They laughed.
Celeste heard about the decision through Rachel.
She sent Lila no advice.
That was growth.
Instead one email:
Congratulations. Ann Arbor has terrible winter wind. Buy a real coat.
Lila replied:
This is the most useful thing you’ve ever said to me.
Celeste:
I regret apologizing to you.
Lila smiled.
Their relationship had become strange.
Not mentor.
Not family.
A wealthy older woman who once mocked her.
Then apologized.
Then remained in the same arts ecosystem long enough for both people to become more complicated.
Lila appreciated that.
At college, she did not tell classmates the gala story.
Someone found it anyway through an old foundation newsletter.
A friend asked:
“Is this you?”
Lila groaned.
The headline:
TEN-YEAR-OLD COMPOSER CAPTIVATES ST. AVERY GALA.
No mention of mockery.
Thank God.
Her friend said:
“You were adorable.”
“I hate you.”
Then:
“Did rich people really stand?”
“Yes.”
“Iconic.”
Lila rolled her eyes.
The story felt farther away.
Good.
She studied performance and composition.
Eventually composition became more important.
Not because she stopped loving piano.
Because she liked building music from nothing more than reproducing music perfectly.
Her professors challenged her.
One called “Blue Line” sentimental.
Lila nearly killed him.
Then listened again.
He was partly right.
Children could write beautiful music and still be children.
At twenty-one she rewrote parts.
Then restored the original.
Not because it was better.
Because it was honest about who wrote it.
Her father loved that.
“Do not improve baby Lila.”
“She used too many repeated notes.”
“So does every subway.”
Fair.
After graduation, Lila spent two years freelancing.
Accompaniment.
Teaching.
Arranging.
Composing small commissions.
No meteoric career.
Rent.
Invoices.
Cancelled gigs.
One student who never practiced.
Another who practiced six hours and needed to stop.
Real work.
She briefly considered law school.
Helena said:
“You would terrify judges.”
Lila said:
“Good.”
She stayed in music.
At twenty-six, she received a commission from a regional orchestra for a fifteen-minute work.
The premiere went well.
One review called it “technically assured but emotionally overdetermined.”
Lila spent three days furious.
Then Helena called.
“Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“You got reviewed like an adult.”
“That is terrible.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted equality.”
“Not like this.”
Helena laughed.
“Everybody wants equal praise.”
Nobody wants equal criticism.
True.
At twenty-nine, Lila returned to St. Avery as guest composer for the winter gala.
First time on that stage in years.
Rachel had retired.
Helena sat in the audience.
Marcus and Renee came early.
Of course.
Celeste was seventy-nine.
She arrived with a cane and complained about the chairs.
Some things never changed.