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Will he show up on Monday like he said? Or regularly? Can I trust him not to flake on the kids here? Not likely. People like him don’t change. Not overnight, at least. So, I don’t see him changing in the next three days before the session starts. The kids were so excited when they heard he was the mentor, though…
“Sloane?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re humming. I know what that means. You’re in your head and down a rabbit hole. Come back to me, girl.”
That makes me laugh. Fiona does know me pretty well by now. I do tend to internalize everything as I process it. And the humming? I’ve always done that when deep in thought. It’s a habit I can’t break. Actually, it’s not a habit. It’s just a part of who I am. I’ve even had to take tests in different classrooms as a kid because it would disturb my classmates. I can control it if I focus, but if I get distracted, forget it.
“I’m fine, Fiona. Don’t worry about me.” I sit back and open my laptop, ready to get back to work and try my best to forget those piercing blue eyes.
* * *
On Monday morning, I arrive at the center early to take some personal time in the piano studio, where I’ll teach my one-on-one songwriting sessions with students. I like to play a little before the day starts and get my mind working and in the right headspace for creating music. The room’s ambiance is made for getting lost in a song, with low perimeter lighting, acoustic panels on the walls to absorb the sound, and a grand piano in the middle.
I stare at the blank page in my songwriting journal, pencil poised but no words coming. I used to be able to fill pages effortlessly, melodies and lyrics practically spilling out of me. After years of creative drought, I still struggle to recapture that natural flow. I keep hoping inspiration will strike and knock me out of this funk, but nothing works.
I glance around the cozy piano room that’s become my sanctuary. This space represents everything I’ve worked so hard to build: a place for kids to nurture their musical passions, untouched by industry corruption. Just like my own passions ignited here in L.A. at eighteen when I played in small cafes and bars. I was a girl with a piano and a song who would play anywhere for anyone, willing to share myself with the world.
Word spread about this ‘fresh new talent,’ my raw honesty and lyrical prowess. I got noticed by Barry, a producer at a label, eager to mold me into a star. My parents, former musicians themselves, became my managers. It happened so fast - the album deal, the whirlwind promotion, my song on the radio. It was intoxicating.
But something shifted when it came time to record my album. The label wanted a different sound, more pop, more processed. They got rid of Barry and brought in new producers. My real artistry felt diluted and contorted. Things got ugly when I pushed back, refusing to become their manufactured puppet.
The label threatened to drop me, to shelve my songs. They held the rights to my work, after all. My parents advised me to comply and to play the game. In the end, they negotiated a deal to let me out of the contract, but the music I had poured my soul into for years was gone, owned by heartless executives.
And it was all done behind my back.
I had been used. Betrayed by those closest to me. I vowed never again, and I haven’t talked to my parents since. The pain motivated me to work with Barry to build Rhapsody, a place protected from industry corruption. I could nurture real artistry here. But still, my own musical spirit feels bruised and afraid. A shadow of what it once was.
Will I ever reclaim the joy that’s been stolen from me? My creativity? My passion?
Sitting on the bench, I try to clear my mind of the racing thoughts about my past. They just compound with the questions about Cooper that plagued me all weekend: whether he will show up today, will any of the mentors show up? Will the kids? Will this be a complete disaster? Is all of this in vain?
I slide my fingers along the cool ivory keys, letting their smoothness clear away my anxiety as I play nothing in particular. I just let the notes take me where they want to go. As they’re struck, the vibration of the piano strings reverberates subtly back into my fingertips until a distinct melody takes shape in my mind and the air around me.
Even with my eyes closed, it’s almost as if I can visualize the notes as they fill the room with sound. I start humming harmonies to what has to be the chorus, feeling the power of the song form and take shape in my hands. Glimpses of words and phrases slide in and out of my thoughts, suggesting possible lyrics that are just out of reach. Still elusive.
It’s melancholy. Somber. Mournful. But not sad. It’s a list of wishes gone unfulfilled. An emotion unrequited. But not lonely. It dances on a delicate line of emotions and chaos, and my soul instantly loves it.
I stop playing to grab my phone to record it so I don’t forget it, and I am startled to see a silhouette in the doorway out of the corner of my eye. But as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone when I turn to see it head-on. Did I imagine it?
“Hello?” I call out. Maybe it was a student who was early and didn’t want to interrupt me, or they didn’t want to get caught listening. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened. As I rush to the doorway and peek into the hall, I don’t see anyone or hear any footsteps walking away. I must have imagined it.
My skin prickles as if caressed by a cool breeze, and a shiver snakes its way down my spine. Whether it’s a good or bad sign is still to be seen.
“Hey, Ms. Castle,” a girl’s voice calls as a teenager with long mouse-brown hair rounds the corner. I can’t help but jump a little in surprise at her sudden appearance.
It’s just Penny, one of my students. I scold myself for being so jumpy today. These kids don’t need to see my anxiety. They need confidence and encouragement.
“Oh, my gosh, Penny, you startled me.” I have no idea why I’m so on edge all of a sudden, but I don’t like it.
“I’m soooo sorry, Ms. Castle,” her gaze drops to the floor. Confidence is not Penny’s strong suit. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I instantly feel bad for making her feel bad. “Forget about it. I wasn’t scared!” I wrap an arm over her shoulder and lead her into the practice room for her lesson. “Are you ready to write some mind-blowing music?”
Her cheeks redden as she answers, “Let’s do it.”
It’s amazing how fragile the psyche of artists can be. The slightest inference of negativity can ruin someone’s entire day or kill their confidence for weeks. It can take Herculean effort to rebuild pride in one’s work after the most minor critique. To say artists wear their hearts on their sleeves is putting it mildly.
