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I, however, was a bit more modest than most, and more given to jeans and t-shirts, which still tended to show my figure. It had become clear, around about the time I hit puberty, that the only way to fully disguise my curvy shape would be to literally wear a potato sack.
After resigning myself to the reality of the fact that I would accidentally attract male attention no matter what I did, it made sense just to wear what was most comfortable. Hence a personal style was born, based on nothing more than comfort and stark utility.
Today, a particular sequence was streaming across the pure white expanse of the whiteboard at the front of the class, standing out in boldest red marker. The class was sitting for our final exam. The test was mostly to name pieces—title, key, composer and date—from a single line of notation picked from a random spot in the score.
It was a lot like trying to identify a painting from a single detail. That was something my best friend Ashe had been through in her Art History courses. It was one more thing for us to commiserate over, our friendship being at least partially based in mutual empathy.
There was no sound except for that of people writing. I could hear pencils scratching on paper as my classmates physically wrote but I could also hear people typing on their computers. The school had made it a point to have Wi-Fi available in the classrooms, allowing anyone to use their device to email their answers or notes to the professor during class, if they wanted to.
It was a truly tempting option that surprisingly few students went for. Many still preferred to write by hand. At least some of the old ways still survived the Digital Revolution, which had been predicted by experts to make all previous technologies obsolete. It wasn’t the first time they were wrong about something, though, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Like a disciplined army, the majority of whom had opted for the pen and paper solution, all of us students filed to the front of the room, adding our own contributions to the ever-increasing pile on the professor’s table. We were greeted by a nod and a sweet-sounding “thanks.”
It really was a conundrum—how a professor who set up such brutally difficult tests could be so sweet and engaging in her personal exchanges. Yet there she was, as confusing as jumbo shrimp.
I waved a hand at her on my way out. Once I was released back into the radiant world, I slipped on my Jackie-Os and headed to my favorite coffeeshop.
Herald bells chimed, announcing my arrival as I walked through the door. The sweet smell of coffee and pastry smacked me right in the nose, shattering my once-iron resolve.
Once I was in line with the rest of the slaves to sweet, sweet chemicals, I kept an eye on the door. Ashe was expected several minutes ago but who knew when she would show up. I decided to order without her because I doubted that she would be getting food.
Finally, fortune smiled and, just as my name was called, she came through the door in a cloud of apologies for being late.
“It’s okay,” I said, heading for our table, “I’m used to it.”
“I know, I know, I’m late everywhere I go,” Ashe said, as she stowed her purse under the table.
“Well, at least you rhyme about it.”
“Just like the White Rabbit who was always late in Alice in Wonderland. My hero.”
She reached out and gently wiped a glob of icing from the corner of my mouth, taking it for herself, which wasn’t the strangest thing she’d ever done in search of sweetness. She was a sneaky cheater about things like that.
Ashe had been on a diet as long as I’d known her, which always struck me as strange, considering there wasn’t an extra pound on her that I could see. She never ordered sweets herself, but sometimes she couldn’t resist having just a taste of mine.
That was okay though because she had been my friend for such a long time and was one of few who understood everything about me—even that music school could be hard, sometimes. And even one of my most embarrassing features, which was that I was a virgin.
Ashe always said that I’d lose my virginity when the time was right.
The problem was that it never seemed right and I was beginning to wonder if it ever would.
I may not have any romance or sex life, but at least I had a good friend, and that was more than some people could ask for.
I told myself to be grateful, even though sometimes I did long for more in my life.
Chapter Two – Becca
“How’s Hank?” I asked Ashe, to get my mind off my own relationship (or lack thereof) woes.
