Arianne's Waltz: Musica Con Fuoco, Op. 3

Wednesday, May 15

Prelude: Twilight

Dear Diary,

You have been my constant confidant since I was eleven. You know my heart as no other; yet, I feel guilt that I have allowed such a gap in sharing with you as I have. I told you last fall of the shock and fear I felt when the doctors told me that I have leukemia—cancer—and an aggressive form of it. I told of the coming chemotherapy and the doctors’ warnings that I would lose my hair.

You, better than anyone, know my stubborn streak. Even I admit (at least to you) that I’m hard-headed. I told the doctors to forget it, that I was keeping my hair. I’ve worked too long to grow it simply to lose it to some stupid chemical.

Mother told me gently, you may not have a choice. Her words were indeed gentle, but she used that nickname…again. She knows I hate being called ‘Sweeting;’ it makes me feel five years old!

I fear that I became adamant with them about it. They smiled at me, sympathetic if indulgent, and said that we’ll just have to see… but I won. I beat the one-in-a-million odds. My hair didn’t fall out.

Keeping my hair feels like a small victory in a very large war. I have been so sick that, at times, I wanted to just give up. Then, I remembered what giving up means, and I made myself dig deeper and oppose this evil, this insidious, this demeaning attack on my body with more force of will than ever before.

I managed to stay in school; I also managed to keep others from finding out my secret. You, Diary, above all know that I cannot bear pity. I have had it shoved onto me by the girls I’ve known for so many years now that I refuse to put myself into a position to offer them the opportunity once more. My interests simply didn’t match theirs then and still do not to this day. I’m proud of what I am: a gifted musician with the respect of other musicians. I can live with the isolation of shallow acquaintances and few true friends.

I endured a bone marrow transplant over spring break. Daddy proved to be a compatible donor; they tell me such compatibility is exceedingly rare. He gave me his marrow that my destroyed immune system might rebuild itself cancer-free. I love him so much for that gift!

The initial tests showed the transplant working…but before the process could finish, the…I don’t want to say it.

The next step was an experimental medicine. I became one of the first in a human trial of this new drug. I spent my fifteenth birthday receiving injections of the next miracle—that’s what they hope to call it. The medicine knocked the leukemia back as soon as it entered my system.

I took my end-of-school finals early. I passed everything. I’ll be a sophomore next year.

That brings me up to today. I’ve been in the hospital for several days so they could run extensive tests. The test results came back, and after considering what the doctors said, I told Daddy what I wanted to do. First, I’m sick of the hospital, and I want to go home. I want to be in our house, where I can sleep in my bed, where I can gather the shreds of my dignity about me once more. I must start there—even as I continue taking the experimental medicine—if I am to have the chance to beat the one-in-a-million odds a second time. Then, I told him about the other thing that is so near and dear to my heart that I’ve only told you, Diary, some time ago. Daddy promised he would make the doctors send me home—today. And, then, once I feel comfortable there, he promised he’d make the other wish come true.

I cannot shake the feeling that I face evening’s twilight leading into darkness. I want so desperately to find a way out of the gloaming on the horizon into the light I know lies beyond; still, I hope, though more dimly now, for a rising sun to dispel the gloom surrounding me…

I’m waiting now for the doctors and nurses to do the paperwork to get me out of here. I love Daddy and Mother more than I can put into words. It tears me up inside to see them wracked with guilt and pain over me. It’s not their fault—it’s no one’s fault. It’s just…life.

Above all, I want to live what remains of my life on my terms.

Monday, June 10

1: Impromptu Duet

The music stopped Stephen Ingalls in his tracks as he passed through the door. Doug Nicholas, Jason Anderson, and even Quentin Marquis had to sidestep around him to keep from making a noise that would shatter the moment for everyone, even those unaware of their arrival.

Jason looked at his friend. Stephen’s expression reflected total absorption with what he heard. His dark brown, amber-flecked eyes became unfocused; the red highlights in his wavy, dark chestnut hair were nearly invisible in the dim light. Concentration pulled Stephen’s facial muscles taut; Jason could almost imagine extensions attached to his ears as he soaked up the pure sound coming from just around the corner. He knew the others watched Stephen’s unusual reaction just as intently.

Jason’s light coloring contrasted against Stephen’s dark. His hair was light blond, his eyes blue, and though he was slightly taller than his best friend, Stephen’s was by far the dominant personality. Even Doug, who was a darker blond, green eyed, taller yet, and at sixteen a year older than Stephen and Jason, recognized that.

Quentin Marquis, Associate Conductor of the Philadelphia Orchestra and friend to Stephen’s father, was responsible for all three boys being here. The older man knew he was in for a treat as he watched Stephen silently shuck his jacket, passing it to Doug without looking; he then removed his violin from its case and passed the case to Jason. Stephen tucked the violin under his chin, and with an unbelievably soft touch from his bow, tested his strings’ tuning. Quentin wasn’t sure the bow actually touched the strings, for he heard nothing. He did see Stephen gently twist the tuning pegs a bit and retest, then the young man moved the three or four steps to pass into the room beyond, from whence came the music.

