"More Than A Song"
"That's not good enough! Soul, try again!" I can feel cold, dark eyes boring holes into the back of my head
"Yes, mother. I'll try to do better." I say, only to get her to shut up.
"No. You will not try. You will get this right. You will be perfect." Her voice sounds shrill and I have to refrain from covering my ears to drown out the sound.
"Yes, Mother." My fingers go back to the grand piano before me and Claire de Lune echoes throughout the rehearsal room.
Against my better judgment, I feel myself giving way to the music, not paying a bit of attention to the sheet music rested on its stand. The melody embraces me, beckoning me to forget about my mother watching my every move. My posture sways and my eyes close as my fingers slide across the ivory keys.
"G sharp." Mother's disappointed voice breaks me from my trance. My fingers stop abrupt.
"Huh?" I make the mistake of looking at her and a burning spreads through my cheek, my eyes watering. Her hand retreats back to her side, a stern look on her face.
"You missed the G sharp." She sighs, rubbing her temples, "This is the fourth time you've gotten this wrong. Go to your room. We're done for the day."
"Yes, ma'am." My body feels heavy as I run to the stairs. Just as I start climbing, Mother starts speaking again.
"Your Father will hear about this when he gets home. Don't be expecting dinner." I nod and run up the stairs, turning the corner to my room, slamming the door.
Days like this are typical in the Evans household. I wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, practice the piano, homeschool, eat lunch, homeschool, practice piano, dinner (if I'm perfect), practice piano, go to bed, repeat. I can't remember the last time I had a day not revolving around that stupid piano. It's been like this ever since my parents introduced me to it when I was five. Day in and day out: piano, piano, piano. More than anything I would love to be free from the blasted thing. I would love to tell Mother "No!" and tell her to shut up. But we're the equivalent of modern day aristocrats so that wouldn't be proper.
And to be fair, I do love it. The way the smooth keys feel under my fingers. The way that I can create a sound so beautiful that it makes me forget how lonely I am. It's comforting. That's why it's so infuriating when Mother and Father don't let me play it the way I feel.
"Shit…" I flop backwards onto my perfectly made bed, staring at the cottage cheese ceiling. My stomach growls and I'm reminded that I won't be getting dinner for the fifth time this week.
A few hours later Father comes home from work. I hear the front door slam and I dread what's to come. One thing he will never tolerate is me disrespecting my mother. Which means messing up a classical piece on her beloved piano. You would think that that piano is her son, not me. I touch my cheek and wince, getting up to look in the mirror.
My cheek is still red. I grit my teeth at my reflection: white hair like my mother's combed perfectly, red eyes that give me a menacing image, fair skin. Mother forces me to wear just short of a three-piece suit around the house, saying, "You never know when an important guest will walk through our door! You want to make a good first impression, don't you?"
Yes, even at twelve I'm taking fashion tips from my mother. Though, it's not like I really have a say in the matter. I'm still legally a minor and I don't exactly have anywhere else to go. And my parents never forget to remind me this.
Hours go by with surprisingly no sign of my father. I expected him to come storming up the stairs the second he got home. Instead all I get is an ominous silence and the steady fragrance of steak and scalloped potatoes, no doubt from the kitchen where our cook, Estelle, is preparing dinner- a dinner that I won't be having.
…
I sip my cookies n' cream shake and nod listening to Mr. Waldon explain the Pre-Algebra problem in front of me for the second time in the hour period we've been at Chick fila. I may have swindled the poor man into buying the shake for me by saying that it would help me concentrate.
"So, you square 4 + 4…" I look up from the paper at him and, seeing him nod, continue, "So that's 16 + 16, which is 28, right?"
"Right. Now what?" He smiles at me expectantly.
"Divide it by 4? Which is… 7?"
"Very good, Soul!" Mr. Waldon says, his eyes shining. I find myself grinning too, proud of myself.
"It's not that big of a deal. There's more to ACT's than the Pythagorean theory and foiling. Not to mention I'm in middle school taking the ACT. I'm going to fail horribly." I roll my eyes muttering, "Why are you making me take this dumb thing anyway?"
"It's important to take pride in every accomplishment, no matter how big or how small. And I just want you to get a feeling of what's on it so you know what to study for when you're in high school. Plenty of kids do that. You'll do great." He says, biting a waffle fry.
"Yeah, I guess." Compliments make me uncomfortable. I guess that's what happens when everything you do is wrong to your parents. Mr. Waldon frowned.
"They're just trying to protect you, Soul. I know they're hard on you, but they just want you to do your best." I roll my eyes, tearing up a fry.
"Yeah, by making me feel like a failure every single day? Parents of the year."
"Every parent has their flaws, Soul." He says. I sigh, sipping the milkshake, the liquid coming out in spirts as I drink more air than shake.
"Can we just get back to work? The test is tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, let's get to it." He says. He grabs the next study book: American Literature. I groan, slamming my face on the table, hearing laughter from across the booth.
