~*Spin*~
A Final Fantasy VIII fanfic by Cathy the Boff
Author's notes: Whoa! Things have certainly changed since I was last here…about a year ago. ^_~;;; Oh well. Ok, I've never really written anything too serious before, but experiences that I have had over the past year, along with the general pains of growing up, have driven me to write this. Stray lyrics from Darren Hayes' "Spin" album opened my eyes enough to learn from my mistakes, so it felt apt to title this after his brilliant album.
This fic is loosely based on my friend Vick330's story, "Your Sweet Song". He gave me his permission to write this (thanks mate! ^_^). If you haven't read it, it's not exactly mandatory to read his story before you read this fic, but read it anyway because it's really, really good, and you'd be seriously missing out. Oh yeah, and mate, thanks for your help when I really needed it. ^_^
Music notes: This fic is largely concerned with music, and in particular with music examinations, and it is probably best if I explain a bit about music exams. Generally, if you play an instrument, like, say, the piano, you would take exams (or grades) to advance further, although not everyone takes them. These grades range from 1 to 8, 1 being the lowest grade and 8 being the highest. It has almost nothing to do with school grades. Each exam consists of three performance pieces, scales practise (the thing all of us complain about!), an aural test and a (much hated) sight-reading test, although in singing exams you don't do scales but sing an unaccompanied folk song. All this has to be done with an examiner. Depending on which board of examinations you are taking, you need to basically get about 2/3 of the total marks to pass the exam. For example, it could be 100/150 marks for a pass. Most musicians tend to aim for the higher goals in music, like a merit or a distinction (some boards have an honours grade too). You would need between 120-129/150 marks to obtain a merit, and for a distinction you would need 130-150/150. About 4 weeks after the exam, your music teacher would receive your results from the exam board, along with a certificate for passes, merits and distinctions.
The first chapter also deals with a regional music competition, which probably should be explained; music competitions are held in classes where grades (and sometimes ages) are specified for entry, for example, one class could be for people grade 1-3, aged 8-12. In a piano class, each person goes up to play the piano whatever pieces they have to play, either own choice within the specifications or one of the set pieces (occasionally set pieces are specified for entry), and a few examiners will make notes about your performance and grade you on the scale of participated, satisfactory, commended, highly commended and outstanding (although in some competitions they use a different grading system). At the end of the class, once the examiners have finished their notes and certificate preparations, the examiners will go to the front of the room and speak to the class as a whole, but also individually to the candidates about their performances, before announcing their grades and handing out their certificates (most people just listen out for what grade they received and don't listen to the rest though, because examiners have a tendency to go on about something irrelevant for most of their speeches).
Well, I guess I'd better shut up so you can read it. ^_~;;; It has quite a bit of angst in it, and if you don't like it, please use your discretion and don't read further.
Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy VIII, like the rest of us on this site. Final Fantasy is Squaresoft's, not lil' ol' mine (unfortunately…student's allowance won't go quite that far, methinks…).
~*In The Beginning*~
Do you truly know what it is to realise that you can't sing? Do you truly know what it is to realise that no matter how hard you try, you just can't get that top mark; that top grade that everyone claims is within your grasp? Is it possible to have no self-esteem and yet have confidence? So you have a 13 pace run up to the long jump white line. You run, you jump high and long, you fall into the sand pit, and find out that you only reached 4m instead of the 5m 50cms that everyone says you can achieve. Really? Of course not! Then afterwards the coach will come up and groan about how he is disappointed in your performance, and how he expected more out of you than what you really can do.
But music is worse than sports. That has been proven time and time again to me. Don't talk me out of it. Try playing piano in the regional music competition – I was only 13, grade 6, and I was shoved into the grade 6 to 8 class, surrounded by 15 other musicians at least five years older than I in a majestically decorated salmon pink concert room, filled with golden leaves and feathers, perhaps even the odd golden orchid adorned those walls, circling around the grand crystalline chandelier. All the musicians were at least grade 8, all in a bravado act, all sucking up to all they consider to be their peers, poising their fingers ready to stab each other in the back after the class was over, and all ignoring the little girl clutching her crumpled copy of grade 6 pieces, sitting in the corner of the room, silent. The adjudicators sat on a raised pedestal in the middle of the aisles of rows of seats, sipping their glasses of water, frantically scribbling out titles for the big prizes – the certificates with your name on them, stating how well you performed in the eye of professionals. They eventually stopped scrawling and waited for the hush.
With more greets of, "Good luck" and, "Enjoy the show", everyone sits down in clusters around the majestic room and watches the first one stalk up the stage. He pounces onto the black grand piano and banters out what we all assumed to be Hayden, considering I was half asleep from the first note to the last chord. A short, stiff applause follows, along with the next plump woman with clicking heels wiggling her way onto the piano stool, playing what I assumed to be Schubert, considering I was confused from chord I to chord V, and completely thrown by the chord VI, but somehow my little brain managed to find the tonic (much to my relief) at the end of the performance. A slightly longer set of rhythmical claps was given. Just the usual things that happen at these small-time competitions happened.