As Stephen moved, the others followed, only now aware of the lone oboe calling their friend as nectar entices hummingbirds to sip from flowers’ depths. With an agile move that astonished even him, Quentin slipped to Stephen’s side as they rounded the corner; he gestured for those who saw them enter not to react, merely to listen.

The lyric melody reminded Jason of any number of old folk tunes—not necessarily American ones. The music’s poignancy poured from the single performer. He knew Stephen was aware only of the gorgeous sound; however, Jason couldn’t help but notice the performer.

Standing to one side of the room, a slender girl softly played her slender instrument. Her silken hair, almost the same dark color as her oboe, flowed down her back in waves. Jason couldn’t see her face—she stood before a group of more than a dozen young people ranging in age from fourteen to twenty or so—yet her carriage held an air of elegance. She was oblivious to the four newcomers’ entrance, but the rest of the audience raised eyebrows upon seeing Stephen appear, violin at the ready, and none was prepared for the subtle transformation of the music as Stephen began to play.

Jason was suddenly aware an incredibly high, beautiful, and soft tone shimmered out of Stephen’s violin, caressing the melody the girl played as the softest silk might brush deliciously against skin. It insinuated itself so smoothly that several pitch changes occurred before others became aware of his participation. Jason watched with incredulity as Stephen wove those high, soft notes in and around the oboe’s melody, a tune Jason knew had to be extemporaneous, one Stephen could never have heard. Jason smiled, enjoying the music. This special genius made Stephen unique. He savored the experience.

As they played, Stephen slipped forward until he stood beside the other performer. He noted the raised eyebrow indicating he should take the melody, and he did on the next phrase. The parts shifted instruments, and Stephen began playing back the melodies he’d heard, yet in a different progression. The accompanying oboe followed him without faltering. The music was flawless, the two of them playing as if together for years rather than mere moments. They continued trading melody and harmony between them, phrase by phrase, for the next five minutes—until they’d drawn every nuance possible from the unplanned duet. The melody returned to its originator, and the duet ended on a most satisfying diminuendo.

For long seconds, silence filled the room. Then softly, someone from the back of the audience eloquently stated, Wow! With that exclamation, the others rose from their seats and began moving toward them, gathering around in a group, talking.

Stephen turned to the other performer, only then noticing she was female. Not only female, but beautiful. Dark eyes sparkled in a delicate, heart-shaped face framed by soft, flowing hair which cascaded down her back in waves of rich, darkest brown. Her chin was neither pointed nor square; but rounded in a way that spoke of determination and backbone when necessary, yet beauty otherwise. He amended his original estimation; not just beautiful, more like striking. He almost lost himself in her eyes, recalling only at the last second what he intended to say.

I’m sorry for intruding on your music, he apologized, but I couldn’t resist. His voice was light and expressive. The melody was so beautiful and once my mind started suggesting harmonies, the temptation to be a part of it was just too strong.

Oh, no, the girl replied with a downward glance. Her rich and melodic voice thrilled his ears. I’m glad you did. It was a wonderful experience for me, too.

She reached out and slipped her hand into his in thanks. Stephen felt an electric jolt shoot through him at her touch, something he’d never before experienced. After a second of confusion, he regained his composure.

I’m Stephen, he told her, smiling in return. Playing the duet was a great privilege. I enjoyed it.

Do so again sometime? she asked, before she could think twice about asking.

Gladly, Stephen told her.

My name is Arianne.

I’m pleased to meet you—Arianne. For some reason, Stephen liked the taste of that name in his mouth. And at that moment, their hands still joined, he wanted to raise her hand to his lips and kiss it. It was a very old-fashioned thought, a surprising one to cross his mind—but it was gallant, and it felt like the right thing to do. However, before he could act on what was blossoming into a very strong compulsion, interruption entered their private world.

Another boy, somewhat older than Stephen, walked up. With an inner regret, Stephen released Arianne’s hand.

You must be Stephen Ingalls, he said, not offering his hand. Quentin said this morning that he was going to meet and bring the three of you here tonight.

Arianne raised her hand close to her heart, closing and unclosing the fingers, a slightly dazed expression crossing her face. Then, she let it drop back to her side as the conversation around her registered.

I am, Stephen replied. And you are…? His smile was pleasant as he extended his hand to the other boy. If he thinks dropping Quentin’s first name is going to lead me to believe he’s closer to Quentin than I am, Stephen thought, he’s due for a rude awakening…

Andrew Thompson. Stephen saw no sign that Andrew was willing to shake hands and make proper acquaintance. Andrew stared across the short distance separating them, his ice-blue eyes locked on Stephen’s, a shock of straight black hair jutting out over his forehead, cowlick antennae waving in the air behind. Stephen’s courteously extended hand remained ignored. I read about you in the Philadelphia papers.

Arianne noticed Stephen’s extended hand, Andrew’s rudeness, and quirked an eyebrow toward them. Smoothly, Stephen retracted his hand; he’d done the proper things, even if Andrew hadn’t, and she—and probably others—noted the disparity.

We read about all three of you, in fact, Arianne said, her voice soft. Stephen caught the flash of aggravation in her eyes toward Andrew as she pointedly turned the conversation back between herself and him. Suddenly, Stephen was glad she wasn’t dismissing him, as she so clearly was Andrew. The newspaper articles were about the concert you did a week or so ago with the Clarkstowne Symphony, she concluded.

