Authors: Jessica Martinez
Virtuosity
Virtuosity
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition October 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Jessica Martinez
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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Designed by Mike Rosamilia
The text of this book was set in Janson Text LT.
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2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Martinez, Jessica.
Virtuosity / Jessica Martinez. — 1st Simon Pulse hardcover ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Just before the most important violin competition of her career, seventeen-year-old prodigy Carmen faces critical decisions about her anti-anxiety drug addiction, her controlling mother, and a potential romance with her most talented rival.
ISBN 978-1-4424-2052-6 (hardcover)
[1. Violin—Fiction. 2. Musicians—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Competition (Psychology)—Fiction. 5. Conduct of life—Fiction. 6. Drug abuse—Fiction. 7. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction.] I.Title.
PZ7.M36715Vir 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010042513
ISBN 978-1-4424-2054-0 (eBook)
For my parents,
Gary and Wendie Low,
who taught me
to love music and books.
Contents
Virtuosity
T
he balcony felt cold under my cheek. Ten floors below me the traffic of Lake Shore Drive purred, but it seemed miles away. Everything before me was perfectly still: a black starless sky over Lake Michigan, my bare arm jutting out between metal bars, and the burnt-orange scroll of my violin rising out of my clenched fist.
It would be as easy as opening my hand. I could just uncurl my fingers one by one, and when the last one relaxed, the violin would slice the night sky like a blade, plummeting to the ground below. Then it would be over.
I exhaled and felt my body flatten against the concrete. Diana would be furious about the gown. Her personal dressmaker had twisted and tucked and pleated the filmy chiffon until it looked like a waterfall, flowing cascades in three shades of blue. Now it was bunched beneath me, probably soaking up dirt, grease, cigarette ash, and whatever else hotel balconies collected.
I shivered. The wind swirled around me, picking up my hair and whipping it against my cheek and bare back. The hair clips and bobby pins were long gone—they’d been the first things I’d removed after stepping inside the hotel room. Then I’d slipped off my heels, peeled off my stockings, and pulled out my earrings. But nothing helped. I couldn’t slough off the shame that clung to my skin.
So I took my violin onto the balcony.
I still felt the jaws of this nightmare locked around me, the tension twisting in my chest, my head, my calves, my fingers.
1.2 million.
That was how much the violin was worth. But the figure was hard to understand. Hard to
feel
. I let the violin sway, just a little, and closed my eyes.
Murder.
The word came to my mind and I dismissed it. That was ridiculous. The violin wasn’t a baby or an animal. It wasn’t living.
But that would be easier to believe if I hadn’t felt it breathe and sing.
I opened my eyes. My knuckles, bony and white, were shaking. The pills were wearing off. The music was over. I opened my hand.
Chapter 1
C
armen, stop staring. You can’t force him to appear with your eyes,” Heidi said.
She was right. But I couldn’t risk missing him either. The backstage door of the Chicago Symphony Center was frozen shut, and it had been for at least a half hour. He had to be coming out soon.
“Trade you,” she said.
I took a quick glance at my dessert, a miniature chocolate cake with a molten center oozing out and a dollop of whipped cream on top. Then I looked at Heidi’s, a lemon drop cupcake nestled in an unnaturally yellow cloud of spun sugar. Both were missing one bite.
“What’s wrong with yours?” I asked, eyes back on the target.
“Nothing. It’s just too tart for me. Look at it, though. Isn’t it pretty?” She poked it with her fork.
“Um …” I didn’t really care. Where was he?
She smiled, sensing victory, and tucked her silky blond hair behind her ears. “I’m just in the mood for something richer.” She glanced at my plate again. “And you love lemon, right?”
“I guess.” I pushed my plate toward her. I didn’t
hate
lemon.
“You’re the best,” she said, her fork already sinking into my cake.
“I know.”
I took a bite of her dessert. The lemon curd
was
tart, especially after that bite of chocolate cake, but the frosting was painfully sweet. Elegant and trendy, like everything else on Rhapsody’s menu, but not something I actually wanted to eat.
I took one more bite, then slid the cupcake out of my way and propped my chin on my hands. I had selected the patio’s corner table specifically for its view of the backstage entrance to Symphony Center. We were close enough to see the paint peeling off the door, but sufficiently hidden by Rhapsody’s hovering gold umbrellas and the fat green leaves sprouting from planters. Perfect for hiding.
“Remind me what I’m looking for again.” Heidi licked a chocolate smudge from her thumb.
“Blond hair, violin case.”
“Right. Now remind me why you’re stalking this mysterious albino violinist.”
“He’s not an albino and I’m not stalking. Stalking implies some kind of romantic interest.”
“Sheesh. Lighten up,” she teased. “A little crush doesn’t have to be such a big deal.”
I wanted to ignore her, but she was just too far off. “Again, Jeremy King is not a crush. I’ve never even met him. He’s the competition.”
“But here’s the part I don’t get: Why do you need to see him? You’re a violinist. It’s not like you’re going to arm wrestle him. What is a visual going to tell you?”
“Nothing. I’m just curious.” I pulled my hair up and tried to smooth the mass of unruly curls into a ponytail. “Everybody is talking about this guy.”
“Everybody?”
I didn’t have to look at her to know she was smirking. My everybody was not her everybody. Occasionally I forgot that the rest of the world didn’t exist exclusively in the realm of classical music.
“I think this competition is finally getting to you,” she said. “It’s so bizarre to see you worried. You never worry.”
“I’m not worried,” I said. “I just want to see him. And
I’ve been preparing for the Guarneri Competition for four years now. There would be something wrong with me if I wasn’t getting a little freaked out.”
Heidi’s eyes widened. “Are you going to make a Jeremy King voodoo doll? Is that why we’re here?” Then before I could glare at her, she gave me her signature sweet smile.
Heidi’s cuteness was her greatest weapon. She used it to win people over, and then, knowing she was too adorable to hate, said and did whatever she felt like. I loved her like a sister, but she drove me nuts. And I had to wonder, if I had baby blue eyes and butter-yellow hair (yes, Heidi was essentially Barbie minus the sexy pout), would I get the same free pass? It’d be nice to be brutally honest, even act like a brat occasionally. But my dark, curly hair and brown eyes just didn’t cast the same spell. The slightly oversize nose probably didn’t help either.