Allie Montgomery. Pianist.
“To regret the past, to hope in the future, and never to be satisfied with the present: that is what I spend my whole life doing”
― Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
The first letter was from The Royal Academy of Music. It began with a smudged ‘Congratulations!’, so Allie had ceremoniously propped it on her vanity next to a dead rose, stacks of rings, and a barely used package of cigarettes. It had brought a mixed sense of pleasure and anger. She was glad, really glad, that any school had accepted her, but part of her had hoped that staying in England wouldn’t be an option. Elizabeth had forced her to apply as a back-up, no matter how much Allie declared she didn’t want a back-up. The letter had also brought a jarring sense of time. Ever since she’d finished her auditions and Pierce had gone missing things had seemed to stand still. Receiving the letter had shattered the ice, revealing the charging, icy water underneath.
The second letter was from the Conservatorium van Amsterdam. This one brought a less cheerful salutation, relegating it to the rubbish bin beneath the bathroom sink. It’s fine Allie told herself, fumbling to light a cigarette on the balcony outside her bedroom. As the the flames caught the paper she reminded herself that she hadn’t really wanted to go to Holland, and the woman auditioning her probably didn’t understand Bach anyway. Allie contemplated that thought for a moment, convincing herself that it was a sorry mistake on their part, before grinding out her cigarette and returning to her bedroom. She spent the next ninety minutes in a scalding shower, humming the song she’d written for Pierce over and over again.
The third letter was from The Conservatory of Lyon. It brought waves of joy, crashing and cascading over Allie. She taped it to her mirror, the bold ‘Félicitations!’ brightly marking the sheet of paper as one to be saved. The letter did bring with it a certain gloom that clung to Allie as she celebrated its arrival. France wasn’t far, but it certainly wasn’t England. How could she leave the country while Pierce was missing? How could she leave the country if (and when, she reminded herself) he returned? Lyon wasn’t Paris, but it was the next best thing. So, Allie kneeled on the floor next to her bed and prayed her grandmother’s worn wooden rosary, begging for some kind of answer.
The fourth letter was from the National Academy of St Cecilia. Allie’s stomach fluttered slightly as she opened it, even as she told herself that she had no need to worry. In the days since she’d been accepted into the Conservatory in Lyon everything had seemed to float, nothing really touching anything else. It was surreal, it was terrifying, and it didn’t really matter whether or not she got into the Italian school. She was still a little disappointed by the contents. Being put on the wait list was another kind of purgatory that Allie didn’t have the energy to deal with. That letter followed Amsterdam’s into the trash.
The fifth letter was from The Conservatory of Paris. Allie crossed herself before breaking the seal with her finger. This was the school she’d dreamed of, the city she’d idolized, for years it had been everything to Allie. Her eyes darted across the page, meeting the apologetic first line in an instant. “We regret to inform you-” and she kept reading, “that we are unable to offer you admission-” and for some reason she kept reading “to the Conservatoire de Paris at this time. It was a very competitive audition process, and we accepted less than fifteen percent of our applicants.” She thudded to her knees, clutching the letter in her long fingers, letting a small sob escape her lips before doubling over completely and burying her head in her thighs. The past months had been spent attempting to prepare herself for this moment, but she had failed completely. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, nothing. She shook, letting the full weight of weeks of worry and stress pour out of her in long wails. This was the straw that broke the camels back, this was the nightmare that she wasn’t sure how to wake up from. Paris had been it for so long, it had been her future, but now it was just another fucking pipe dream.
It took an hour for Allie to disentangle her limbs and stumble to the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror, staring into her red rimmed eyes and wishing. Wishing that Pierce was there, wishing that she could go to Paris, wishing for her mother, but mostly just wishing that everything could be okay. With every ounce of her being she prayed for things to be okay, but no one was listening. She could tell.
She couldn’t remember what had triggered the conversation. She couldn’t remember her age when the conversation had happened. She couldn’t remember the room of the house, the day of the week, or what she’d been doing when her mother drew her into it. All she could recall was the souring smell of her mother’s breath, the relentless Wagner in the background, and the words that had embedded themselves in her skin.
Marissa’s thin fingers clawed through her daughters fine hair, pulling it uncomfortably. Her breath was hot and full of wine as she pulled Allie closer, speaking without an ounce of stability.
“Allie honey, you know what sex is, don’t you?”
She’d shaken her head, pulling away from the strained face of her mother, but Marissa kept her there, nearly panting as she attempted to focus on her daughter’s face.
“It’s all lies anyway- what they tell you. My mother- my mother said that when a man loved a woman-”, she stood then, pacing, but never going far. “There’s no love to it. You don’t need to love someone and they sure as hell don’t need to love you. Don’t fool yourself,” she’d scowled, glancing at a photo of Allie’s parents gleefully smiling.