Quentin invited us when he attended the concert, Stephen told them, but our travel arrangements couldn’t be set any earlier than today.

Andrew sniffed disdainfully and reached toward Arianne. Come, Ari, he said proprietarily, "we need to see the others."

Somehow, in a manner Stephen didn’t quite see, her hand and arm missed capture by Andrew’s hand. Go ahead, Andrew, she told him coolly. I’m not through visiting with Stephen, or meeting his companions. She smiled sweetly, in a cold, distant sort of way. I’ll be along in a bit. After a brief pause, she added with just a hint of irritation, You know that I’d rather not be called by that nickname, too.

Andrew looked from one to the other, then suddenly turned on one heel and stalked off without saying a word. As he left, Arianne looked around and then settled on a nearby couch, motioning for Stephen to join her, which he did.

Jason slipped up to the couple, grinning. Kerris II? he asked Stephen with a grin, practically reading his friend’s mind.

"As if I really need that, Jason." He laid his violin inside the open case Jason held toward him, then closed the latches and took it from his friend with a word of thanks.

Well, Kerris is just fine, now, especially after you finished retraining him, Jason said with a grin, settling on the broad arm of the couch beside his friend.

"You will please remember what we endured to accomplish that," Stephen grimaced.

Somehow, Arianne said, I think I missed something.

Tell you after Stephen’s through blushing, Jason said with a wicked grin to his friend, whose face was indeed coloring at the remembrance of the agonies their friendship suffered courtesy of Kerris Billingsley the previous fall. At the expression on Stephen’s face, Jason couldn’t resist adding, To understand the situation with Kerris, you have to remember some famous words: ‘Life is a tale told by an idiot; full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’

Shakespeare, Arianne replied immediately, "Macbeth."

Arianne’s prompt citation made Stephen grin.

Kerris, Jason told her, completing his brief story, was a senior at our high school who made the error of thinking he was superior to those around him. It caused Stephen and me some problems, and Stephen took him to task…since I was unable to at the time. We’ve since become good friends. Jason grinned. All’s fair in love and war, he quipped.

Now just why did Jason have to say that? Stephen wondered.

Arianne, Stephen gestured toward Jason, this is Jason Anderson. He plays the flute. His lips crinkled upward. "I’m tempted to say ‘He plays the violin,’ which is true, but we might find ourselves singing songs from 1776."

Arianne tried hard to just chuckle when she really wanted to laugh. She found the twist to his lips and an infectious twinkle in Stephen’s eyes very appealing. We might even find ourselves waltzing around the courtyard, she told them through her mirth, gesturing toward the windows and glass-paneled doors lining one side of the common room. Just you, me, a delicate hand swept toward Jason, and old Ben, here.

Jason dissolved into laughter at the thought. After only a moment’s acquaintance, Arianne had correctly cast Stephen in the role of fiery John Adams in the musical. Luckily, though his personality was fiery on occasion, Stephen maintained focus and steady control all the time. Outside was a lighted court with paving and what looked in the dim nighttime glow like planters lining the sides, with a fountain burbling in the center.

That might not be a bad idea, Jason commented, running an appreciative eye over Arianne, which made her blush.

Maybe some other evening, Stephen said uncomfortably, remembering the electric current at the touch of Arianne’s hand moments before. Let’s join everyone else for now.

Nodding agreement, they rose and walked toward the adjoining dining area, where a spread of refreshments encouraged them to mingle and meet new people.

In the dining area, they found cups set out beside a cooler of punch, and cookies presented on several plates. Stephen courteously offered a plate to Arianne, and drew a cup of punch for her from the cooler while she chose an assortment of cookies. Jason gathered refreshments for himself and then moved off among the others, introducing himself and conversing with the small groups that were forming.

Thank you, Stephen, Arianne told him as he handed her the cup of punch. That’s kind of you.

You’re welcome, he answered, quickly choosing refreshments for himself.

They walked through the groups, ending up by the windowed side of the dining area. As they looked out, Stephen saw that this room, too, faced the courtyard.

In-cred-i-ble, he murmured to himself, drawing it out just as William Daniels had in 1776. I regularly play duets with Jason, and have performed with others, but never quite so…spontaneously, He struggled for just the right words, "…or with such…such…abandon as we played a little while ago." He shook his head, still disbelieving the experience.

I’ve never played like that, either, she told him, and there wasn’t a wrong note or dissonant combination the entire time. Her expression reflected the wonder still coursing through her from the experience. It was…incredible.

Stephen’s hand brushed the back of hers. It was thrilling.

For me, too, Arianne whispered, suddenly unsure of what to do or say. Stephen affected her in ways she didn’t know how to deal with or interpret; the experience was both scary and exciting to Arianne. With a deep breath to settle her suddenly flipping stomach, she decided retreat—no, attack in a different direction, as Patton would say—was the best choice. She’d seen the movie recently. I’d better go visit with the girls for a while, she told him, regret coloring her voice, or they’ll start talking…

By all means, Stephen agreed, having watched the girls’ network in action before, and not wanting to be on the receiving end of it at this special place. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.

