“Ev,” she presses.That nickname, I think to myself. It makes my heart almost fall out of my chest. “Why don’t you go to the music rooms or something? I’ll finish up here. Your stress is going to rub off on me.”
“Are you sure?” I choke out.
“I’m going to be nice to you and you’re going to let me. Deal?” she says, repeating my words back to me. She tilts her head when I don’t say anything, silently trying to figure me out.
“Okay,” I say, packing up my sheets and my laptop to put into my backpack. She smiles weakly before dropping her eyes back down to her work.
When I get to the music rooms, I have a moment to think, to stop the constant worrying about what could happen or what has already happened. I know I need to live in the moment and God knows that I try, it’s just hard sometimes.
It’s so easy to tell yourself that living while you can is the best option, but there is always going to be that fear about tomorrow or yesterday. The worst part is, when you spend the whole day ignoring your worries and compulsions, the second your brain is not focused on something else, everything comes rushing back to you like a tidal wave and you feel like you can’t breathe anymore.
I get through almost an hour of playing intense dark melodies until I decide to slow it down and choose something more light-hearted. I’m not playing for an audience, but I’m sure people are walking past and assuming I’m having some sort of breakdown, which I kind of am.
I got an email from Diane Scavo, the teacher of musical arts at NU about a showcase coming up. She wants me to perform an original piece, but I haven’t composed my own music in a while. I try to give it a go, seeing if the melodies will come naturally to me, but they don’t.
My old piano teacher told me that the best way to create your own music is to relieve your greatest memories. Recently, it’s been harder to dig back into those joyful times with all the doom and gloom happening around me. Still, I try my hardest and think of a time when I was truly happy.
The first thing that comes to mind is Scarlett teasing me in that dodgy restaurant about how I was in the band and when we smoked weed and she pressed her hand to my heart or at the museum when she held my hand. All my best memories are with her, and they’ve only occurred in the last few weeks.
My all-time favourite was last Christmas when she shoved bacon in my face because I joked about her eating the last piece. I thought she felt it too – that slight spark of connection – when she locked eyes with me and I smiled with bacon falling out of my mouth as she continued to shove more in my face.
I sigh after stringing together a decent three-minute piece. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.
When I open my eyes, she’s there, standing like an angel, watching me play. If I didn’t know any better, she’s probably been hiding, listening to me all this time. But I don’t know any better, so I smile at her in the mirror.
She takes a seat across from me, still watching me in the mirror as she asks, “Is it going to distract you if I watch?”
I shake my head. “It’s better, actually,” I say, although I don’t know if it’s entirely true. “Can you sing for me?”
She laughs and the sound runs right through me like water. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh in a few days. God, I missed that sound so much.
“I told you I can’t sing,” she concedes.
“Fine,” I say, moving to leave space on the bench as I gesture to it. “Let me teach you something then.”
She sighs a little, but she accepts my proposal, sliding next to me on the bench. Our thighs are touching, our elbows brushing against each other, and it feels like my whole body is being dunked inside a volcano. Everything about her just lights me up: her wit, her charm, her intelligence, her beauty, her smile, her eyes, hereverything.
Jeez, this is starting to get pathetic.
“You gonna teach me or what, Branson?” she asks sarcastically, watching me watch her in the mirror. I nod and I place my right hand on the keys, playing A to G slowly. “I know where the notes are. Just teach me something good.”
“I’m the teacher, remember?” I say, nudging her with my shoulder.
“Yeah, a pretty shit one,” she mumbles.
“Okay, I’ll show youMoonlight Sonata,” I say, and she nods. “I’ll play the right hand and you can do the left since it’s more repetitive.”
I play the first few lines of the song with both hands at a faster tempo than usual, so she gets the gist. She watches my hands carefully, twisting hers in her lap. When I’m done, I replay the part I’m going to teach her.
“I cannotdo that,” she says quietly.
“Oh my god, are you a quitter, Angel?” I hold a dramatised hand to my chest, gasping and she kicks me under the seat, and I wince. “Come on. I’ll show you it one more time and you can do it. I believe in you.”
“Your belief in me is doing nothing for me right now,” she mutters.
“Well, it better,” I say back before playing it again.
I watch her as she tries to do it on her own. She does it slowly, but she messes up a few times, so I encourage her to continue. I have sheet music on my phone, but that would only confuse her, so she’s mostly doing it by ear. Honestly, she’s not half bad. She messes it up again and she hits the keys, so they make an ugly sound.
