Étendre Mon Ailes (To Extend My Wings)
Summary: When Jojo is offered the opportunity of the lifetime, he is beyond seventh heaven. However, his father isn't so sure. What will Jojo do to chase his dreams?
A/N: Okay, here's my first fanfiction for Horton Hears a Who, and I know that not many people will read it. XD Oh, well. This also isn't Jojo x OC – I really can't stand that. No offense to you who do, but I can't. Anyways, enjoy!
-----------------------------
The crowded halls of Whoville High were only what could be described as a waiting deathtrap, as Jojo darted frantically through the hordes of teenage Whos. Why, oh why did the halls have to twist and turn so much? Why couldn't they be wider? And for goodness' sake, why did the kids have to suddenly stop in their tracks when they spotted a friend?
It was all slowing him down, and Jojo couldn't be late.
In his last class, Jojo had stayed behind to clarify a few last-minute details about an upcoming project, but he hadn't at all anticipated how long it would take. And now, terribly delayed, he sprinted down the hallways in a hurried fever, hardly pausing to apologize as he knocked against an underclassman.
The late bell screamed just moments before Jojo hurtled through the door.
The wide, sky-lit orchestra room was already bustling with juvenile energy as the freshmen hastened to unpack and set up, with only a select few seeming to notice his tardiness. Jojo implored them to keep their silence with a wide-eyed gaze as he slipped discreetly around the back. But unfortunately, all the stealth he could muster still fell astoundingly short of adequacy.
"Why are you late, boy?"
At the sound of the strident, irate demand, Jojo jumped. From behind him emanated an ice-cold glare that made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And as he turned, suppressing a gulp, he felt remarkably insignificant under the towering figure of his conductor.
There was just something about the way that Mr. Nauvoo held himself that made you want to flee upon the first moment you lay eyes on him. Extraordinarily tall and lean, he used every inch of his superior height to scrutinize his students with all the mercy of the devil himself, and the cold blue of his eyes seemed only intensified over his frameless, rectangular glasses. His white-blonde hair was combed back perfectly, hanging down his neck with just enough curl to seem bombastic – a trait only supported by his perfectly-creased khakis and haughty gaze. His entire complexion was of lighter shades, right down to his soft beige sweater and white shoes, yet, somehow, the light did not detract from his frightening demeanor in the least. Indeed, it had earned him the well-used nickname: Ice Demon.
This nickname echoed ominously in Jojo's head as he swallowed. "S-sorry, sir," he stammered. "I was talking to my history teacher."
"Regardless," Mr. Nauvoo retorted, his tone sharp. "I expect better from you. As teacher's assistant, you should be setting an example for the younger students."
"Yessir. It won't happen again."
Mr. Nauvoo's frown deepened, and he scrutinized Jojo with a glare so cold it would put a blizzard to shame. Anxiously, Jojo struggled not to fidget as he felt his heart pound erratically in his chest. But then, Mr. Nauvoo turned away. "It had better not."
Finally released from the terror of Mr. Nauvoo's gaze, Jojo let out a heavy sigh of relief. Perhaps four years of daily encounters would be enough for him to grow more comfortable around most people, but Mr. Nauvoo was a far cry from normality. And frankly, it would take an eternity to ever grow comfortable around him.
"Jojo!" Mr. Nauvoo snapped suddenly. "Why are you idling? Get started, boy!"
"Y-yessir!" Jojo hastily replied as he scrambled to regain his composure. And ignoring the half-sympathetic sniggers around him, he hastened to the front.
Beyond his four years of music throughout his time in high school, Jojo had approached Mr. Nauvoo at the beginning of his junior year in the inquiry of extra credits. Of course, he nearly wet himself at the very prospect of talking one-on-one with the Ice Demon himself, but a sudden burst of miraculous courage had carried him through. And he had only spoken at about two-hundred miles per hour.
But apparently having been well-rehearsed in the language of nerves, Mr. Nauvoo had understood what Jojo was stammering about and curtly interrupted him in a slightly-vexed tone. Throughout the conversation, Jojo's anxieties never entirely left him, but eventually, they began to creep back when it became apparent that Mr. Nauvoo was not about to kill him on the spot. But it still wasn't helpful when Mr. Nauvoo informed him that the one such course he did offer would make every other AP class in the school seem like first grade.
