HEAL YOU | JENLISA

SIX

JENNIE

* * *

THE FIRST THING I DO WHEN I WAKE UP SATURDAY MORNING IS check my phone for messages from her.

There aren’t any. Of course there aren’t. I’m not surprised. Really, I’m relieved. But I’m a little disappointed, too. Just the tiniest bit.

Still lying in bed, I read over our conversation from last night. That same giddy excitement fills my chest, and I smile as I bite my lip.

I did it. I met someone online, we talked, and then we set up a date. If I’m being honest with myself, it was kind of nice. She likes octopi! Better than that, I was able to be myself. I didn’t pretend. For once, I feel like I’m in control of my life. It’s a heady experience.

It took me forever to fall asleep last night because my mind wouldn’t stop. I should be dragging today, but I’m buzzing with nervous energy instead. The hours fly by.

Halfway through my practice time, when I find myself starting over again and again just like usual, I impulsively set the Richter piece aside and decide to try something else, like Jennifer suggested. Clearing my mind and taking a series of deep breaths, I set my bow to the strings and let the opening notes of Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending” sing.

This is my dad’s favorite song. He requests I play it on his birthday and whenever we have family events or his friends are over, so the notes are deeply ingrained in my muscle memory. I’m not sure which pleases him more—the music itself or showing me off to people. It doesn’t really matter to me. I just like making him happy.

The music slowly pours from my violin, fluttering erratically upward on changing currents of air. It transports me, so sweetly passionate that for a moment I get caught up in it. I forget time, I forget me. There’s only this beautiful feeling of soaring over vast fields of open green. And I realize I’m playing, truly playing.

This is the reason I breathe.

I hear it then. My timing is just a hair off. It’s been so long since I’ve played this song that my bow work is a bit sloppy. I can do better.

So I start over. It’s such a signature piece that if it isn’t just so, critics can be vicious. I won’t give them an opening. I can outmaneuver them. I can be more vicious to myself than they are, and in so doing, I will win.

Art is war.

It’s still not quite right, so I start over just one more time. I try harder to get the timing exact. And I hit it. The notes trill and climb like small wings beating on updrafts of wind. Only to snag. Not enough emphasis in that part.

I start over.

And I start over.

And I start over.

Until the alarm on my phone pulls me out, and I turn it off and stare blankly about the room. I’m back where I started. At the beginning. My throat aches, but I swallow the tightness away.

There was that brief moment when the music sang to me and I forgot to listen to the voices in my head. That’s something.

I’m so close to beating this. I can feel it. The solution is right there. I can see it. If I can just wrap my fingers around it, I will unlock my mind, and everything will go back to how it used to be.

Determined, I put my violin away and prepare to battle in a different manner. I’m going to have a date tonight. I’m going to flirt. I’m going to have fun. I’m not going to torture myself by watching her reactions and trying to be what she wants. Inevitably, because I’m me, I will embarrass myself. And I’m going to try my hardest not to care about any of it. I have no reason to care—not beyond basic human decency, at any rate. This woman is completely wrong for me. I have no intention of ever seeing her again. I don’t need her respect. I don’t need her approval. I don’t need her love.