Not by force, but by the architecture of the very system he built, a system dependent on wealthy donors, public image, and the illusion of meritocracy. He'd been willing to use that system to maintain the status quo, never imagining it might one day be turned against him. But there was something else in his expression, too, something Marcus couldn't quite identify. Was it resentment, fear, or was it possibly the smallest hint of curiosity?
Two years, Harrington said finally, his voice harsh. Two years of lessons, three times per week, as with all my students. But understand this, Marcus Williams. I will not go easy on you.
I will not make allowances for your background or your circumstances. If you want to be my student, you'll be held to exactly the same standards as everyone else I teach. Higher standards, actually, because you'll be starting so far behind. I understand, Marcus said, his heart racing.
I don't think you do, Harrington said coldly. My current students have been playing since they were four or five years old. They've had the best teachers, the best instruments, unlimited practice time. They've attended summer programs with master teachers from around the world.
You have three years of self-teaching and weekly lessons with a nice but unremarkable instructor. Do you understand how massive that gap is? Mrs. Chen isn't unremarkable, Marcus said quietly. She's the reason I'm here.
Something flickered across Harrington's face, surprised perhaps at being contradicted. Be that as it may, you're walking into a situation where you'll be competing with students who have every advantage. I will compare you to them. I will judge you against their standards.
And when you fail to meet those standards, which you inevitably will, I will not coddle you. I will tell you the truth. And the truth may be that you're not cut out for this level of performance. Can you handle that?
Marcus thought about everything he'd already handled in his fourteen years. Watching his father waste away in a hospital bed. Listening to his mother cry when she thought he was asleep. Enduring the mockery of classmates who thought his dreams were stupid.
Fighting against every message society sent that people like him weren't supposed to want things like this. I can handle it, Marcus said. Then we start Monday, Harrington said abruptly. 6:00 p.m. at my studio. 435 West 57th Street. Don't be late.
And for God's sake, get some proper sheet music. I won't have you reading from photocopies and computer screens. With that, Harrington turned and strode off the stage, leaving behind a hall full of stunned, murmuring people and one teenage boy who couldn't quite believe what had just happened. The next seventy-two hours passed in a blur that Marcus could barely process.
Sunday morning, he woke to find his mother already up, sitting at their tiny kitchen table with her laptop open and papers spread everywhere. Mama, he rubbed his eyes, checking the clock. It was 6:00 a.m. What are you doing? Rearranging our lives, she said without looking up. I called Mr. Henderson at the hotel.
Told him I need to switch to the early morning shift, 5:00 a.m. To noon. That way I can be here when you get home from Harrington's lessons. She made a note on one of the papers. Mrs. Chen called me last night.