Allie didn’t want to remember that day, but she kept coming back to it, circling around to it in the hours between midnight and dawn. Even as she huddled in her bedroom, entrenched in January, constructing her castle in the air out of ballets and chords, Allie couldn’t escape the memory. She’d seen her mother that way before, been sucked into her whirlpool of shaky breaths and angry words, but that was the conversation that had drilled into her skull.
"If you’re lucky you won’t hate it,” she’d said, returning to her daughter’s side, “but god Allie look at me. Look at me!” Her claws dug into Allie’s chin as she forced their eyes together. “Don’t you dare settle for the first boy who makes you feel special. The first or the second either. You will end up fucked and alone because even once you get a ring on your finger you aren’t safe. They’ll tell you they love you but it’s lies and games to get what they want.”
That’s when the tears had begun to fall down Allie’s cheeks, running into her mouth. She’d never heard her mother use those words, never seen her so livid. Marissa scoffed, turning away. “Stop crying, I’m trying to help you. I don’t want you to end up like me Allie. I want you to be happy, happy, happy happy, I want you to be hap- STOP CRYING!” she screamed, careening to her feet, eyes wild. Allie continued to sob as she hastily wiped away tears, feeling their sticky hotness cover her hands and sleeves. Marissa looked her over once, leaving a void of silence before evacuating the room in a rancid huff, leaving the dull air to settle around her.
Allie didn’t remember much that had happened after that. She remembered the way the cool bathroom tile had felt on her cheeks before and after she’d vomited, the way the bile had burned her throat, and the way her head had hit the pillow on her bed. Just as it was now, the sky outside had been pitch black and the windows only served to reflect the indoor light. The trees past the glass could have been gone for all she knew. Her bed was soft and the scratchy vinyl of Swan Lake spun on, reminding her of the way it had been before everything. Before she’d gone to school, before her mother had fallen apart, when all she needed was her piano and her family. They’d been so happy, it had felt like nothing in the world could bring them down. Now she needed a million things. She needed her piano yes, but she needed her friends and her books and Elizabeth and her job and Pierce and a million other things. More than anything she wanted to drop it all and move right then. Leaving all the needing for another girl and another life.
For so long being Allie Montgomery had meant only caring about music and letting everything else crash and burn around her. In some ways she still held to that mentality, skipping class for her music and forgetting to sleep and eat for entire days. But there was more now, there was more to her, and grappling with those things had become a constant internal battle. Feeling the cool cotton resting on her skin was the only thing keeping her from returning to the bathroom to empty out her insides. No matter how many times she swore to ignore her mother the doubts always crept in. Did he actually care about her? And more importantly, did anyone? These weren’t questions she asked herself during the day, no, they were saved for the times when her defenses were weakest, when she was most susceptible to her mother’s voice.
I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.
Like I don’t think I’d want to work in some pet shops, because not all of them treat their animals as well as the Menagerie does. Some of them are more concerned about making money than the actual animals. I think if you care about something, you’re actually more picky about what you do in it.
Oh okay. I didn’t know you could do that. I always thought it would take up more of your time, teaching people. My saxophone teacher in primary school was in every day.
Definitely. I don’t know it was your type of music shop, either, though. It was mostly pop. I don’t remember there being much classical in there.
But the things you’ve applied for. I mean do you get paid for those, or are they like… university type stuff you have to pay for? I don’t think teaching’s very interesting. You want to do that when you’ve already done all the other stuff and there’s nothing left for you to do than pass it on to other people. Music teachers are usually really old.
That’s a valid concern. Most music places are like that, I’m sure I’d get annoyed with it all really quickly.
Oh no, those are schools, so I’d have to pay. One of my piano teachers was old, the one I have now is only my dad’s age, but she doesn’t just teach, she does other things as well.
That was only a summer job, anyway. After fifth year, in fact, so really ages ago. I don’t think even when I got it I was going to be planning on ending up back there after school. It did make me think that I wouldn’t want to do shop work at all but then someone said that maybe I’d enjoy it if it was more what I like and yes the Menagerie definitely is that.
When you do your piano thing, will that be a job or will you have to pay for it?
I guess if you like animals more than music it might be a better fit. We have different interests.
Hopefully I’ll get paid, I don’t really want to do it just as a hobby. If it doesn’t work out to play as a concert pianist, all by myself, I could join an orchestra maybe, or work for a recording studio or something like that. I can also teach if I get nicer. There aren’t a lot of options, but there are enough that I think I can find something.
I don’t really read. I’d find that even more boring. I tried to talk to the other people who worked there and things, but I don’t know. It’s a lot better at the Menagerie. There’s stuff to do even when there’s no customers.
Oh. I sort of did that. Not at a— Well I guess not right near my house. A music shop near Diagon Alley but on the muggle side. Just one summer, though. Did you like it?
Yes! Here. You can borrow one if you want. I’ve got some pencils here, too.
Or… not. We can find something else to do. Just as I say, I find they’re more fun than I remember them being and it’s… Well, it’s a distraction where you don’t feel bad for letting yourself get distracted because we’ll still know straight away when Millie sends news.
