“They probably think the station thing was luck.”
Darius looked toward him.
“Who?”
“People.”
“What people?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then that is a crowded imaginary room.”
Malik glared.
His father continued.
“You played good once.”
“You played bad once.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re a musician.”
That was helpful.
Malik hated it.
At fourteen, he entered a regional composition competition.
Did not place.
At fifteen, honorable mention.
At sixteen, second.
At seventeen, first.
No destiny.
Development.
His technique improved.
So did his ears.
He learned jazz harmony.
Started arranging.
Then became obsessed with film music for six months.
Nadine made fun of him.
He made fun of her record collection.
Their relationship survived.
Darius kept working transit maintenance.
People occasionally turned him into the hardworking father in Malik’s story.
He disliked this.
“I like my job.”
he told a local reporter.
The reporter looked surprised.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I fix things.”
“That is satisfying.”
He paused.
“Also I have health insurance.”
Malik laughed.
The quote did not make the final article.
Too ordinary.
That annoyed them both.
At eighteen, Malik had choices.
Temple University.
Oberlin.
Peabody.
Several other schools.
Some with better aid.
Some with stronger composition programs.
Jonathan Pierce reappeared around then.
Not personally at first.
The Pierce Family Foundation funded a city scholarship for young artists.
Malik qualified.
He refused to apply.
Darius stared.
“Why?”
“Because him.”
“Who?”
“Station guy.”
“That was five years ago.”
“I know.”
“He funds the scholarship?”
“Yes.”
“Does he select?”
“No.”
“Does the scholarship have rules?”
“Yes.”
“Are you eligible?”
“Yes.”
Darius leaned back.
“Then you are being dramatic.”
Malik looked offended.
“I have principles.”
“You have tuition.”
“Dad.”
“Apply.”
Malik asked Nadine.
She agreed with Darius.
Traitors.
He applied.
Independent committee.
No Jonathan.
Malik received $12,000.
He wrote a thank-you letter to the foundation.
Not Jonathan personally.
Fine.
He chose Temple.
Stayed in Philadelphia.
Not because he lacked ambition.
Because the composition faculty was strong, tuition after aid manageable, and his grandmother’s health had begun declining.
People asked whether he stayed for family.
Partly.
Also because he wanted to.
Both could be true.
College humbled him.
Quickly.
Everyone was good.
Some better.
One nineteen-year-old could sight-read orchestral reductions that took Malik hours.
Another student wrote pieces Malik did not understand but professors loved.
He felt ordinary.
Terrifying.
Liberating.
At nineteen, he nearly changed majors.
Audio engineering.
Nadine said:
“Good.”
He stared.
“You don’t care?”
“I care.”