Thanks for understanding, Arianne smiled, and then moved away before she could be tempted to change her mind.

Across the room, Doug slipped into a group of boys about his size and age. Hi, he said, I’m Doug Nicholas. French horn.

Dan Tanner, the first, a tall boy with curly brown hair said, raising his cup. Cello.

Dennis Dobson, percussion, a red-haired lad spoke up next.

Vladimir Chernoff, the third said in heavily accented English. He was shorter, black-haired, gray-eyed, and Doug saw signs of an imp lurking beneath his serious expression. I play wiolin, he said with a jesting formality.

Welcome to our Summer Group, Dan finished for the rest of them.

Formalities satisfied, the four of them began comparing experiences, likes, amusements, and other things that would bring them together.

The quickly growing camaraderie, with its accompanying aroma of friendship, like those famous crescent rolls exuding the odor of freshly baked bread, delighted Doug.

Jason, too, moved through the collection of young people, introducing himself, starting the process of matching faces with names. He didn’t have Stephen’s photographic memory, but with a little effort, he could make those associations very quickly. He wondered if he might do better using Doug’s trick of associating people and instruments; Doug said he envisioned filling in an orchestra with new faces, and that’s how he remembered everyone. Once a musician…

In a moment between people, he looked around for Stephen and spotted him by the windows, lost in thought. He had just decided to allow his friend to continue the reverie in peace when he noticed Andrew making his way across the room, Stephen clearly his destination. He paused, keeping an eye on the situation. His earlier comment about Kerris might have been too close to the mark. It wasn’t likely Stephen would need any help! After the way Stephen dressed down Kerris, or so the members of the high school orchestra had commented dryly, no doubt remained that Stephen could handle Andrew.

Kerris was a much nicer person now, and Jason and Stephen considered Kerris a good friend and talented musician. Jason shook his head, easing closer to listen. Andrew was so like Kerris had been…

He needn’t have worried…

Arianne and several other girls watched the latecomers. For some reason, the girls felt all three deserved extra attention. They carried themselves with assurance and confidence that was, in some ways, unusual for kids in their age group. Of course, with Arianne in their midst, they could ask all kinds of questions about her interaction with Stephen…

What was it like to play that duet? Karen Hill asked Arianne. Karen was slender and about Arianne’s height, but with straight dark brown hair instead of Arianne’s wavy locks. In addition, Karen’s hair reached only to mid-back, while Arianne’s fell well below her waist. Karen’s eyes were a medium brown, pleasantly placed in an oval face with a delicate nose, dimpled cheeks, and a mouth ready to smile. Karen’s personality was well suited for the bassoon.

Yes, Arianne, Barbara Green seconded the question. Barbara’s blonde hair, green eyes, and more angular face with a nose slightly larger than Karen’s radiated equal interest in the answer they might receive. Her sometimes bubbly personality went well with the clarinet she played.

I can’t describe it for you, Arianne told them, her voice dreamy. "All I can say is that it’s probably the most wonderful performance I’ve ever done. A spark of magic seemed to fill the air and wrap around both of us; we couldn’t make a mistake—even if we wanted to. I didn’t want to, and the more I think about it, I’d bet I couldn’t have even if I’d tried. I wanted to just drown myself in Stephen’s eyes." Suddenly, she realized what she was saying, and broke off.

You both looked so…at peace, a tall, statuesque girl said. Her black hair, mostly piled on top of her head tonight, framed a complexion so light it appeared almost white. Dark, snapping eyes piercingly observed the world from that face, regal lines, and high cheekbones set in thoughtful guise.

I sure felt at peace, Audrey, Arianne agreed. That duet was fantastic, uplifting, and relaxing—all at the same time.

I’m glad, Arianne, Audrey said quietly. You seemed lost in the experience.

I was, Arianne admitted. It was spellbinding for me. She looked at Barbara. Jason’s nearly as hypnotic, she told her.

Really?

When he really looks, he can see right into your heart, she told them. Go visit with him and find out, Arianne suggested.

Maybe I will, Barbara said, inclining her head toward the windows, after Andrew gets through with Stephen.

They saw Andrew moving purposefully toward Stephen’s solitary figure as he stood, looking outward.

"Or Stephen gets through with Andrew," Arianne whispered softly to herself, making sure no one else heard.

I just wanted to tell you, Andrew said without preamble, some of us have been here several years running, now. You can’t just walk in and become the center of attention…for anyone.

I don’t have to be the center of anyone’s attention, Andrew, Stephen told him quietly. He turned from the view outside and squarely faced the other boy. I’m a team player, I’m here to learn, and I’m here to share with others. Stephen took a measured breath. Are you?

Andrew looked at the smaller boy, his expression blank. Surely, he couldn’t possibly mean…?

If so, we’ll get along just fine, Stephen continued, his voice calm, conversational. His next words contained a hint of steel. If not, you’ll quickly discover I know how to lead with authority.

He does! "What’s that supposed to mean?" Andrew challenged.

"Until you’ve walked in my shoes, been where I’ve been, lived through what I’ve lived through, don’t try to tell me you know what’s best for me. He looked across the room at Jason, then Arianne. Or anyone else, he concluded. After all, that’s why you came over here, isn’t it?"