Of course, Jojo could hardly admit to expecting any less, having considered the character of the teacher in question. With a barely audible pause, Jojo had breathlessly agreed to the course and sold his soul to the Ice Demon.
Amongst many other tasks so daunting and grueling that he physically hurt to think of them, Jojo now spent every Wednesday and Thursday as conductor for the freshman orchestra. It wasn't exactly laziness on Mr. Nauvoo's part, as he still lounged behind his desk, grading Jojo on his performance and the other students on theirs. Still, Jojo fancied that there was something a little maniacal in his gaze, almost contented.
Now, as Jojo stood before the conductor's stand, he felt suddenly inferior.
The music stand loomed a full two feet over his head, adjusted menacingly to Mr. Nauvoo's extraordinary height. He stared at it blankly for a moment. Although this was a common occurrence, having been faced with it almost every time he took the front, Jojo could not help wishing again that he were taller, or that Mr. Nauvoo was shorter. He was fully-convinced that a less dynamic difference in height would lessen the terror of the entire experience, if even to heart-racing rather than heart-stopping.
But as many falling stars he wished on, it would never happen, as he had told himself only countless times beforehand. And with a sigh, Jojo ruefully retrieved his all-degrading stepstool.
When the music was finally below the top of his head, Jojo tapped the stand for silence, and obediently, the last pluck faded into a smudge of memory; perhaps today's conductor was nothing more than the shortest, quietest senior in the entire student body, but it was impossible to forget the arctic presence of Mr. Nauvoo as he lounged threateningly behind his desk.
"Is everyone ready?" Jojo asked finally.
A mumbled chorus of "yes's" met his words, for the few "no's" were too petrified to speak. Meeting the eyes of a few silent violinists, Jojo wordlessly gave them a last thirty seconds to hastily prepare and straightened his score idly. Nonetheless, the scratch of Mr. Nauvoo's pencil as he noted the students who were rustling hurriedly through their papers resonated throughout the room like a death sentence.
"We were working on the crescendo at measure seventy-two of rondo yesterday," Jojo continued when the rustle faded. "So let's start there. And remember, the beginning is pianissimo."
------------------------------
The careful concentration of the freshman broke in a flurry of action as the bell's shriek reverberated throughout the room. Jojo sighed in slight relief, setting the conductor's baton on the stand. Yet at the same time, a small smile was playing at the corner of his lips. As much as Mr. Nauvoo terrified him, he loved every moment of his extra work with music, and his bi-weekly classes with the freshmen were to him like sugar was to a child. And if he did say so himself, today's class had been the best yet.
Thus, when the telltale ice of Mr. Nauvoo's presence washed over him, Jojo glanced up in eager alacrity. He was sure that his grade for today's performance would far outstrip everything he had ever received in any of his music classes, and his fingers were almost twitching from the apprehension.
"Jojo, come over to my desk. I want to talk to you."
But at the sound of Mr. Nauvoo's curt instruction, Jojo's elation snapped like a too-taunt elastic. Mr. Nauvoo had always given him his grade right there, without concern for discretion or privacy, and had never before called him to the desk. In fact, the only time Jojo had ever seen anyone invited over to Mr. Nauvoo's desk, it was to give detention or a failing grade.
As this thought crossed Jojo's mind, he suddenly felt the bottom of his stomach open up into a mind-numbing void of terror. He couldn't be failing. It just wasn't possible, not after all he had done for the extra course and its credits. The past year flashed rapidly before his eyes, like a pre-death memory, and Jojo could almost feel every minute of burned midnight oil slipping by his fingers. Jojo couldn't believe it. He wanted to cry.
But somehow, he managed to retain his composure as he stumbled unseeingly towards Mr. Nauvoo.
"Y-yes, sir?" Jojo mumbled quietly when he was finally standing in the full blast of the arctic glare. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"I did," Mr. Nauvoo replied curtly. "See, I received something in the mail for you."
