Chapter Text
"Oh, and our good time starts and ends
Without dollar one to spend
But how much, baby, do we really need?"
1965
The kids, aged between nine and seventeen, Schroeder guessed, were ushered to sit near the stage in cushy theater seats while their families sat a ways behind. Schroeder gazed up at the tall ceilings of the Northrop Auditorium, thinking about what it would be like to play for an audience on a real stage like the one before him. He would play Beethoven… no, one of his own compositions, and after he finished there would be an eruption of applause even louder than the current shouting in the room as people found their seats. After everyone had settled, a thirty-something year old man climbed on stage and began a commencement speech welcoming the new and returning students that shook Schroeder from his fantasies.
“Welcome, young musicians, to the University of Minnesota’s Summer Institute of Music! Parents, we here at the U of M will work your children to the bone, but no mother complains when her son comes home a Mozart!” A couple kids grimaced at the bad joke alluding to their fate, but this only made Schroeder’s grin even bigger.
After the speech had ended, the teary goodbyes began. Schroeder stood awkwardly in the corner of the auditorium for a few minutes; crying had always made him wildly uncomfortable. Soon after, he was hurried off by a counselor to find his assigned dorm with the rest of the children. The hallways were confusing, an endless line of identical doors only distinguishable by the metal numbers hammered onto the wood. One by one, the kids in his group were dropped off at their rooms until Schroeder was among the enthused few still awaiting their assignment. The nine year old next to him was practically skipping. He attempted to talk to Schroeder a few times, only being met with nods and a small, tight-lipped smile. Schroeder had been so excited to live away from home, undisturbed without the constant nagging of his parents and friends, that it never occurred to him that he would be living with a complete stranger in his own space for two months. But sure enough, each student was paired with a roommate and the blonde boy was no exception.
The counselor found Schroeder’s dorm, room number 225, almost thirty minutes after the group's initial departure. Schroeder peered in through the door frame to find a kid his age already looking like he had owned the place for years. There were posters for new age rock and roll bands Schroeder didn’t recognize, faint music playing through a dingy record player, and clothes strewn on both sides of the room, all while the short brunette was laid out on one of the beds, a Superman comic in hand. With a nudge in the back from the counselor, Schroeder broke from his rigid state and stumbled into his dorm.
“Hey, I’m Vinny.” The stranger looked up with a lazy smile as Schroeder set his small suitcase down on what he presumed to be his bed (though neither had any sheets, and both had Vinny’s possessions all over them, so who really knows).
“Can you keep to your side of the room, please?” Was all Schroeder said, peeling a sock off the foot of his bed and tossing it over to his roommate’s side.
That was really all Schroeder and Vinny ever said to each other. They didn’t hate one another loudly like roommates in the soap operas his mom watched after dinner some nights, but they didn’t exactly get along. Schroeder overheard Vinny call him “stuffy” to a friend in the hall, but he also never again tried to buddy up or leave his stuff around, so Schroeder was content with “stuffy”. The less he had to converse, the more time he had to focus on his music.
Classes began the next day and Schroeder had a full schedule.
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University of Minnesota’s Summer Music Institute: Timetable 1965
Schroeder Felton - Age Fourteen
7AM-8AM: Breakfast Period
8AM-10AM: Piano in Practice
10AM-12PM: Music Theory and Composition
12PM-1PM: Lunch Period
1PM-4PM: Free Practice Period
4PM-6PM: Consultation Period - All Classrooms Open For Private Assistance
6PM-7PM: Dinner Period
Each Dorm Floor Is Responsible For Meal Cleanup 7PM-9PM, Alternating Weeks
10PM: Mandatory Lights Out
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So, at eight in the morning, Schroeder found himself grinning from ear-to-ear at the beautiful grand piano at the front of the class he had been shepherded into a minute before the starting bell rang.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Schroeder turned and nodded silently, recognizing the voice as the one who had given the speech in the auditorium the day before.
“Give her a whirl.” The man gestured towards the instrument while taking a seat at a desk across the room.