Just keep your nose out of my business…and away from my friends, Andrew told him, hostility coloring his voice.

Certainly, Stephen replied complacently, as far as your business is concerned, and as long as you treat me with the same respect. As for friendships—we’re both here to make them, and build relationships that may last for many years. Stephen examined Andrew with one piercing glance across his entire body, a glance whose swiftness unsettled Andrew more than he was willing to admit. We’re in an exclusive group, you and I, Stephen continued, and we should care about that…each other…and everyone else. Then, with an ice-cold tone in his voice that shocked Andrew, Stephen stated: I believe that ends this little interview.

Without another word, Stephen walked away, heading toward the punch bowl, leaving Andrew to stare after him and wonder.

When everyone gathered in the lounge area, Quentin stepped to the center of the room.

Today, while I was off fetching Stephen, Doug, and Jason, he said, you had the chance to play for the other leaders and each other. This should give you some idea of the talent pool we have here. It’s important to those of us with gray hair, and he grinned at the other experienced musicians and chaperones for the conservatory study group—most of whom didn’t have any gray hair, "that everyone understand that none of us is here to stand on his ego. Andrew jumped guiltily; after all, Stephen said this to him a short while earlier! Quentin continued as the older boy struggled to regain his composure, hoping no one noticed his reaction. We will be working as mentors and as companions. We expect to be called by our first names; no one will expect formality. All of us will produce, even those who lead…especially those who lead. You came here for the chance to expand your abilities and the possibilities for the future of your career in music.

Tomorrow, Quentin expanded his explanation, the three newcomers will play for the group, as the rest of you did today. Tonight, though, we’re going to break from the pattern we’ve been setting to introduce a new and exciting possibility. I have some video for you to watch, followed by explanation. Then, we can discuss it.

As he talked, two of the other leaders wheeled a large screen television into the room.

The three young men from Clarkstowne have been brought here to participate on several levels. They are indeed here to learn, just as the rest of you are; however, and he paused to indicate a significant difference was coming, "they are also here to lead in this group of their peers."

That raised a few eyebrows.

This past year, Quentin continued, "the Director of Music at Clarkstowne High School did a very daring thing: he turned his orchestra over to these three young men, stepping aside into an advisory capacity. It was their responsibility to prepare, rehearse, conduct, and present their orchestra to the school and to the public.

These are video clips of their past year. Hopefully, at the end of this, you’ll see why I wanted to include Stephen, Doug, and Jason in our Conservatory in this most unusual way. He stepped aside, the lights dimmed, and the videotape began to play.

The tape contained clips showing each of the Clarkstowne Three conducting. For Stephen, the clip was from that first concert last fall: Tchaikovsky’s Marche Slave. Jason’s appearance was a clip from his first public performance just two months back. Doug’s clip was from this year’s Christmas Concert, when he’d led the various choirs in the orchestra.

The tape took about 25 minutes to run. The three from Clarkstowne felt uncomfortable seeing themselves presented to this group in this way; it put them on the spot. After a moment’s reflection, though, each realized he’d been here before, when he had to face the High School Orchestra for the first time as a conductor. Each had learned confidence and leadership skills from Dr. Donaldson, along with others, that led to success over this past year. The only real difference here was the age span of the members. Given the chance to prove themselves, they should be able to perform just as well during this conservatory.

As you know, Quentin commented as he shut off the equipment, we’ll be working intensively in the next month. We’ll be writing, practicing, studying, performing, and sharing—of ourselves, our music, and our talents. We will form a small chamber orchestra, and a quartet or two, from our membership, and perform our own compositions, as well as traditional works, both privately and publicly. Also, we will have guest artists visit us from time to time, to lend their expertise to our efforts.

This comment brought a murmur of excitement from almost everyone. Quentin grinned, No hints, either. Suffer!

He waited for the chuckles to die down. I’ll close this evening by asking Stephen, Doug, and Jason to introduce themselves and tell the instruments they play, what they write, and whatever they want to share about themselves. Then, I’d ask that each of you do the same for them, since they weren’t able to be with you through the day today. I have no doubts they will pick up rather quickly on everyone’s capabilities as we begin working. He gestured to Stephen. Would you start, Stephen?

Gladly, Quentin, Stephen said, standing and turning to face everyone. I’m Stephen Ingalls. I’ve just completed my freshman year in high school. I’ve studied piano for ten years, and violin for two. I write both classical and contemporary, but tend toward the classical forms. I’ve had my first major work published and performed, and have performed with both the Clarkstowne High School Orchestra and the Clarkstowne Symphony as a conductor and a soloist. He sat down.

As Stephen sat down, there was a spate of conversation. Several of the young people, along with the staff, were commenting about the duet with Arianne; they couldn’t believe he’d only been playing violin for two years. Quentin smiled at the comments as he stood. Believe what you want, he told them. When I met Stephen just about two years ago, he’d never touched a violin. In fact, I helped his father embarrass him at the time with a comment about Paganini. Stephen grinned back at Quentin from his seat. The conductor turned toward Jason.

