Angel of Music

Hide No Longer

The pin slides easily into the cork bulletin board. I adjust the paper so that it sits straight, and then make my way through the room in the dark, not bothering to rely on light when I know exactly where I am going. One wall of the high school's music room is taken up with rows of lockers ranging from large tuba-sized spaces to lockers just large enough to hold my violin, while the adjacent wall contains plaques for past students; certificates and diplomas earned by the teacher; and the bulletin board, covered with posters and banners, commemorating past wins at competitions or explaining the circle of fifths, and, now, my flier. The floor is stepped, like half of a Mayan pyramid in reverse. The lockers stand at the high end, and the conductor's stand makes its home at the center, the lowest point.

I am headed toward the small room on the side, containing drums, a rack of cellos and basses, and, tucked in the corner, a piano. The poster advertises violin lessons, provided by myself. I have been putting up these flyers all around town, hoping that someone would call, and soon. I get so lonely, so depressed, and I hope that having someone else around, at least for an hour or so, will help.

I have been alone since the day I turned eighteen, and to be honest, most of my life has been spent in none other's company but my own. My mother died in childbirth; my father, after raising me half drunk and very abusively, died in a car crash while intoxicated when I was fifteen. I was left as a ward of state, and they put me in the care of a good Christian family who signed up to be foster parents because they thought it was the right thing to do, not because they had any interest in raising an awkward teenage girl like me. They clearly didn't care about me, and while they provided food and clothing for me, they didn't consider me anywhere close to being part of their family. For the next three years, I avoided them as much as possible. I left early in the morning and came back late at night, then went promptly to my room. I lurked at the library, studying until I couldn't stand to read anymore, or sometimes I would wander the streets of town, thinking and enjoying the night. Otherwise, I would be practicing my violin.

When I was about twelve, I finally got tired of the solitude and lied about my age to get a job. My boss was a friend of my dad's who needed someone to clean, and I didn't mind sweeping floors and stocking shelves as long as it kept me away from home. It paid well enough, too, so I could buy food when my father forgot, or couldn't afford it, and I saved a lot of it. After several years, and after getting two other jobs on top of the first, I had saved enough to buy my treasure: a violin. It was cheap, for an instrument of that quality, and it was old and in poor condition. But I did what I could to fix it up, buying new strings and a bridge. Once I had finished, I taught myself to play, and practiced every spare moment I got. Eventually, my skill overcame the dry, hollow tone of the violin and sounded good. When my father died and I went to live with the Wilks, they sold it. The official reason was because there wasn't space for it, but really it was because it would bother their two young children when I practiced. However, I used the money from selling it and any other coins I could find to buy a new one, secretly. I also rented a small storage space large enough for me to play in, to practice and store my violin, so that the Wilks couldn't find it and complain. I dashed any hopes I had of going to college, but I finally had a violin to match my talents. I stole away to the little concrete room as often as I could. My new violin sounded much better than the old, and I was a better player, too.

The day I turned eighteen, I left and didn't look back. Those people weren't my family. That house wasn't my home. I bought the apartment that I lived in around my three jobs and have remained there in the five years since. My dingy, dark apartment at the cheap complex is more of a home to me than I have ever had; there, at least, I could be myself, not the perfect child I had to be before. Since then, I have mastered the violin to the point that it holds no enjoyment for me anymore.

I am teaching myself the piano now, borrowing the piano at the local high school, practicing before the third-hour band students need the room.

I set my sheet music, printed from the internet this morning, down on the music stand and sit down at the cracked leather bench. The stand light clicks on, illuminating the paper and the keyboard and nothing else.

I love the last moment of silence before the piece begins; it is so full of expectation and hope, electric with potential. Then the music starts and potential is converted to pure energy, beautiful music.

The piece is a difficult one, and there are many sections I slip on that will require targeted practice, but I make it through the entire piece without stopping. When I finish, there is a twin to the preceding moment, but instead of expectation, there is relief the piece is over, pride in having played it, and a kind of energy that I have never felt from anything else. It is a moment pregnant with bittersweet, complex emotions. It is a moment burdened with the knowledge that I will never play it exactly that way before, that my sight reading has corrupted its virginity. It only gets worse as I continue to practice; after playing a song flawlessly for the first time, the emotion is staggering. There comes a point when I am forced to move on. Despite how much I enjoy, even love, a piece, sometimes I need to leave it behind when it has nothing more to teach me, and that is painfully obvious in the twilight moments when my fingers leave the keys for the last time.
The clapping startles me out of my reverie, and I must say that I jump, banging my elbow on the keyboard in my hurry to turn. The piano faces away from the door, so I have to twist to see the girl in the doorway. Her thin, tall body is outlined against the darkness of the room beyond, lit only partially by my dim stand light. Her curly hair bounces as she claps.

"That was really good. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata?" Her voice is light and high, quite pleasant.

"It's not my best. I haven't practiced it yet."

" That was you sight reading? Wow. Color me impressed."

I can't stop the half-smile that creeps across my face. It feels nice to be complemented, to be admired, to hear from an outside source that my long hours of practice have paid off.

"What's your name? Are you a senior?" She asks, groping her way through the dark towards the piano. My smile abruptly disappears. I had forgotten that I was not normal. I wasn't supposed to be here.

"Uh, no, I'm not...uh.... Why are you here? School doesn't start for another..." I glance at my watch, angling it so that it catches the light from the band room, using that as an excuse to turn away from her. "Twenty minutes or so." I typically leave before anyone comes down this way. The music hallway is pretty far off the beaten path, and the first class is third hour, so the first person I see is the music teacher when he wanders in, usually halfway through second.

"My friend's mom drops me off on the way to work. She unlocks the doors, so she has to get there really early. Usually I would hang out with Maggie, my friend, but she has a dance club meeting. My boyfriend Jason will get here soon, and then I'll leave you alone. Why are you here?"

"I like to practice when no one else is here."

"Is that your way of saying you want me to leave?"

I hesitate, seeing my chance to return to my solitude, but also craving the company of this girl. "No, it's nice talking to you."

She laughs and plops down on the bench beside me, the leather crackling and protesting against our shared weight. "So nice that you won't even look at me?"

I force myself to turn to her, look her in the eyes. They are light brown, like milk chocolate.

"What are you so afraid of? I don't bite."

"No, it's nothing like that. I just..." I don't know what to tell her. She can't know the truth.

A muffled voice sneaking in from the hallway interrupts us and she startles, then stands up. "That's my cue. Jason doesn't like to be kept waiting." At the door, she hesitates. "Are you here every morning?"

"Just about."

"I might come back and find you." Then she runs off to be reunited with her boyfriend.

I sit in silence for a minute, wondering and worrying. Then I start to play.