A Life Foretold

Chapter 10: And Together We'll Be

   2509 words.

   "Are you ready for the vocal performance?" Ikalgo asked, sitting down at the nearby Steinway and playing a sustained glissando just for the hell of it.

   I shrugged, "as ready as I could be. Four-eyes doesn't realize my hands aren't large enough for ninths. Tch, I could hardly reach an octave."

   "Oh, yeah, doesn't your father have huge hands?"

   I rolled my eyes, "He's huge in general."

   Ikalgo snickered, "How come you're so short, then?"

   I pushed him off the bench.

   Ikalgo and I accompanied the freshman vocalists. Mr. Wing is who taught it, to whom I heard was also taught by the piano teacher, Doctor Kreuger. Wing is a graduate from Julliard, a pianist, but he decided to teach the vocal department instead. The vocalists were known to be the laziest students in the entire school; Whereas the pianists were considered the most diligent alongside the artists. The classical pianists were at the top of the dumb fabricated hierarchy that was socially constructed way back when.

   It was right before a recital, and it was the first freshman vocalist recital-- pianists had over five, already. At this point, wearing a suit became natural.

   Ikalgo pointed at the piano, "play it for me."

   "Play it yourself."

   He curled his lips.

   "I haven't memorized anything I enjoy playing," I grimaced, "er... nothing hard enough, at least. Bisky keeps assigning me whimsical pieces."

   "Because your strong suit is depressing shit."

   "And I'd rather keep my strong suit like that. I'm tired of staccatos."

   Ikalgo hummed a response.

   The recital lights dimmed, fading over scarlet sheets, suddenly making the room feel cold.

   "It's time to go backstage," he whispered.

   "Yeah."

   Nerves always settled backstage; it wouldn't matter if I performed every day of my life. Fear always lingers. I rub my hands together, attempting to create warmth through friction. Ikalgo, face darkened by the shadows, put a warm hand on my shoulders, squeezing them to get me to relax. However, it had the opposite effect on me. I wasn't accustomed to intimacy displayed physically, and Ikalgo was very physical. I feigned shuffling through my music for something as an excuse to wiggle from his grasp. "I'll page turn for you if you can do the same for me," I say quickly.

   "Sure."

   It began like every other recital: bow as people clap, adjusting the sheet music wrack, measuring your distance from the piano, etc, and for that reason, relaxing came a bit easier for me. Until it was my turn, and the vocalist ran off stage.

   Not knowing what to do, I kept playing, substituting the harmony in my right hand to the melody sung by the singer. Mistake one: made.

   When the next performer came on stage, she seemed equally as nervous, shivering in her heels, and voice overflowing with vibrato. I read the music with ease, pausing where I marked her breaths, picking up the pace when she hit higher notes due to her lack of air. But then, Ikalgo didn't turn the page. I quickly nudged him in the knee and shot him a questioning look, but he didn't respond. Relying on my fuzzy memory seemed disastrous, so I promptly used my right hand to flip the page with too much strength.