The pink eraser bounced rhythmically on the tabletop, one beat per second, counting down the moments until she was released from her room and allowed downstairs. There was a strict rule in her house – no music, no TV, no computer until every scrap of homework was finished. More often than not, her father came upstairs to help her, but today he was downstairs pecking away at the calculator, arranging long columns of numbers and emailing the results to people with long titles before their names and numbers after them. She sighed and rumpled her red hair then threw her pencil across the room. She kicked off her shoes and began pacing, taking care to avoid the creaky spots on the floor – marked carefully in permanent ink – so her parents would think she was still studying. Her carpet was a shag weave and rather scratchy to lay on for long periods of time, but it felt good on her toes as she thought. What she really wanted to do was grab her violin and run into the woods; she played for herself, and for the squirrels, who always paused their chattering politely while she played. But the weather was freezing cold, the steady thrum of rain hammering the roof and streaking down the windows in long, glassy rivulets. Outside, a downy gray sky was hinted with black, and the light was poor and hazy with fog and rain. Trees stretched their limbs, leaves flipping to show their silvery green sides, and thunder rolled distantly, accompanied by a twinge of light in the distance. