Everything on Six Strings

Mom, do I REALLY have to go to school?

I'm pretty sure almost every other teenager is allergic to the giant institute we call a "school." 

     "Mom," I squeaked, shrinking back at the sight of the highly intimidating building just outside the car window, "I can't do this. This is totally crazy." 

     Allison Markle was a pretty woman: Silky, dark brown hair that curled around her shoulders, a smooth complexion, and deep blue eyes that saw everything. She was the woman turning around in the driver seat to stare at me as I hid behind my class schedule. 

     "Melody Lina Markle," she said, nicely but firmly, "you will not be afraid to go out there. This school is going to be the best thing for you, okay? I promise. And I don't want my kids to be scared of the real world." 

     "But that's the thing," I blurted, without thinking. "This isn't the real world. It's a flippin' nightmare! Somebody pinch me!" 

     There was a snicker from the passenger seat, and my mom's eyes narrowed. She aimed a quick smack to my father's shoulder, who sat beside her, and he winced. 

      "Hey, I didn't say smack me!" he protested. 

      My dad (Eric Markle) was a tall man with a strong build; because of his constant gym hobby, you never would have guessed that he was so into music and went to the same school I'm going to. "Enharmonic" was his alma mater, and mine too, apparently. The school specialized in all things music and pumped out extremely successful musicians. 

     I wonder how horrified the teachers will be if they found out they could never do the same to me. 

     I wonder how horrified I will be if they knew I had zero musical talent. 

     All Enharmonic students were supposed to be gifted in music in some kind of way - perfect pitch, exceptional dexterity, creative improv and composition skills - that usually determined whether or not they could get in. They were VERY selective for a high school, and (get this!) they call their students "Notes." As in, musical notes. 

     I'm not even kidding. It was on the brochure. 

     I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, "Someone murder me. Please." 

     Mom sighed and ignored Dad, who suppressed a snort. "It's too late now. You're going." She parked the car in front of the regal marble steps (yes, actual marble, the kind that hurts to look at in the daylight when the sun's glare bounces off it) and unclipped her seatbelt. She proceeded to get out of the car, pop open the trunk, and offload my stuff, which wasn't much, actually. 

     I watched as she pulled out my single luggage, which was mottled purple and dented, then put her hands on her hips. "Melody," Mom said warningly. 

     Even if this was kind of like a boarding school, I didn't want to be grounded. I hopped out of the car, clutching my schedule in one hand, and in the other was the brochure. Looking up at the school, I held the brochure's cover right next to it. 

     They both showed the same thing: A wide, stately building, made of sleek pillars and winding arches. The walls were royal blue trimmed in white, with long, narrow windows and several stories' worth of stairs. I hated stairs, but I didn't mind a big school. I'd be able to blend in more with all the students. 

      Hopefully. 

      Mom pulled out two more cases from the trunk - one with shoulder straps and was the size of a cello, and the other with a single handle and could have held a large ukulele. But of course those instruments weren't in those cases, and no, the smaller one isn't a violin. 

      "Remember, your first priority is your music classes, but focus on your core classes too," Mom panted, struggling to handle the larger case. 

       I smiled at her attempt to hold both instruments and gently took the guitar case from her. I slung both straps over my shoulders, then took the smaller case. "Thanks, Mom. And really, I mean it. But . . . are you two really sure about this? Both of you?" 

       Dad got out of the car and stretched his long legs, grimacing when a popping sound came from his knees. "Uhh, yeah, pretty sure. Well, my wallet has never been more empty, but --" One look from Mom, and his tongue must have shriveled up, because he didn't say another word. 

       Mom pulled me in for a hug and didn't let go until I said, "Hmm . . . well, if you'll miss me this much, you don't have to let me stay." 

       "Nice try, Strings." That was her nickname for me, because I was hardly ever seen without my guitar. "But you're going. Have fun, stay safe, eat well, and . . . we love you." 

       "No boys," Dad added, and for once, Mom gave him an approving look. He glowed and straightened proudly, but then - pop! "Aargh, my knees!" 

       Mom rolled her eyes. "You go make friends and make the world a better place. I'll deal with this one." 

       "You're so mean," Dad whined as Mom led him back to the car. "I'm your high school sweetheart, then your best friend, and then your husband, and you call me 'this one'? And, for the record, my knees are GREAT, they're just . . . uh . . . saying goodbye to my lovely daughter." 

        We stared at him. 

        "Find a chiropractor," I suggested. And Mom nodded quickly, saying, "Yes, I will, don't worry." 

        "I'm not a child!" Dad howled, but his voice was cut off as Mom slammed the door. 

        "Bad knees aren't genetic, right?" I asked tentatively as Dad pouted behind the window. 

         Mom shrugged and gave me one last hug. "I certainly hope not. On the bright side, musical talent is. You stay safe, okay, Strings?" 

         "I will, I promise. Love you." 

          I dragged my stuff onto the first marble steps of the school, turning around to watch my mom get in the car. She hesitated, waved, and gave me one last smile. My dad, still clutching his kneecaps, managed to give me an encouraging grin (a little pained, but still a grin). 

          They had given up so much for me, and I really was grateful I was going to a great school full of great students. But still. 

         I couldn't help but think, What did I ever do?! Please don't leave meeeeeeee! 

- - - 

/ / Acha's Note / / 

Okay, let's be honest. First day in a new school is crazy and scary - or just crazy scary. But it can also be totally awesome!