Stephen’s first major work, Quentin inserted smoothly as Jason stood, "was a flute concerto, performed for the first time just ten days ago. I believe this young man happened to be the soloist…perhaps because it was dedicated to him?" Quentin grinned the question at Jason.

Could be, Jason replied with a grin, and then his face sobered. I met Stephen just a few months after I went through…a very bad experience, he told the group, not wanting to reveal too much, too soon. He took a deep, settling breath. It…it put me in a wheelchair, unable to feel my legs…and unable to write or play music. Stephen helped me…overcome my losses and regain my abilities. He sighed, and then smiled. My name is Jason Anderson. The Flute Concerto was a Christmas present, to remind me of what we’d been through, how we’d shared, and grown beyond. It was a joy to play. He shook his head to clear the memories away. I play the flute and the violin, and write much as Stephen does, though my compositions have been more in the nature of occasional pieces for small groups; I don’t have Stephen’s flair for larger works…as yet. He suddenly sat down.

Those will come with time, Quentin assured him. Doug?

Doug stood. I’m Doug Nicholas, he told them. I’m the quiet one in this threesome. That got a chuckle. I just finished my sophomore year; I play the French horn, and haven’t written much of anything that I’ve been willing to share…so far. I have a feeling that will change in the next few weeks. Doug looked around uncertainly, as if he had more to say, but then returned to his seat.

The first to stand from the group was Arianne.

I’m Arianne Peters, she told them. I play the oboe and the piano, and like Jason, I’ve written mostly occasional music for just a few instruments, or solo pieces for piano or oboe. It’s nice to have a couple more former freshmen around here; I don’t feel so lonely any more. Her smile lit up the room for Stephen.

And predictably…

I’m Andrew Thompson, the boy said harshly, barely giving Arianne the chance to sit down before he jumped in. I play the trumpet. His body language said that he challenged anyone to be better than he was. Jason stifled the temptation to comment to his friends that he’d wagered Andrew played some instrument that required the talents of a blow-hard.

A tall, dark-haired girl stood next, as if to make up for Andrew’s almost abrasive attitude. I play both piano and violin. My name is Audrey Renee Parish, and I’ll be a senior next fall.

Stephen looked up. Parish isn’t that common a name. Are you by any chance related to Mitchell Parish?

He saw Audrey’s eyes flash. People ask me that question all the time, she said evenly, and it’s the one question I wish they’d let me volunteer before asking it. She sighed. The answer is yes, he is a distant relative of mine.

Stephen stood and faced her squarely. He then executed an elegant and almost elaborate bow. May I offer my apologies, Audrey? I did not wish to offend or affront in any way.

Audrey smiled. Apology accepted, she told him, meeting Stephen’s steady gaze. It is nice to know his work is appreciated, especially by people in our age group. She looked around the room. Some of you need to take lessons, she quipped softly before resuming her seat.

Quentin managed to keep a poker face over Audrey’s barb, while a titter of amusement traveled around the room.

The introduction passed around the group, each person providing a name, instruments, and sharing about writing talents and preferences. The group session lasted a little over ten minutes.

When everyone finished, Quentin resumed the place of leadership. Decision time is upon us, he told them. We have one dorm room left unoccupied. That will cover two of you. The third will have to bunk with a stranger, at least at first.

Before anyone else could, Doug raised a hand. I’ll bunk in. Put Stephen and Jason in that last room; there’s a synergistic relationship between them you have to see to believe.

Okay, Doug, Quentin agreed. You can room with Dan, there.

Good enough.

Welcome aboard, Doug, Dan told him with a grin.

Now, Quentin said briskly, it’s time to break it up for tonight. We start bright and early in the morning. Breakfast begins at 8:15, and first class at 9:15. You’ll find groups and locations posted on the message board in the morning before breakfast. Good night, all.

Good night, Quentin! they chorused, laughing.

Jason and Stephen said good night to the other participants, and then gathered their things. Their new friends led the pair to their dorm room. Chaperones bundled the girls off to a different section of the Conservatory dorms. Stephen and Jason needed but a few minutes to unpack and stow their personal belongings in the dressers, desks, wardrobe-closets, and bookshelves in their room.

Did you see the way some of the girls were looking at us? Stephen asked as he put things away.

So you noticed them, did you? Jason commented, grinning.

It’s a good thing Judith isn’t around, Stephen shot back. She’d have your guts on the floor by now for looking at someone else.

"She has made it a point to say she’s attached to me, hasn’t she?" Jason agreed.

And I’ve never heard you object, either, Stephen told him. "You didn’t object the day you met her, you didn’t object…that I could see…when she kissed you in the cafeteria, and you seem quite content to be the object of her affections. Stephen grinned as Jason started looking around for a pillow to throw at him. Do you think you’ll miss her over the next month?"

Jason abandoned his search for a projectile. Only if I have enough free time to think of her, he told his best friend. Even that comment brought her image to the front of his thoughts. Judith. Judith Easton. Oval face with a delicate chin, eyes that smiled all the time, all framed by brown hair that reached to the middle of her back, half a head shorter than himself, gentle personality coupled with a very sharp mind who let it be known Jason Anderson was the center of her world.

"Do you think she’ll miss you?" Stephen couldn’t resist asking.