This was Schroeder’s chance, his shot at finally making someone realize his skill. It seemed only appropriate to break out Beethoven for the occasion. He hurriedly sat down at the bench, breathed deeply and played the opening notes to Bagatelle in A Minor, Op. 119, No. 9. After he finished with a flourish, a beat went by before he realized that his class had filed into the room and were now all staring at him like he simultaneously just won the lottery and had the chickenpox. He turned back to the man, who he assumed was his teacher, to find an expression he had never before seen in the eyes of an adult after he played. Schroeder couldn’t quite place the expression, but the man’s smiling eyes shone like he recognised something in the young boy. Unsure of what the faces of his audience were saying, Schroeder tried (and failed) to shake off the bizarre looks as he got up to sit with the rest of the kids near the back of the classroom. As soon as he sat down the lesson began like nothing had happened, and maybe nothing had. Maybe something had just shifted for Schroeder, though he couldn’t place what.
They group spent the class introducing themselves and silently gauging each others’ skill levels. The man with the confusing reaction to Schroeder’s playing was called Professor Schulz, the lone professor of Piano Performance at the university. Every kid in the room was strikingly similar to Schroeder, prodigies who spent all of their time playing the piano, who had begged their parents to send them to the Summer Music Institute for the same reasons Schroeder had worked so hard to get there himself. After basic introductions, the six children in the room were asked to play for the class, Schroeder’s impromptu performance before the period making him no exception to the assignment (Schroeder sighed in relief at not having a choice of whether or not he wanted to play again). As each kid was called up one by one, a pit started to open in Schroeder’s stomach and eat away at his self esteem. He really was like every other kid in the room, probably in the whole program! Almost all of the students played at Schroeder’s level, had his technique, and a good ear. What made him more worthy of opportunity than these kids? What would set Schroeder Felton apart and make him great? It was then that the blonde’s name was called and he was forced to drag himself out of the black hole that was enveloping him. A frown played on his face as he realized he was the last person in the room to take his turn; he was the finale. Schroeder knew he was being dramatic, but as he sat down once again at the grand piano, the boy couldn't help but feel like his class (not to mention his teacher) expected something of him. What did they expect? The boy was terrified to admit that he couldn’t quite tell.
Panic set in as Schroeder realized that he had been too lost in thought to prepare a song in his mind as he waited his turn, but he placed his hands on the keys anyways, quickly discovering that he had arranged his fingers to play one of his own compositions. Oh God. Schroeder’s face heated up as he thought about how unfinished his works always turned out. Unrefined, imperfect. For just a faltering moment, only a few notes into the melody, Schroeder looked up at Professor Schulz expecting a sneer, only to find genuine interest in his expression. Interest! Someone, a college professor at that, had taken an interest in his playing! In his own writing! This was just the confidence boost Schroeder needed to let go of the breath he had been holding and focus purely on the music, his music. Shortly after his demonstration the bells rang, signaling the end of the class period and Schroeder was about ready to sprint from the class in hopes of escaping the eyes following him around the room after his second performance of the day. Unfortunately, God was not so generous.
“Mr. Felton? A word, please.” The professor called just as Schroeder took his first hurried step out of the classroom.
The blonde boy tried to stroll casually up to his teacher’s desk (with no avail) before being told to take a seat in the nearest student desk.
“How long have you been playing piano, Schroeder?”
“My whole life.”
His teacher hummed, “Before I heard your peers’ playing, I was planning to tell you that I was very impressed with your technical skills and ability to recount from memory, but as you may have noticed, it seems this class is full of prodigies. I must admit I was taken aback by your class's natural talents, this is my first time teaching children.”
The color drained from Schroeder’s face. Maybe I am just another prodigy. The thought echoed in his mind.
“But,” The professor chuckled under his breath at Schroeder’s obvious terror, “After your last display, it's safe to say that what really sets you apart from your peers, and frankly many of the college students and professionals I have taught, is your emotion.”
“To play without passion is inexcusable.” Was all Schroeder was able to muster.
Now his teacher was fully laughing at him, but Schroeder knew from studying his expression that it was not malicious. The professor was genuinely enjoying his company.
“Beethoven.” Professor Schulz identified. Schroeder nodded and smiled slightly at the recognition of his idol’s famous words.
