The Boy with the Blind Eyes

SIX

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'Tamsin, would you like to come and present your piece?' Mr. Pearson addressed her in front of the class expectantly. Today, he was dressed in his trademark attire—a corduroy jacket, velvety red pants that clashed horribly with his orange hair, and his round, goofy glasses.

Tamsin's breath shuddered on the way out. The man was sharp and professional, that was for sure. Five days into class and they already had an assignment—to pick a favourite song and play it for the rest of the class. Tamsin, of course, had chosen the first five minutes of Mozart's Sonata 11—but it had been her task, Mr. Pearson had said, to correctly end the song without it sounding too abrupt. She'd practised until her fingers chafed, but now, she felt as if the notes were flying out of her head. With each passing second, more and more eyes fell onto her, waiting patiently for her response.

Her mouth ran dry. 'Sure.'

Mr. Pearson gave her a meaningful nod. His bright eyes seemed to coax her from her small place in the auditorium and propelled her onto the huge stage. Hands shaky and damp with sweat, Tamsin seated herself at the piano, tried to ignore the rest of the class' stares, and began to play. Performance anxiety. Would it ever fade? Tamsin wondered uselessly.

Before she knew it, her fingers pressed into the right keys automatically, and suddenly, her fear melted away. What had she been thinking? This was her. She was in her element. Performing was terrifying, but to feel the soft keys under the pads of her fingers and to hear the blissful notes bounce into the air effortlessly exhilarated her, amplifying the strong urge to continue.

At the end of her sonata, the class erupted into applause. She even received a standing ovation, people whooping and cheering everywhere. Everyone except Eliza and Rachel, who sat in their seats sulking.

Shakily, Tamsin stood up, only to trip over on her first step. Her arms flew up, automatically bracing for impact. They slammed into the stage floor along with her torso, and knees, and she yelped in surprise, lying flat on her stomach. The pain was sudden and real, but the embarrassment was worse. There were a few muffled laughs, and an obnoxious snort in the front row, where Tamsin knew Eliza was.

'Oh!' Lina gasped. Tamsin heard a rush of footsteps and then a pair of hands were grasping her arms. 'Well, someone help me get her up!' Lina yelled incredulously into the audience.

Tamsin shook her off and gathered her feet under her. 'I'm fine.'

'But— '

'I said I'm fine,' Tamsin snapped. Lina flinched. 'Look, I'm sorry. I just don't need your help.'

Lina pursed her lips, sticky with gloss, unsurely. The hurt in her eyes was, however, unmistakable. Tamsin knew she'd gone too far, but she hadn't meant for it to come out like that. 'I'm sorry— 'She tried to say, but Lina had already turned and walked off the stage.

Mr. Pearson cleared his throat loudly. 'Alright then, who's next?'

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Saturday morning was bleak. A dark, grey sky hung depressingly low over New York, crowding the busy city with an unusual, infiltrating sluggishness. Even the locals seemed to be unused to the wan blurriness of their surroundings. Tamsin watched uninterestedly out of her dorm window, with nothing better to do on her day off.

Lina had been uncharacteristically silent with her last night, despite Tamsin's efforts to apologise and explain she hadn't meant to snap. So Lina had busied herself with the group, arranging dinner plans and avoiding the dorm as much as possible. She'd woken up early and left before Tamsin had even had a chance to wake up.