Page 15 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
He made everything look easy.
“I do still play,” he tells me, his shoulders loosening a little too. “Do you? The cello? Or the flute?”
It’s been so long that at first I don’t even know what he’s talking about. Then, between the next dip and rise of the plane and my heart, his words register. There was a very short-lived period in my life when I watched a music video featuring a cellist and felt inspired to learn the cello myself. But five lessons in, I realized that I would have produced better music by throwing plates at a wall; even the music teacher, Ms. Torres, expressed her disappointment at my inability to pick up the basics, though she’d encouraged me not to quit.Just because you’re not naturally good at it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t continue.
But what’s the point in continuing something if you aren’t naturally good at it?
So I left my rented cello behind in the music room and never looked at it again. A few months later, I came down with the overoptimistic idea that maybe I wasn’t meant for thecello, but I was meant for the flute. I lasted a little longer with that one, progressing so far as to play a few shrill notes of “Ode to Joy,” but my practice sessions gave everyone—including myself—a headache. It was the same way with all the hobbies I tried out as a kid. I quit karate after just one day, because I injured my hand trying to chop a block of wood. I quit swimming because the chlorine made my skin itch. I quit dance because I couldn’t keep up with the choreography, and the teacher yelled at me in front of everybody. I quit basketball because I kept missing my shots and I hated feeling like I was slowing down the team.
I used to think that modeling was the one thing I would never give up. That all my failures and false starts before it were simply leading me to my true calling.
“I haven’t touched an instrument in years,” I say, in what I hope is a flippant tone. “It’s probably for the best that I stopped.”
“I’m sure Ms. Torres would be heartbroken if she found out.”
“Why?” I let out a huff of incredulity. “I was her worst student.”
“She liked you,” he insists.
“Yeah, right,” I say. “What could she have liked about me?” I meant for it to sound casual and self-deprecating, but it comes out dangerously close to self-pitying, which is never a good look.
Cyrus frowns, as if I’m asking a trick question. “Why wouldn’t she have liked you?” A pause. “Why wouldn’t everyone like you?”
Maybe because I have nothing of value to offer? Because I care too much about my appearance, and I overthink everything, and I can be annoying and dumb and indecisive, and I don’t have the slightest clue what I’m doing with my life? Because I have no personality outside of my flaws?But I’d rather the plane disintegrate right now than ever say any of that out loud, especially to him.
“I’m just saying,” I tell him, “I’d be surprised if she even remembered my name after I left the school.”
Guilt flashes across Cyrus’s face.
The past pushes its way into the sudden silence between us.Well, at least he knows to be guilty.But it’s a cheap comfort, like the thin, scratchy blanket covering my legs. If hereallyfelt guilty, he would have apologized long ago. No, he wouldn’t have lied in the first place.
I’m so busy feeding my grudge that it takes me a minute to notice the shaking has stopped. The seat belt sign dims, and all around us, people relax in their seats, everyone’s relief palpable in the cabin air.
But it still feels like the world is careening in the wrong direction. It’s felt a little like that ever since the wedding. Ever since I saw Cyrus again.
***
It’s a relief to be back on solid ground.
After I fire off a quick text to the family group chat to let them know I’ve landed safely, I join my classmates in side-shuffling a couple steps at a time through the dense, jet-lagged crowds at the airport. What with the time difference, I don’t expect to hear from my parents until the next morning for them, but my mom’s reply comes before I’ve even left the customs line.
How was your flight? Did you get enough sleep? Did you eat on the plane? How’s Shanghai? When does your first activity start?
All of this in one overwhelming text box, like she might be charged for each new message she sends.
Smooth, I text back, which is an exaggeration at best, a straight-up lie at worst. Super smooth, if you take away the aggressive turbulence, and the fact that Cyrus fell asleep after my distraction services were no longer needed, only for his head to keep lolling against my shoulder for the remainder of the flight.
I slept well, I continue.Food was fine.
Shanghai’s—
I hold off on answering because I don’t actually see the city until we reach the shuttle bus outside the airport, where the teacher pairs us off according to our hotel rooms.
“Cyrus Sui—I saw your special request, but unfortunately this program does not allow for single rooms for any of the participating students,” Wang Laoshi calls over the rumbling engines, dabbing the sweat on his forehead with a folded plaid handkerchief.
I kind of wish I’d brought a handkerchief with me too, or at least a napkin. Though the afternoon sky is overcast, the skyscrapers disappearing into the gray clouds, the heat is closing in fast. We’ve only gone a few minutes without any air-conditioning, and I can already feel the humidity sticking to my cropped shirt and slicking my fingers. Even the wind is hot, simmering off the wide road.
“You’ll be sharing with … Oliver Kang,” Wang Laoshi continues, consulting the clipboard in his hand. “Don’t look so glum about it. This is as much an opportunity to make new friends as it is a chance to explore the city.”