Then, it was my turn to walk the green wooden mile to that piano stool, to play on that piano where big people two grades higher than I had just performed. What else could I do but add my little bit to the adjudicator? Maybe I could get a good mark from them. Maybe I could walk away with a certificate with my name on it and the sticker of "Outstanding Performance By Quistis Trepe" on it. At least, that was what I dreamed. So, I started to play. A little shaky at first, but it's only another little thing to little me. The single melancholy melody barely supported by the bass cut through the stifling air, soon to be accompanied by the middle line that switches between my hands. Fiddly for small hands, but I had to manage. The wide-open space of the hall was slowly being cut into many pieces by this piece that I was playing. Slow-building crescendos and quick-demolished diminuendos followed the thickness and thinness of the texture of the polyphonic piece, introducing new ideas one after another into the network of melodies running alongside each other until I reached the last resolving chord that took the piece to the fine. I held my hands in position and lifting them from the keyboard, stopping the sound, just like I had been told would be the thing that gives me that extra mark that I desperately wanted. The incredible feeling of accomplishment that rushed to my brain had taken me to the top of the highest peak, knowing that I never played this well in front of an audience.
Silence. I froze in expectancy, waiting for the applause. Any applause. Even a single clap.
Silence.
Like an owl, body still in frozen position, I followed my slow moving eyes around to the audience. Nothing. Just blank expressions from the judges and muffled guffaws from the musicians.
"You may sit down."
The once green mile seemed to become the black forty miles as I moved away from the piano and descended the stage, still in silence, still hoping fervently that this was all a joke, a tickling mockery. Anything but this painful reality. Embarrassed, ashamed, confused and upset, fearfully watching the many pairs of eyes staring at me, I wondered back to my little corner and reassumed my position of being the little girl that nobody noticed or cared about. I was soon forgotten during the next twelve performances, until it was time for the adjudicators to give out the "outstanding", "highly commended", "commended", "satisfactory" or "participated" certificates as rewards for our grief. The judges stood up and slowly hobbled from their position on their pedestals onto the stage, bringing a quiet to the muttered talks of, "How marvellously she did!" and "Wasn't he terrified on that stage?" not to mention the, "Oh dear, that was an awful performance wasn't it? Can't get much more than a "Satisfactory"." Nervously, I sat forward in my chair so as to hear the quiet voices from the stage.
First award – "Commended". Second award – "Highly commended – congratulations!" Fourth award – where was mine? The fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth came, but still no sign of mine. When the fifteenth came without my name being announced, the judges said, "That is all. End of class." I burrowed my face into my crumpled book and silently began to cry.
I never received any certificate – in fact, it was only later that I discovered that my piano teacher hadn't read the guidelines for that class' small print specifications properly. It specified that:
"Candidates for this class must be grades 6 – 8, 18 and over to participate."
~*~*~
If you think that was a harsh experience, don't ever take up singing as another instrument. If there ever is a more nerve wrecking, soul-destroying, confidence-ripping thing to do, then please keep it to yourself because it doesn't compare.
The biggest mistake I ever made in my life was to begin singing. It was an even bigger mistake than becoming an instructor at Garden, in terms of the pain it had caused. Heartbreak and stress is nothing compared to mental torture and the vicious, malicious self-harm to your personality singing can induce. Don't tell me otherwise – I speak from bittersweet experience.
Singing is one of the most appealing forms of musical art you can think of – the glitz and glamour that pop singers or rock singers, even opera singers are saturated in; it's all too inviting to the unsuspecting prey. I fell into that trap.
I could play piano, I could play violin. I had the grades to prove it. All I needed to complete my musicianship was to be able to sing. So, I signed myself up for lessons when I was 12. Within a week I found myself stuck with this little old lady on the floor in a music room, learning how to breathe from the diaphragm to support my then high, thin, reedy voice. Five giant encyclopaedias were stacked onto the top part of my chest to stop me from breathing from the top part of my lungs to try and persuade my body to breathe from the bottom half of my lungs. The only way to get enough oxygen to survive the crushing weight of the books was to simply comply with the new way of breathing. It hurt at first, using completely different parts of yourself that you never realised could be of any use before, but you get used to the change soon enough. You have to if you're going to be good enough to sing. Then came the songs – they were mostly folk songs from the days of old; songs that would have been sung by the Centra civilisation about 300 years ago. They were relatively simple, plain pieces to introduce the new way of breathing without causing too much shock to the system, I thought.