After a moment, the professor continued, “I stopped you not only to assure you of your talent, but more importantly to challenge you. At the end of the Summer Institute, there is a formal performance showcase across the whole program. Four-minute solo slots for any musical performance a participant would like to put on. No prizes, but much of the faculty here is heavily involved in music-related academics across the country, so getting your name to them never hurts. Though officially this showcase is optional, for you it will not be. From what I saw today, Schroeder, you could be great, really great, but I also noticed in you a hesitancy to perform in front of, let’s just admit it, judging eyes. I believe the showcase will be a great opportunity to not only show off what you can do, but to open your eyes to the world of performing.”
Schroeder just nodded.
“A man of few words, I appreciate that. So it’s settled. Next week we will choose your piece and begin the grueling process of preparation. Think on it until Monday. If you're willing, I would love to have you perform one of your own compositions, but I’ll leave that decision up to you. I will tell you that it took me a second to realize that what you played for the class must have been one of your own. Very bold move.” The professor gave him what Schroeder thought looked like an impressed nod. “You’re free to go.” He finished with a friendly smile before returning to the paperwork on his desk.
Shroeder shuffled quickly out of the classroom, but not before breaking out into a smile of his own.
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“Formal”, his teacher had said. Formal? Like suit and tie? Schroeder had contemplated the conversation he'd shared with Professor Schulz multiple times since his departure from the classroom a few hours before. On his schedule, this time of day was listed as “Free Practice Period” and lasted for three more hours. Usually, this would be the pinnacle of his day, but he couldn’t focus on his playing in the unfamiliar practice rooms provided by the university and with the surprise performance already looming over his head. Formal. The professor definitely meant suit and tie. Where was Schroeder supposed to get a suit and tie, or worse: a tuxedo, if the professor expected one, with his nonexistent funds? He knew it didn’t really matter at the moment, not with the performance still nearly two months away, but if nothing else, he could figure out a suit and tie; it wasn't much, but he could control what he wore to this performance. The boy sighed as he closed the lid of the piano, giving up on any hope of practicing that afternoon.
Instead he took to the streets (prefaced the day before by his dorm floor counselor announcing that he was only allowed to do so on weekends and during the Free Practice Period [the latter not being as encouraged]), looking for a suit he couldn’t afford for a performance he hadn’t even started preparing for. It didn’t take long for him to find a department store. Donaldson’s was an admittedly intimidating building for a lone fourteen year old, even at Schroeder’s above-average height. He stumbled inside, eventually locating the men’s formal wear section. This was his first time shopping for clothing without his mother, and also the first time he truly appreciated her talent for it. He wandered around, checking tag after tag and the prices seemed to only grow as he went along. It soon became apparent that everything in Donaldson’s was above Schroeder’s pay grade. By that time, though, Schroeder was overwhelmed and defeated. This isn’t gonna work. He needed an alternative to wandering around in stores too pricey for him. Yeah, the solution is go home and borrow a tux from someone who can actually afford nice clothing. Who, though, Schroeder? You don’t have any friends. His inner dialogue was not helping. Giving up for now was decidedly his best option, so he fled Donaldson’s, vowing never to return to that overpriced hellscape.
Just keep your eyes peeled for another store that doesn’t make you pay and arm and a leg for a goddamn suit. He told himself as he walked the busy streets of Minneapolis back to the university. Searching as intently as one can while trying not to trip over their own feet between pedestrians and navigating around a city he had only spent one day in, the blonde made his way back up the street and past a post office, two restaurants, a shoe store, and the Minneapolis General Hospital.
Speed-walking by the stairs leading into the hospital entrance, Schroeder looked across the street to spot anything possibly useful. Seeing nothing, he turned his head back just in time to catch a glimpse of black hair in his face as he simultaneously felt something, or someone rather, knock him clean off his feet.
“Watch it-” An agitated female voice started before faltering as she watched Schroeder dust himself off before looking her square in the face, foot traffic still moving around the two.
“Schroeder?” Schroeder’s vision finally cleared as he recognized the girl speaking to him.
“Lucy.” He was still a little dizzy and didn’t know what to do so he stuck out his hand in greeting.
She shook it tentatively, a mix of confusion and amusement on her no-longer-nine-year-old-face.
“What are you doing here?” She demanded.
