Lost Girls (Book One in the Academy Series)

In Memoriam

The club was packed that night. It was January, and people were shedding coats along the far walls. The house lights were up. My mother kept her fur bundled tight as she worked her way toward the stage.

I trailed her, lugging my cello and perspiring. I was wearing the boots Dad had bought me for Christmas. As I shifted and turned to get through the crowd, my heels kept sticking to the floor.

Every time I picked up my foot, it sounded like packing tape ripping from a box.

My mother settled into a metal folding chair beside the stage. I slipped beside her, put down my cello case and told her I'd be back. She didn't seem to notice.

Christopher was near the bar, which is how I knew he loved me. Onstage, an all-girl string quartet dressed like pirate witches performed within the same tight space as the Halsey wannabe I'd seen three weeks before. Facing them, a bunch of kids I knew from school were behaving like fans.

My boyfriend wore a black suit that hung loose across the shoulders and a tie with an imperfect knot. He was adorable. He'd started wearing his hair shorter around the time his parents started negotiating an album deal. Now whenever I saw him, I just wanted to muss it up. He smiled at my approach.

Then I was intercepted.

I was glam that day, in a new black dress, my hair blown out, makeup perfect. Beside Mindi, I was a bag lady. She was the only girl I knew who could carry a cello onstage while sporting four- inch heels.

She touched my arm like we were besties. "I'm so glad I bumped into you. Your father is the reason I stuck with the cello when my friends all switched to the violin."

"That's sweet," I said.

"You ever need anything, anything at all - you let me know, Stacey."

As she left, Christopher whispered, "Did she just call you 'Stacey?'"

It was hardly the biggest slight of the day. "She's a senior, what do you expect?"

"I don't know, a little bit of respect, considering..." When he hugged me, his breath was vaguely minty. It's a scent I associate with the gum he nervously chews before performing.

Onstage, the string quartet was taking a bow.

"You should go up."

He actually pulled a pack of spearmint from his inner jacket pocket. Then he returned it and shook his head. "Have you seen the talent? Believe me, no one wants to hear Chris Danny tickle the ivories."

I laughed a little. "Tickle the ivories? How old are you?"

"So, Casey, do you need anything, anything at all?"

I offered him my biggest grin.

"Right. Give me a sec."

After Christopher left, I scanned the gathering. There were so many people I didn't recognize, shiny types in creative formal. There were classmates dressed for a recital, kids who knew my dad's last name but forgot my first.

Here and there I would see someone famous-well, classical music famous anyway. Which is less famous than that TikToker who gift wraps bunnies.

And then Christopher stepped in front of me, clutching two large cups. I noticed how little ice there was, just clear liquid and limes. "This ain't soda pop, kiddies," he said, handing one over.

"My hero," I drawled before taking a swig. I don't know why everything worthwhile burns so badly. By my third swallow, I was numb enough not to care. When I drained it, the room went soft.

I set down the cup and grabbed Christopher. Wrapping my arms around him, I pulled his face to my own. As we kissed, I tasted the telltale gum, which somehow sparked just above the vodka. He's shy in the best of situations, and this was so not the place for a public display of my afflictions, but he still gave in.

As always.

Christopher pulled me to him with one arm even as my hand traveled down the one holding the second drink. Which I of course took, stepping back with what I'm sure was a devious grin.I ended most of the second beverage before he managed to speak. "The bar isn't gonna run out, Case."

I coughed. For a few scary seconds, I worried what I'd just downed was on its way back up. Then I got enough control to rasp, "How do you know?"

Before he replied, I turned away and started pushing through the growing mob queued up by the bar. An older lady in Chanel said my name, then a freshman sporting a sweater set. I remained silent, focused on the barren stage.

There was no program, no order. Performers just decided to perform.

Mom hadn't wanted me to bring my instrument, so I approached her now like a thief nabbing the family china. She was in deep convo with my father's manager, didn't even look up until I reached the stage.

By then, pretty much the whole room was watching.

My face felt hot and my belly was warm. My fingers trembled as they worked the latch on my case. Somehow I freed the cello and set the endpin to the right height. The mic was too low; I managed to adjust it without feedback.

My own voice was a surprise.

"Okay, I'm gonna be insanely cliché. It's just when I was ten, I graduated to a three-quarter. This is the first piece I learned. My dad taught me. 'Ave Maria.'" I paused, and looked out at the audience for the first time. For once the girls in my class seemed supportive. "The Schubert version, not the Bach... Dad hated the Bach."

I heard a few people laugh, which actually felt good. My mother seemed ready to fall apart. But as I played the first notes of the composition that was on the album that won my father his first Grammy, a piece penned by a heartbroken composer dying of syphilis, I began to feel in sync. I began to feel the way I did when I was younger, when Dad held my hand as it clutched the bow.

My mother leaned against the manager. He was already rubbing his eyes with a handkerchief. Around the edge of the stage, kids I barely knew clustered together and silently swayed by the pit.

When I finished, there was probably only a single pair of dry eyes in the club. Then again, I didn't even cry at the cemetery.

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Seven months later, Sheila gave me a key to the practice room. After I unlocked the door and carried in my cello, she asked me to play my classical audition piece.

It was the one I had played at my dad's memorial.

I'd hoped it would connect me. Until he died, it didn't matter if he was in London or Beijing. When I played the cello, it was like we were talking. But after January, the instrument became a cold, dead thing. Whatever I had summoned that day had dissipated.

On my twelfth birthday, I had joined my father onstage at the Hollywood Bowl. For twenty minutes, we played our cellos, our only accompaniment the audience's mesmerized silence.

Performing for thousands was less nerve wracking than playing "Ave Maria" for Sheila that first day at The Academy.

When I began, she closed her eyes. As I played, a tiny smile formed on her lips. She'd already removed her shoes, setting her bare feet beneath her chair. Her hands rested palms up on her lap. As I made my way through a piece that was now twice as heartbreaking, I could just make out the shapes and colors of passing students through a smoky pane of glass in the door.

While the last notes faded, Sheila opened her eyes and wiped away a tear. "That was the tits, Casey. But it will never get you into the C."