Focus

Caught Off-Guard

The bell resonates throughout the room on Friday, and everyone is out the door within seconds. I file out last, of course, and weave my way through the crowd until I reach the landing, sprinting down the stairs two at a time. I've survived yet another day of my junior year but I don't feel any different. With its towering burnt orange buildings fenced off by swinging metal grates, River View high school sort of reminds me of a prison. Surprisingly, though, it's quite the opposite - a "welcoming campus and friendly learning environment," according to our district's superintendent. Everyone takes themselves so seriously here. Extracurriculars and clubs are always competing at a national level because we're just that good, and band parents are constantly bustling about the school grounds, organizing fundraisers and holding bake sales. Our school is well funded and the most prestigious high school in Miami. Most of the time students even seem happy to be here: until the weekend bell rings, that is. Upon reaching the lobby, I fling open the front doors to the school and heave a sigh of relief, gulping in the fresh air.

Normally I'm indifferent about the weekend, but after an entire week of fall finals, I'm eager for a break, so I quicken my pace across the courtyard towards the arts building. As I make my way past the benches and around the fountain, a group of football players pass me whooping and hollering as they jog towards their cars - no doubt, they're excited about the weekend also. I roll my eyes and skirt around them, narrowly avoiding the flower bed as I push open the doors into the band hall. Inside it's cool, and noticeably quieter than the after school rush in the hallways, which is growing increasingly louder as people get ready for the lacrosse game tonight. Knowing our school's sports reputation, we'll probably win this week. Again. I heave a sigh and continue to walk down the hallway.

Once I'm inside the music room, I instantly relax. There's barely anybody in here. A few band directors hang out by the board, and some dance girls practice their flag routine for next year's show; aside from the hip hop thumping through the speakers, it's practically silent. How refreshing, I think to myself, smiling. I head towards my locker in the back room. Squatting to reach my lock, I spin it open and grab my music folder, making a mental note to ask Amanda if she wants to hang out after the game. Amanda is, in a word, strange. She's short, with pale skin and stringy brown hair. Almost all the time, she gets what she wants. I think it's because she's mystifyingly beautiful, and people are simply too stunned by her appearance to tell her no. She's also the captain of the lacrosse team, another shocker, because she's about four foot two and has no visible muscle on her body.

I shake my head, bringing me out of my thoughts, and grab my clarinet. The dancers must be done with practice, because they've turned their music off. I study my audition piece for the musical as I make my way out of the locker room when a low buzzing noise stops me. I perk my ears towards the sound. It's odd, almost like a car engine humming. Curious, I follow the sound along the wall. It sounds like it's coming from one of the back practice rooms. Outside the locker rooms I open the heavy metal door and slip into the percussion area. The sound is clearer now, and I can make out a low strumming pulse; I identify the instrument as a bass guitar. But I thought jazz band didn't practice on Fridays? I shake my head, puzzled, and pad down the long hallway until I reach the largest practice room at the end, its door slightly ajar.

The mellow notes echo under my feet, and I stop in the doorway, shutting my eyes, letting the music wash over me. It sounds so beautiful, too random to be a jazz player - the style is deep and reflective, almost as if the player is strumming directly from their soul. Each note is smooth and cool. I get shivers up my spine. I open my eyes and lean forward slightly, peeking through the doorway. Sitting up against the far wall I can barely make out a boy, his legs stretched out lazily in front of him, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His fingers glide effortlessly across the frets and his eyes are closed. I stare. He seems completely in his element. For a moment, I consider giving him a compliment, but he looks so peaceful that I think better of it. As I back out of the room as quietly as possible, my bag hooks on the door handle and my music folder slides out of its pocket and falls to the floor with a soft thud. I stop dead in my tracks and my eyes widen. Shit, I think, mentally kicking myself.