Free Virtuosity by Jessica Martinez Page A

chewing and turned back to glare at the monument. Lots of musicians have instruments purchased for them by wealthy patrons. My patrons just happened to be related.
    It was hard to tell exactly when I started feeling like an idiot, but it was definitely sometime after I swallowed that chewed lump of pizza and before he started laughing. I refused to look at him.
    “Shut up,” I said, but it lost impact because I was laughing too.
    “You have one crazy Dr. Jekyll inside of you,” he said.
    “No, Dr. Jekyll is the nice one. Mr. Hyde is the maniac.”
    He squinted, rubbing his palm over his jaw and the faintest shade of stubble there. “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t know whether you’re right or wrong, but at this point, I’m scared to question you,” he said.
    “Good. And just so you know, I’m not one of those kids who’ve had every opportunity purchased for them. My grandparents bought the violin, but that’s it. Up until last year, I was just an embarrassing reminder of their son’s playboy years.” I shrugged. Why was I telling him this?
    He sat quietly, looking down at the pavement.
    “As far as they’re concerned,” I added, “I didn’t even exist until I was famous.”
    He nodded and said softly, “It’s a weird kind of fame though, isn’t it?” He reached down and followed a crack in the cement with his index finger. “You’re a god to two percent of the population, and a nobody to everyone else.At least your grandparents are part of the two percent. My dad’s parents aren’t. They’re still annoyed at my mum and dad for letting me skip Christmas for a concert tour last year. And my dad still hasn’t given up the dream of seeing me go to medical school.”
    It seemed hard to believe that anyone who played the violin like Jeremy could come from an unartistic family. “Your mom,” I said, “is she a musician?”
    “Music lover. Not quite the same thing.”
    “True,” I said, thinking of Clark. He was a music lover by marriage. His efforts—coming to my concerts, putting up with the constant shoptalk, just existing in the energy vacuum of my career—were kind of sweet, especially considering he was totally tone-deaf. “Somebody has to buy tickets,” I said, thinking of the full house Jeremy had just performed in front of.
    “You think they’re all actually music lovers?”
    “In the audience?” I said. “Why else would they be there?”
    He shrugged. “That’s what I can’t figure out. Why come if you don’t love it?”
    “But what makes you think they don’t love it?”
    “I don’t know. I just don’t see how nonmusicians can even understand enough about the music to enjoy it.”
    I had no answer. The onstage persona of Jeremy King was starting to make sense. He didn’t think they were eventhere to hear him. The tricks and bravado had been tactical, like I’d thought, but covering something sad. I didn’t think about my audience when I was onstage, but I at least assumed they were listening to me.
    “I love it because I can create it,” he said. “Don’t you find having to sit and listen to anyone else play frustrating?”
    “I guess a little.” I had tonight. Not that I could tell him that. He’d think I was intimidated.
    “Of that two percent who know who we are,” he continued. “I’d guess only half really love the music we make.”
    “So your mom, is she part of that one percent?”
    “Yeah.” He paused. “And yours?”
    The question surprised me. I hadn’t really thought about it. My career was her entire life, how could I not know? “I guess. But she’s a musician. Or was.”
    “I know,” he said. “I’ve heard of her.”
    I had the bizarre urge to tell him about Diana, how the stunted opera career fed her impossibly high expectations. He would have understood. But I couldn’t. It felt like betrayal. Talking about the Glenns was safer.
    “My grandparents are part of the two percent, I guess, but not the half that actually