Jason grimaced. Probably, he admitted. I had to promise to write on a regular basis before she’d let me leave.

Stephen started laughing.

"Just wait until you find a girlfriend, Jason suggested. Then, you’ll understand."

Stephen continued to chuckle. I doubt it, he commented.

Jason chose not to reply.

The unpacking done, the two friends changed into their night clothing, and turned out the light.

With the room darkened, Stephen raised the blinds on the window and looked out across the scenery. He could see down the valley; the white light of a quarter moon ghosted the countryside. The stars were brilliant points in the gaps between the trees. Far off, moonlight glinted on water. After a moment of deep reverie, he realized Jason stood quietly beside him.

"Your comments earlier reminded me of how much we’ve been through in just the past three months, never mind the past…well, year isn’t exaggerating too much, is it?"

No, Jason told him, "it’s not. I’m so glad you’re my friend, and that we can do things like this together. I still miss Tony, but his memory excites me for what is about to happen here!"

I think you’re so right, Jason, Stephen said, remembering the feel of Arianne’s hand in more detail than he’d ever recalled a single thing before. He sighed.

It still doesn’t seem like it could have happened, though, does it? Jason’s voice was almost as soft as the moonlight.

No, Jason, it doesn’t. The dim moonlight gilded Stephen’s face, carving it into sharp relief.

Jason saw the pain of remembrance cross his friend’s face.

Stephen’s grimace carried into his next words. I would never have guessed on that painful day in March where that frightful experience would take me.

Me, too, Jason whispered, and they remembered.

Wednesday, March 20

2: Appendicitis

Stephen stumbled down the hallway, right hand holding pressure against the pain in his lower right side, while his left arm pushed against the wall, keeping him moving in a fairly straight line. The pain he fought unsuccessfully dulled his eyes. He was glad the tardy bell had rung several moments before; the hallway was deserted, and that made moving, which was painful to start with, easier since he didn’t have to dodge obstacles. His whole side seemed to be on fire; he’d never felt pain like this! He could think only that he had to get to the band hall before he collapsed.

Allowing himself to concentrate only on his objective, he finally reached the door. Mercifully, it was open. He stumbled through, turned the corner, and almost fell into Dr. Donaldson’s office.

Stephen! Donaldson exclaimed. What’s—

Pain… Stephen gasped. …my side…

Donaldson almost scooped Stephen off his feet as he placed him on the couch which stood against the wall of his office.

Where does it hurt, Stephen?

Abdomen. Navel to right side, low…low down.

Erich Donaldson unfastened Stephen’s jeans and untucked his shirttails, pulling them aside to expose Stephen’s lower abdomen. On the right side, just under the edge of Stephen’s underwear, he saw the beginning of some inflammation.

May I? he asked, reaching for the elastic band.

Yes, Stephen replied.

Donaldson eased the underwear to the side, and saw an area of angry red just above where Stephen’s leg joined his body. Gently, he touched that spot. Stephen groaned.

I’m sorry, he apologized. Tender?

Yes, sir.

Don’t move.

Don’t worry…don’t plan to.

The pain dulled Stephen’s senses, narrowing his world until it encompassed only his inner turmoil. He was barely aware of Donaldson dialing the phone; instead, his mind distracted him with a complex cinema of memory sparked by the emergency. Memory quickly overwhelmed real events, taking him into a dreamlike state. For of all the days for him to become ill, this was probably the worst…

Charles Russell, the school’s choral director, stood with his arms folded. He had snapped the discussion shut like a fan, and for one long moment, Stephen wondered exactly what he was going to do about it.

Dr. Donaldson had fought an uphill battle all year with his new program for the orchestra which allowed Stephen and Doug to perform as student conductors. When it came time for the annual musical, Dr. Donaldson didn’t give an inch. The choir director, however, voiced loud objections to Stephen’s and Doug’s direction of the musical portion of the program; the man, talented though he was, would not accept that both young men could do an excellent job with the orchestra…and with the chorus. The man’s refusal to share direction of the chorus led, as had been inevitable, to a clashing of musical interpretation of the score for this year’s musical, Camelot. It was one of Stephen’s favorites, and he’d been exceedingly frustrated over his inability to come to some kind of compromise with the choir director.

Calmly, Stephen released the air held in his lungs for the past half minute. Mr. Russell, we seem to have a problem, Stephen said. "Our interpretation of this music’s performance differs. I’m sorry that you feel I’m inadequate for the task before us. I cannot allow this situation to continue, because it will wreck the show. I don’t want to retrain the chorus; I want to use their voices, just as I would use any instrument in this orchestra. When you get right down to it, the human voice is an instrument. Since you feel I am not qualified to know how to best use the instruments at my disposal, here’s my baton. The orchestra and chorus are yours."

Stephen handed his baton to the stunned choral director and went to sit with others who watched the rehearsal. Russell stood there for a few seconds, not believing what had happened, and then turned toward Stephen.

I know next to nothing about conducting an orchestra! he protested. I only experienced familiarization with instrumental conducting in college!

They’re trained, Stephen replied. All you have to do is tell them what you want them to do.

Donaldson valiantly fought to keep his face straight.

