Bloom

Part 2

As soon as I got home, I told my parents about my dreadful experience. However, instead of giving me the sympathy that I was expecting, they told me I had done a wonderful job and started planning my outfit for the upcoming competition. I looked at them helplessly. Why? Why couldn't they see that I was going to fail?

I went to my bedroom and looked for the old shoebox that was full of my music drafts. They were the symbols of my hopes and dreams. I had written those lyrics and arrangements by listening to the beats of my heart, but each of those pieces was accompanied by bad memories.

"It still sounds so bad. Come on, Bloom. We've been practicing for weeks."

"This is a waste of time. You still can't get the tempo right."

"I'm sorry, but you're like a worm, you know? Tiny and slow?"

"Are you that stupid? This is the easiest part!"

"Can't you do anything right, Bloom?"

"CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?!"

I had tried to burn all of my works because they had made me feel pathetic, but there was something in me that had kept me pulling them away from the flame. So instead, I had hidden them in the shoebox, which was kept in the darkest corner of my closet. After several years, there I was again, revisiting the dreams that I'd tucked away.

I didn't know if I should start hoping again. I was tired of trying to be good at my craft. I was tired of being yelled at.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

At school, I tried to be angry at Lily, but because of her undying and earnest encouragement, I couldn't help but hug her instead. She was just trying to help me to get out of my shell, and I should be thankful for that. But I couldn't easily build my long-lost confidence because I knew it would just be knocked down again.

The next day, I went back to Room 121 after school. Chad didn't seem to notice my sullen face because he was playing his acoustic guitar with enthusiasm.

Before he left the room to buy us drinks, he gave me an assignment: to rewrite the lyrics to make them even better.

I stared at the paper, at the words strong and smile and courage. I wondered what I had eaten or inhaled to make me write this kind of song. I'd been living my whole life being pushed down by people, and now, I was required to write a song about standing up. How ironic.

I tried to scribble several lines only to crumple the paper and throw it away. I spent minutes thinking of the right words, but tears started to cloud my vision.

A moment later, Chad came back with two bottled water in his hands. His smile dropped when he saw me sobbing over my work. Embarrassed, I quickly rubbed a hand over my face, telling him that the dust had made my eyes itch.

He didn't believe it, of course. The crumpled papers scattered around the table were hard proof that I was just making an alibi. I apologized for the mess, but all he did was pick up one of the papers and read the stupid lines I had written.

"They sound lyrical," he said and raised his eyebrows at me. "Were you crying because you wanted your lyrics to feel authentic?  A lot of writers do that."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I can't do this. I'm going to fail. I'm going to let this school down. You have to pick someone better."

Chad sighed and pulled up a chair beside me. "Look, I understand you. Last year, I was the school's representative, and I almost gave up just like you. I thought I made the wrong decision. I expected myself to fail. And I did."

"You... didn't win?" But he was so skilled.

"Yup. I didn't get into the top three. I failed so badly. But I was fine. People didn't make fun of me. My friends and I even went for pizza after the contest to celebrate our wins and losses. I didn't win the contest, but it helped me improve myself. The experience was worth it."

"I guess you're lucky that people didn't make fun of you. I've been in a situation where someone dissed my work right in front of my face, and it sucked."

"Yes, it does suck. But that's the reality, you know? Some people may like your work; others may not. Some people want to celebrate your success; others like to see you fail. But here's my advice: never let anyone make you feel inferior because no one has a right to do so." He paused to let his words sink in. Then, a sincere smile grew on his lips. "And think about this: five years from now, you might end up regretting the things you didn't do."

He had a point. A very strong point. If I wouldn't take the risk, I might never change. I would still be the "worm" Agatha had loved to call me. I might live the rest of my life in disappointment because I couldn't overcome my fears.

"Do you really think I can do this?" I whispered.

His brown eyes locked on mine, and he said, "Of course. Why do you think I picked you for this?"