Encore

Chapter 1

*Note: This is the first work that I've posted publicly and I'm really new to the process, so be patient if I don't understand the format yet. Sorry for any typos that I missed, I wrote this on WordPad and it doesn't pick them up. Also, this might not be a serial or it might be, I just want to get feedback on the exposition and idea so I can improve on it and my writing. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy :)

          The moment I step out of my car, I can feel a collective intake of breath and the familiar feeling of dozens of eyes locking onto me. The parking lot is fairly small, unlike the school, but it sits right next to the front lawn, lush green and full of students in uniforms identical to mine. And every face, wide-eyed and hesitant, is turned to me. I take a deep breath and strengthen my resolve. This isn't a choice-I can't turn back. I look away from them to the school.

          St. Peter's Music Academy looks exactly the same. Modern, sleek, clean, spotless glass windows filling half of the smooth stone walls and reflecting the bright morning light. The school is only a decade old, after all, and it hasn't changed in its entire existence. So why would I expect it to change? I know the answer and try to block it out. I fail. How can anything be the same after?

          I force the thought out of my mind and walk past the lawn, past the students, and reach for the glass door, which opens into an opulent and equally modern entryway, complete with white, box-like couches and god-awful modern art that is suppposed to represent music. I pause on the handle.

          I yank it open before I can convince myself to run in the opposite direction.

          Even the smell is the same. Sterile, but also musky. Like old music. Fitting, I suppose. I take a deep breath, savoring the musky smell and imagining the notes that belong to the music that created it. The bell rings.

          First period is Microeconomics; teacher: Mr. Jameson. While I was homebound at the end of last year, he was my tutor. He's a nice guy, if a little awkward. He's probably about fifty, with thinning blonde hair and a round face, a slight wobble to his walk.

          He wobbles up to the whiteboard now, giving me a surprised but satisfied look when he catches my eye. I threatened quitting St. Peter's for good and considered homeschooling, but Mom refused. She said that her and Dad had to work and that they didn't have the money for homeschooling. Besides, they thought I was punishing myself and needed to get "back out there" and make friends. Play again. Mr. Jameson looks at me again.

          "Welcome back, Mr. Hawthorne." He immediately begins the lesson, not even making eye contact with me again, but I can feel the stares burn the back of my head and see darting eyes in my peripheral vision from the singular comment. God, today's going to be unbearable.

          I don't speak through my first two periods as I force myself to endure the constant burning of their eyes pinned on me in the hallway, in class, even in the bathroom. But, third period. That's when my heart races with every step closer to the practice room.

          I stop at the threshold, not caring if I miss the bell. I didn't even check who my teacher would be, but I already knew that it was likely to be the same teacher. Although he wasn't my official instructor, Jaime taught me more than Mr. Crawford ever did. Yet again, I ignore the thought and push the heavy wooden door, great for acoustics, open.

          Although this is a different practice room than the one I used before, it looks and feels the same. Heavy wooden walls and floors that look much older than they are, which is the same age as the school. As I expected, my instructor is the same. Mr. Crawford, his graying black hair greasy and uncut and his matching black eyes partially hidden by ridiculously thick large glasses. The familiar old Yamaha piano sits beside him and I freeze. A fake smile spreads across his face.