For the next fifteen minutes, Russell did his level best to conduct both the chorus and the orchestra, and although he was quite competent, he found the task much more complicated than he anticipated. The conflict between his justifiable pride in his abilities and having to give way to a mere student who was obviously junior in experience reflected cacophonously in his foundering attempts.

At length, he let his arms fall to his side and turned toward the auditorium seats. Stephen, he said, you’re right when you say that we need only one musical director. I do wonderfully well with a choir, but I can’t handle this orchestra. I don’t have the skills it requires. Will you please take this baton?

Stephen stood up. Only if you’ll stay to advise me about the choir, as Dr. Donaldson advises me concerning the orchestra.

Agreed.

…appendicitis.

The word cut through Stephen’s reverie, and he opened his eyes. Somehow, the school nurse had appeared beside him—he must have been unconscious for a while.

No, Evan, it’ll be faster if we get him to the hospital ourselves. Meet us there. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.

Called Dad, Stephen thought dazedly. Good. The word echoed in his mind again. Appendicitis. No! Not now, not after all that work! He and Russell had actually come to respect one another; in fact, Stephen learned more about the human voice in the past month than he had in his entire fourteen years. And to have to give it up only hours before the opening…

Michael Ingalls and Jason Anderson burst into the office, each trying to blurt out questions to Dr. Donaldson. The maestro cut them off with a gentle wave of his hand. It’s okay, boys, he said calmly. Stephen appears to have appendicitis. I’m going to drive him to the hospital right away.

I’m going with you, Michael said with an insistence appropriate for a brother.

Me, too, Jason chorused.

You’re only half right. Donaldson handed his keys to Michael. Go clean out the back seat of my car; make sure there’s room for Stephen to lie down in it. Michael shot out of the room even as the maestro turned to Jason. And you, young man—

Stephen’s attention wavered again as the world began to swim away from him like a large, lazy fish. He wanted to protest, to say that he had to be ready for tonight, but he just couldn’t…quite…

"—you’ll have to," Donaldson said. Stephen was sure he’d missed something; he felt himself being carried in strong arms, grateful that he was being taken care of, but really wishing that his savior wouldn’t jostle his side so much…man, that hurt!

The back seat’s ready. Michael’s voice, Stephen noted.

"But I can’t!" What was Jason blathering about?

—you’re the only— Donaldson again. Stephen gave up trying to understand and let his mind go blank.

Evan Ingalls stood waiting at the emergency entrance to Methodist Hospital as Donaldson pulled to a stop. He helped Donaldson get Stephen out of the car, and then carried his adopted son in through the automatic doors. A nurse saw him coming, and met them just inside the door.

What happened? she asked.

I think my son has appendicitis, Evan told her.

In here, she said, holding the door into a treatment room wide open. Over her shoulder, the nurse barked, "Pediatrics resident, stat! Notify surgery—we may need a room—can I get some help in here!?"

Evan looked over at Michael as he carried Stephen through the doorway. Better call your mom and tell her where we are, he said, and then the door closed behind him.

Michael looked up at Dr. Donaldson. How can I do that without making her panic? he asked, hoping his mentor would have a reasonable answer.

Come on, Donaldson, chuckling, put his arm around Michael’s shoulders. I’ll call her for you, if you’d like.

The relief in Michael’s voice was almost palpable. I’d appreciate it, Dr. Donaldson. All I could do is scare her!

The resident confirmed their fears with his diagnosis. Now that it was official, preparations for surgery were underway. Despite its urgency, the situation had its moment of humor. A fiercely embarrassed Stephen insisted his father undress him when the nurse came in to do it. The nurse argued that he shouldn’t be embarrassed, but Stephen was adamant. She gave him an injection of sedative and then left the room.

How do you feel? Evan asked as he folded Stephen’s clothes, stacking them in a neat pile.

Kinda groggy, Stephen replied, his voice slightly slurred. This gown isn’t very warm…

You know, Evan smiled, my undressing you now wasn’t necessary; the nurse could probably have done it faster—and your privacy will desert you in the operating room.

I know, Stephen replied, but I’ll be unconscious then, and it won’t matter to me. Right now, yawn, I’m wide awake, and…unlike some other people…my age…I don’t…like to—to…show…offff… Stephen’s eyes fluttered shut as his voice trailed away.

I know, Evan told him softly, ruffling Stephen’s hair, and running his hand along the side of Stephen’s face. God keep you and protect you until this is over, son. He gently kissed Stephen’s forehead and straightened, almost surprised at his sudden display of such deep emotion.

Just then, the door opened and the nurse came back in.

He just dropped off, Evan told her.

Good, she replied, looking from father to son. After several glances, her face took on a puzzled expression. Pardon my bluntness, she said uncomfortably, but both of you look familiar, for some reason, but I…I don’t believe I know either one of you.

Evan smiled. Ever go to the Symphony? he asked.

Why, yes… Then comprehension struck. You’re Evan Ingalls, and this…is Stephen…the young man who’s turned this city upside down. She looked up at Evan, and smiled confidently. Don’t worry, Maestro, she told him. I’ll take extra good care of him.

I know you will, Evan replied with a smile of his own. "I’ll take his things, and find my wife. She ought to be here by