The shock faded and there was the same old Lucy.
“Why’d you just come out of the hospital?” Schroeder countered, remembering how their paths had crossed.
“What? I-I didn’t. I asked first!” Lucy retaliated, her face flushing slightly. She sighed dramatically. “Follow me.” The girl gave no further context as she began walking again, Schroeder following helplessly behind her.
The pair ended up at a small park across the street, just a playground and a tiny open area with a bench and some trees. Lucy led him to the swings and sat down, he took to the swing next to her. She hadn’t changed all that much in the time they’d been apart. Her shiny, black hair was a little longer, curling out at the ends in the trendy fashion Schroeder often saw on girls. She wore a blue, button-down, polka dotted dress with a matching scarf in her hair; very put together even in the intense heat of June. She seemed a little taller. Her face, the nearly constant stern-yet-amused expression, remained the same.
“So?” She started, dragging out the ‘oh’ sound, after they had sat in silence for almost a full minute.
“‘So’ what?”
“So, what brings you to Minneapolis? Are your parents here with you?” She looked around as if his mother and father would pop out from behind the bushes.
Schroeder was hesitant to tell her, but something told him she wouldn’t take ‘mind your own business’ as an answer. Besides, he probably wouldn’t see her again after this coincidence meeting.
“I’m in a summer music program at the University of Minneapolis.” His voice grew quieter as the sentence went on, his face pink with embarrassment. Why was he embarrassed? He had no idea.
“Like classes and stuff?” The sheepish boy nodded. “That’s amazing, Schroeder!” She shouted and grinned, seeming genuinely elated for him.
“Yeah it's pretty cool.” He returned the smile.
“You need to tell me more than that, Beethoven.” She said with a light laugh.
Schroeder flushed again at the old nickname she apparently hadn’t forgotten about, but he had to tell someone about the recent events or he would just about explode (and Lucy seemed plenty interested).
“Well, I have this super packed schedule with piano and music theory classes, and there’s times of day literally dedicated to practice-”
Lucy snorted, “I bet you love that.”
He was about to give a snarky response until he saw the friendly gleam in her eyes.
“I do, as a matter of fact.” He stated triumphantly. “Anyways, that’s the time of day we’re in right now, but I couldn’t focus on playing because I have this- …thing I have to go to and I need a suit – or maybe a tuxedo, I’m not sure – but none of the stupid stores here sell suits that aren’t crazy expensive.” Schroeder didn’t know why he didn’t just tell Lucy about the performance, but he definitely went off rambling to make up for it. By the end he was out of breath.
“Easy. Just go to a thrift store.” When the frazzled expression on Schroeder’s face didn’t change, Lucy laughed again. “You really know nothing about shopping. A thrift store’s for second-hand clothing, so everything there is less expensive. They used to call it a junk shop.”
“People sell their used clothing?” Schroeder’s face twisted in disgust.
“It’s really not unsanitary, you just need to find the right pieces.” When he still seemed unsure, Lucy added, “Besides, based on the absence of any new friends being mentioned in your tangent, I’m assuming there’s no one to borrow from, so you’re kinda stuck.”
Lucy rolled her eyes at his remaining expression, caught between confused and grossed-out. “I’ll go with you tomorrow, okay? How soon is your …‘thing’?” She raised an eyebrow at his inability to tell her what event they would be shopping for.
“Two months.” Great time to be honest, Schroeder. She’s gonna think you’re nuts.
“How long are you in the city for?”
“Two months.”
“Ah.” A brief pause before Lucy continued.
“I’ll help you, Weirdo, on one condition. You have to let me show you around the city properly, alright? All the best spots, none of that touristy stuff, if Minneapolis even has tourists.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I need a distraction for the summer, okay? I won’t ask about your ‘thing’ if you don’t ask about mine, deal?” Schroeder didn’t even have a second to think about it before their reunion ended abruptly.
“Oh good grief, I’m late.” Lucy muttered under her breath, getting off the swing in a hurry after glancing at the dainty watch on her wrist.
Not giving Schroeder a chance to respond to her proposal, she yelled over her shoulder as she ran off with no explanation,
“Meet me back here tomorrow, same time!” And then she was gone.
What just happened.