So Long Love

Bang, the sound of a drum beat goes off, but it surprises no one. We all expected that to cut us off, I wrote it that way. Will has always had a flare, they just can't help it. Without that flare, our music sounds dull and boring, not that it sounds much better with the flare when you're sitting in a garage that you can barely fit in.

"Nice," Amy says, and gives Will a high five. "That was perfect." This is how Amy always is. Her trumpet always sounds happy when she plays, even when she is sad. It's impressive how she seems to make the sounds better using the same music.

The happy birthday tune starts, and I laugh. They all remembered it was my birthday, and they decided to play it for me. I set down the saxophone in my hands and look up, vibing to the music. When they finish, I am stunned. It was happy birthday, but it didn't sound like happy birthday. They created an entirely new song that was also very happy.

All I can say is, "You remembered."

"Hell yah," Jessica says. She's like that. Her family couldn't afford a full piano, so they got her a keyboard, and she's played it since she was five. Sometimes she posts our songs on YouTube, but she never gets any likes. Songs aren't all that popular to the kids on social media.

"You thought it was possible for us to forget. Never!" John says. He plays the clarinet, and I swear he can play every single note. It makes me jealous, I don't have that on the saxophone. All I can play is simple melodies and a few solos.

There's a knock on the door, the garage door, and a squeak as it slides open. My father pokes his head inside and states, "Mark, Mrs. Johnson is complaining about noise again."

"She's always complaining about the noise," Jessica says.

"It's probably just her air conditioning," I say. It gets hot in the summer for Arlington, so we know what heat feels like, but we're going through the hottest summer we've ever had. Most of us blame the city people, who throw gasses in the air like it doesn't affect anyone. It does. At least, that's why Stella said it was so hot this year.

"It doesn't matter what she actually heard, you should all stop now anyway. It's too hot to play for hours." None of us argue about that one, it's true. We all pack our stuff into our cases while I put away the water bottles we were using so we can refill them later. An hour ago, they were filled to the brim.

I go inside and write music for a couple of hours. My parents don't think I realize how much of my time it takes up. I do. I also know that I want to play music professionally. Our band is good, maybe not really good, but we have never been bad.

On Sunday, also known as the next day, we meet up again. "I walked over to Mrs. Johnson's house, and she was still complaining about noise when I got there. That was today." When Amy starts talking, she talks for a while.

"There is no way in hell that our song echoed for that freaking long." Jessica. I agree with her, but my parents would be disappointed if I said something like that. I don't want to be rude to my neighbor, but she always seems to make it hard to play.

"Mark," John says. "Are you ready to play?" I snap back to attention. I can think about what my parents want later.

"Yeah," I say. "Count us off, Will."

"Sure," they say. "One, two. One, two, three, four!" We all burst into a lively tune that makes heads turn on the street. Normally they just turn away again, but this time, they don't. We get through the entire song without losing onlookers, but gaining them.

"What's going on," John asks. No one answers. No one knows.

People never stay to watch us play our music. Something must have changed. I wrote these yesterday. What was different about it? Something must have clicked in my head. This song sounded better even to me. Now it is time for our next song. The people watching are looking at us eagerly.