded program. I knew, then, it would be down to money again, what scraps I would be offered, and if they could be cobbled together into an approximation of a full fee.
I threw out envelopes offering anemic performance awards, a half-ride from Mannes that still left an unbelievable remainder to pay. Boston Conservatory made a generous offer, as they had the year before. It was still beyond my budget, but I held onto the letter anyway, trying to think of ways to find a few thousand dollars for an acceptance deposit and the required student housing. I considered telling Quinn to see if he had any ideas, but I was worried it would seem like a roundabout way of asking for a loan. Though a proud part of me thought I would gracefully refuse if he offered me money, I knew at best I wouldn’t be graceful, and at worst I would beg for his help.
The hope slipped out of me, and the facts of my life became real, struck me with a new force.
My job at the Salvation Army, which had been an inoffensive necessity for the last few months, became draining and painful as the days of folding and tagging others’ dregs under fluorescent lights stretched endlessly on in front of me.
Max came into my room to complain about the rehearsal times I had booked for Squires because he didn’t like practicing on Fridays or working too late. Instead of shrugging it away, I started a screaming match that startled him into laughing and leaving.
Dana peaked into my room a little while later to ask what happened. She was tiptoeing around my rawness, like she was afraid of me. I failed to reassure her with some excuse for my anger, something that didn’t get too close to the truth. I was a worse person than I had been when we got here. Another year in my basement room, with nothing but Max’s lukewarm songwriting, my weighted keyboard, and a dead-end job, felt impossible.
I resolved to move in with Quinn and Jules again when the contract ran out on our rental. Max and Dana could find a new roommate or get somewhere better with another couple. I could get set up as a piano tutor or get Jules to book me in for sessions. Squires would break up after its spring tour. We would all discover our backup plans.
The letter from San Francisco conservatory, where the piano tutor had remembered me, came through later than I expected. I read through the acceptance letter perfunctorily, flipped through the rest of the pages looking for the scholarship offer.
And there it was. The top performance scholarship, an additional grant for my scores on the practical solfege and sight reading examinations. Enough money.
I didn’t feel anything about it, folding the letters back into their envelope and placing them on top of a book of sonatas. I was crying, though—tears of relief.