Nothing compared to the joy and pleasure of singing. Like a mournful romantic nightingale I could have gone on singing all night and all day as the happily chirping blackbird. The feeling of sweet release from the angst of studies and training just from a single note of melody was amazing. It didn't matter where I was, what I was doing, who was listening or who wasn't – I loved to sing. The high ecstasy and content feelings that came with singing was a bigger buzz that no amount of caffeine or hot dogs could bring. My heart and soul went into all my music at that time. That was the time of my little life, and now it is gone.
Before I realised it, I was standing in front of an examiner taking my grade 3. I was forced to skip the first two grades, whether I liked it or not. "They're far too basic for you, dear, and considering you are now grade 5 at piano and grade 4 violin, this should be reasonable." I can still hear that voice telling me that whenever I stand at the side of any upright piano. The encouraging, soothing tones of the teacher that settles you into the swing of things quickly – how could I ever forget? The exam came and went quite well. Messed up the unaccompanied piece, but everything else compensated for it. I can remember proudly receiving my certificate a few weeks later – 125/150 Merit. A fair enough result for my first singing exam, I suppose, until I looked closer at the different marks for each piece.
With all three pieces, I received 25/30 marks for my performances. That might sound good to you, but you have to realise that 20/30 is the pass mark. I had never, ever received anything less than 27/30 for any performance piece in an exam, be it on piano or on violin. It was a disastrous set of marks to get, and I was furious. How dare they only award a measly 25 marks to me! I should be getting at least 27, if not 28+ for them! But the anger and agitation for being awarded so little for my obvious talents was just the beginning of my hellish battle with my mind and soul.
My singing teacher never noticed how upset I was about it. I just hid it whenever she was around. In fact, she was very pleased with the results, which I found surprising, considering my piano teacher or violin teacher would have lectured me on how terrible it was. Wasn't it a teacher's job to expect nothing but the best results, regardless of ability and talent? Well, even if it isn't a teacher's job to expect nothing but performances honours worthy then it certainly was the other students' job to expect that.
Singing was the weakest part of my musical abilities because it was the last thing I took up to learn. Simple as that. Now, try explaining that to a group of 16 year olds hell-bent on getting you to sing at the Summer concert whether you like it or not. I was approached in the quad that same year while gazing out at the rolling green grounds of the Garden, disturbing my day dreams of finding my prince and being whisked away from Garden to live happily without having to consider the effects of my actions to the younger years. The big girls crowded around me, faces set in smiles like melon slices and in sickly smooth voices asked for me to perform at the concert. I bluntly refused. How could I perform to in a large concert when I was only a grade 3 merit singer? Hardly first rate, and compared to Sassy Jenks in the year above me I was nothing. How could I compare to a grade 6-er? She even had a distinction in that exam. But no, the group were insistent that I should do something at the concert seeing that I was grade 5 at piano and grade 4 at violin. Just. However, I still refused to perform as a soloist. So what did they do instead of respecting my wishes? They ridiculed me. I said nothing in return.
"Are you sure that you can actually play anything? Somehow I don't believe you." Excuse me, but what does that make you?
"I've never heard about you around Garden, you're nothing special." Yeah, so why were you almost begging me just now?
"So you're a nobody. Geez, I'm grade 6 myself and I can easily do all the things you can without half the effort you must put in." So why don't you prove it to me and perform ten pieces on three different instruments, no tea breaks in-between? I'm waiting.
Turning their big noses to the skies, they trooped away from the quad leaving me feeling cold on that boiling summer's day. Ice hot blushes of anger and embarrassment filled my cheeks, spreading throughout my body to the point of turning white in shock. Frozen in position, rewinding and replaying the conversation in my mind – was I really nothing?
I waited for the Sun's rays to come down and defrost me from my block of ice, but it made no difference. Slowly turning my back on the entrance to the quad, I tried to gaze back out at the fields of green glory and remember my dreams. The prince came riding in on his white stallion once more like always before, and he stopped and turned to face me as always. But it wasn't the prince I could see anymore – it was a faceless mannequin head on top of a hulking frame. The green fields drained away into a barren black land, with the skeleton shadows pointing at me, hissing curses of old. The cornflower blue sky dropped leaving a hazy red and purple backdrop, and I was dwarfed in the middle of it all, tears shivering off my face, fearing and hearing each and every word of the chorus of curses:
"Worthless wretch! What do you know about the wider world? What do you know of the hidden talents within? What do you know of the people you consider to be your peers?"
Nothing.
~*~*~
Foot notes: At these competitions occasionally people are entered for classes, but they don't meet the class specifications completely, by age or by grade. In the case of this story, Quistis slipped through into the class because the invigilators who confirm who enters the class only checked that the candidates were the right grade, and just assumed that everyone was the right age to enter. Her teacher misread the specifications for the class and just assumed that the candidate could be any age but at the right grade. It was an error on both sides, but from Quistis' perspective, she just assumed that the invigilators had done their job properly and that it was completely her teacher's fault, and so blamed her for it.
Please review!
~Cathy the Boff