…...
I walk out of the classroom at where I took my ACT's. Leaning against the wall, I pull out my phone to text Mr. Waldon.
I'm done. That was insane.
I sigh, putting my phone back in my pocket. I close my eyes, feeling exhausted. I never have been a good test taker.
"Hey. Are you okay?" I look up and see a girl smiling at me, her head tilted a bit to the left. Her hair is a chestnut, the same color as the piano at home. Her eyes, pools of the same color only a bit darker. She's short, a good inch and a half shorter than me.
"O-Oh. Um, yeah. Sure. I don't test good. I mean, well." She giggles at me and I feel my face heat up.
"It's okay. I don't either. But it's all over now." She rocks a little on her feet. "I haven't seen you around. Plainfield's a pretty small town. You homeschooled or something?"
"Uh, yeah. My parents don't like me going out much alone." I say. She blinks, a look of confusion crossing her features.
"Seriously? That's weird." She asks. I flush, scratching the back of my head.
"Uh, yeah. They- My parents are a little… protective?"
"And here I thought my parents were bad because they won't let me ride a bike!" She says, laughing.
"You can't ride a bike? Even I know how to do that!" I say. Her face turns red as she giggles, music to my ears.
"Sh-Shut up!" She says. I'm sure that her laugh is my favorite sound in the world. Sorry, precious piano.
My phone rings- a vocaloid song. There's that laugh again as I blush.
I know you did great. I'm out front.
"Hey, uh, my tutor's here to pick me up." She looks disappointed.
"Well it was nice meeting you. What's your name?" She asks. I could slap myself for never introducing myself.
"Soul. Yours?"
"Allie." She answers. She grins before taking her phone out. "What's your number? Since you don't go to school, I won't see you around."
I take the phone from her and put my number in. She does the same with mine and we go our separate ways.
…
The next morning my father wakes me up. I expect him to yell at me for taking the ACT's without his permission. But he doesn't.
"I'd like to see you in the rehearsal room in fifteen minutes. You will perform the song your mother has been asking you to, and you will do it properly." He said.
"Yes, sir." I nod, trying to rub the sleep from my eyes. Great. I don't even get thirty minutes before I have to start playing.
So I get up once he's gone and change into the useless cookie cutter attire as usual and brush my teeth. As I walk down the stairs towards the rehearsal room to play my instrument of torture, I can hear my mother's voice on the phone.
"I'm terribly sorry for all of the trouble, Ian. But we won't be needing your services any longer. Soul will be using another private tutor for the remainder of his schooling.
She cancelled my tutoring! So now this stupid thing is more important than my education? What the hell is wrong with these people?
I walk past her into the rehearsal room, my fists clenched. My father's waiting for me, the typical look of disapproval setting in on his features. I wonder if he's even capable of smiling anymore. I walk to the piano without a word and take my seat, glaring at the keys of ivory before me.
"You may begin, Soul."
My fingers hit the keys and, to my horror, Claire de Lune is not the melody that flows from them. Instead, the melody is one that I haven't heard before; One that is dark and original. One that is angry and conveys my every emotion. There's the fury of losing Mr. Waldon. The anger of never being able to make my parents happy. The happiness of having a friend outside of these walls. It flows from the depths of my soul. I want to stop. Believe me, I do. I mean, Father's going to be pissed. But my fingers have a mind of their own and I'll accept my punishment with dignity.
The music is some of the most beautiful I've heard. Of course, that's probably only because it's improvisation from my own soul. Father, for instance, is probably seething behind me. But this song isn't about him. This song is me. One hundred percent me. And as I hit the final notes of my opus, I find myself grinning for the first time in months, having finally let my emotions out without saying a word. When I bring my fingers from the piano, a hand slams the keytop down over the keys, causing me to flinch.
"What the hell was that, young man?" His voice booms behind me. My hands shake where they rest on my knees. "That was not what was asked of you. Now you will play the proper song and I just might overlook this little game."
"No."
"Excuse me? Now's not the time for some childish rebellion-"
I turn to face him, my hands still shaking. The man is taller than me by a good few feet, his salt and peppered hair neatly combed, and his normally solid face is creased in shock- blue eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. I pause, not quite sure what to say, but still wanting to make some sort of a point. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Mother stand in the doorway, the same look on her face.
"I'm going to my tutoring," Mother was about to protest, after just cancelling, "and then I'm going to go hang out with my friend, Allie."
"What did you just say?"
I turn on my heels and walk out the door walking through the endless corridors and out the front door.
"Get back here, young man!"
I run down the drive and towards the bus stop, about a quarter of a mile down the road. I don't know where I'm going after I see Allie and Mr. Waldon. Maybe I'll go home- probably not. Maybe I'll take the bus to the end of the line and walk until I can't anymore. I don't know and I don't care. All I know is that from here on out, I'm doing things my way. Soul Evans is gone.