feel beads of sweat collecting on my forehead. Why was I so upset, anyway?
I looked up, locked eyes once again with the headmaster, and suddenly, I knew. What’s worse, Christopher Whitehead knew, too. I had just made a giant horse’s ass of myself.
Chapter 4
As I stumbled out of Dr. Whitehead’s office, the full realization of my affliction washed over me. I was in a state of full-blown puppy love, a condition I had naively misidentified as genuine humanitarian concern. But how was I supposed to know? Somehow, in my seventeen years on earth, I had never developed a crush on a girl before. I hadn’t even dated, unless you count a couple of debutantes my mother had insisted I escort to their coming-out balls. Five hours of violin practice every day didn’t leave time for much beyond academics and sleep. I was a virgin in every way possible.
This is the story I’ve been telling myself for the last thirty-three years. Acknowledging the real nature of my connection with Olivia would have been far too painful. Instead, I’ve convinced myself I was an innocent boy, caught in the hot flush of infatuation. It happens to everyone, doesn’t it, that overwhelmingly powerful tsunami of emotion that vanishes almost as abruptly as it arrives? It was just a crush, a youthful, desperate obsession. It must have been! How could it possibly have been anything else? There’s no such thing as love at first sight, and children aren’t capable of lasting feelings. Right?
I’ve always known I was lying to myself. I’ve let my mind do all the talking, and I’ve persuaded my heart to stay mute. It’s an uneasy truce that might have lasted the rest of my life if Olivia hadn’t rolled up my driveway yesterday.
It’s been over three decades since our eyes first met in a schoolroom on a January afternoon, but when I opened my front door to find her smiling there, not a single moment had elapsed. Her eyes met mine, and my heart pounded the truth it had always held. Olivia and I share a link that time cannot corrode, that distance cannot sever.
How can she be gone again? How can I live without her? I can’t even retreat into denial with this violin here to remind me. I know I could tuck it away in a cabinet, but I can’t bring myself to move it beyond my sight. Like a moth drawn to a lighted candle, I somehow need to suffer its silent accusations. No matter how painful, never again will I try to ignore my love for Olivia.
I couldn’t have ignored it even if I had tried back then in high school. During Camelot rehearsals, I wasn’t acting. When I sang “If Ever I Would Leave You” to Olivia, I meant every word about how I could never do it. And of course I had to kiss her, which terrified me until I found out that touching lips with someone who is only acting doesn’t mean much. Even so, it inspired vivid dreams when I was off stage.
Haviland’s founder had been a firm believer in personal space, which meant that every boarder had a private room. I know that sounds cushy, but the rooms were little more than walk-in closets. There was barely enough space for a twin bed, a desk, and a small wardrobe. Nonetheless, I was grateful for that cubicle of solitude, especially those last few months in residence. In my room, I could dream of Olivia without embarrassment, and I retreated there so often that my friends began wondering what was wrong with me.
“What’s with you, man?” Bill Cross asked one afternoon after he’d burst into my room unannounced. He parked himself on my bed and tore open a bag of M&M’s. “It’s like you’ve become a monk or something.”
“I have not,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible. “I just have too much to do. Thanks to you and Lancelot.”
“Ha!” Bill said. “You know you love it.” He dumped a pile of M&M’s onto my pillow and started picking out all the green ones. “So what’s the deal?”
“I—I’m worried about college,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything yet.”
Bill threw a handful of M&M’s at me.
“Cut it out, slob,” I said. “I always get ants after you’ve been in here.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I did.”
Bill jumped up and thumped me on the chest. “Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit,” he said, and he ran out and slammed the door before I could do anything to retaliate.
In fact, I hadn’t told Bill a total lie. I actually was worried about college, which is another excuse I’ve used all these years to justify my behavior toward Olivia. I had known my whole life that I was expected to enroll at Yale, but Albert van Doren, the Santa Barbara violinist with whom I’d studied since ninth grade, had infected me with the notion of attending the Juilliard School. He had helped me with my application, and he had even agreed to travel with me to New York for my audition. My father thought the whole idea was ridiculous, but my mother convinced him to humor me. Neither one believed that I was really good enough on the violin to be offered a spot at Juilliard, and I was a shoo-in at Yale. Why not let me choose my own backup school?
I was grateful for their indulgence because I knew in my belly I could never follow the well-marked trail of my forebears. I would never major in economics and join the coterie around the boardroom table at Spencer Luggage, Inc. The only luggage I wanted anything to do with was a violin case.
The trouble lay in the possibility that I’d score acceptances from both institutions. I’ve always done my best to avoid confrontations. As a child, when I knew we were having lima beans for dinner, I would wear a sweatshirt with a pouch to the table. The offending food would disappear, and my mother was never the wiser. I could deal with, “Ted! Aren’t you hot in that sweatshirt?” better than I could handle a face-off about the real issue.
Even though I wasn’t sure I’d be accepted to Juilliard, I prayed for a rejection letter from Yale. Of course, with the illustrious careers of three Edward Spencers paving a golden road ahead of me, I might as well have hoped for the earth to change course. I had the inexorable force of legacy combined with a near-perfect grade point average to guarantee a “yes” letter from New Haven.
If I got into Juilliard, a showdown with my parents would be inevitable, and I awaited my April envelopes with a feeling of foreboding. Thoughts of Olivia were even more intoxicating when they distracted me from playing out the unavoidable battle I was doomed to wage. I lived for Camelot rehearsals, and the rest of the time, I clung to the moments I’d spent with Olivia, weaving from them delicious new scenarios.
She really was incredible, and I’m not just talking about my feelings for her. From my earlier experiences with Haviland’s spring musicals, I expected lots of fooling around at rehearsals. Mr. Harper’s exasperated threats would steadily increase in number and intensity until opening night loomed so large that everybody had to learn their lines or risk terminal embarrassment. Once, when Tevye had missed his third Fiddler rehearsal in a row, Mr. Harper said, “Well, Ted, at least we’ll have a decent fiddler up there on the roof. I swear, you’re the only person here who really understands the importance of practicing.”
At the first Camelot rehearsal, Mr. Harper made the whole cast sit in the front rows of the auditorium. Bill Cross and his two apprentices were in the booth at the back testing the stage lights, and as Mr. Harper delivered his pep talk over the whispers and snickers, the footlights behind him changed from blue to red to yellow.
“Okay,” said Mr. Harper after he’d commanded us to learn our lines no later than the end of February, “we’re going to begin with Guenevere’s first number.”
He punched the button on his tape recorder, and Olivia walked up on stage to the last strains of the overture. Penelope Lambros said, “Oh, my God” a little too loudly, and Caroline Buckley said something else that made all the girls laugh. They were still giggling when the overture ended.
When her number began, Olivia opened her mouth to sing. But before she could, somebody let out a loud, prolonged burp. It echoed all over the auditorium, and everyone froze. It was too awful, even for spoiled Haviland brats.
Mr. Harper stared at us, his face a ghastly yellow from a spotlight Bill was testing. He shook his head, and then he reached for the tape