Jojo's terrified thoughts screeched to a sudden halt, and he stared at Mr. Nauvoo uncomprehendingly. Whatever could the mail have to do with his grade?
But Mr. Nauvoo just arched his eyebrows, seemingly amused by Jojo's confusion. This only bewildered Jojo more. Mr. Nauvoo had never given a failing grade in such a joking manner before, and he had never, regardless of the situation, ever worn an expression quite so close to smile. What was going on?
"Here," Mr. Nauvoo announced finally, proffering to him a small, official-looking envelope. Obediently, Jojo grasped it.
The envelope was of an impressive beige color, with a small, intricate symbol adorning the top left corner of the paper. The sign tugged somewhere at the back of Jojo's memory, but he couldn't quite grasp where he'd seen it before, and he pushed the nagging thoughts away. Pausing, Jojo squinted at the address, which was almost a work of art in itself. The words flowed in neat, elegant calligraphy, and even the dot of the 'j' seemed to sing prestige.
He swallowed, staring up at Mr. Nauvoo in speechless wonder.
"Well?" Mr. Nauvoo demanded. "Open it, boy!"
Finally, his heart beating fit to burst, Jojo carefully pushed his thumb to the flap and pulled. The envelope tore perfectly beneath his fingers. Inside lay nestled a tri-folded paper of the same proud beige, and as Jojo liberated it from its confines, he saw gilding the back the watermark of the same symbol he'd noticed earlier. At this point, Jojo was almost certain he wasn't about to be failed, but nonetheless, his chest was wrung in a breathless anticipation, and he could hardly unfold the paper.
But he managed somehow, and as he scanned the letter, his eyes grew rounder and rounder, until any onlooker would have been shocked that they didn't fall out of his head. His expression bright with shock and excitement, Jojo finally glanced up to meet Mr. Nauvoo's gaze. To his immense surprise, beyond the carefully-arranged mask of indifference, a small spark of excitement was dancing in the vivid blue of Mr. Nauvoo's eyes.
"A full scholarship . . . to Wholliard?" Jojo breathed.
Mr. Nauvoo nodded curtly, but it seemed it was all he could do to suppress the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips. "To study music theory," he clarified. "They saw your composition from last year, and were extremely impressed. This was only to be expected."
"But, Mr. Nauvoo! This is the most prestigious music school possible!"
"And you're a prestigious student," he replied. "Just don't disappoint me."
Jojo stared at him, lost for words. That was the closest thing to a compliment he had had ever heard Mr. Nauvoo utter, and he could hardly be sure he wasn't hallucinating. "B-but I never applied for a scholarship."
"Well, of course you didn't; I've never met a student with less common sense. If I didn't fill it out for you, nothing would have happened."
"You applied me?" Jojo couldn't believe his ears. It was so uncharacteristic of Mr. Nauvoo that he almost expected a sudden shout of 'April Fools!' or the like – except that wasn't characteristic of Mr. Nauvoo, either.
"If you insist on stating the obvious, yes," Mr. Nauvoo answered curtly. And then, reaching into his top drawer, he withdrew a thick folder of papers and pushed them across the desk. Curiously, Jojo took them as he explained: "These are just a few last forms for your parents to sign so that you can go. Now, hurry; I'm not writing you a pass."
As if on cue, the bell cried out just then in its high-pitched wail. And Jojo, feeling his much-abused heart skip another beat, pushed the folder and the envelope roughly into his bag. "Bye, Mr. Nauvoo! Thank you so much!"
"I'll see you tomorrow. Good day."
But for Jojo, the rest of the day passed in a blur. He was soaring on the wings of his elation, his teacher's reprimands of his inattention no more significant than a passing bird. He had gotten a full scholarship to Wholliard. He was going to study music. And to him, nothing else mattered.
-----------------------------
I hope you enjoyed chapter one of this fic. ^.^ I will put more up later, but I'm very busy right now; I most likely won't be faster than a chapter a month. Regardless, I will finish, so please stand by.
~ KiraKira-Kirimi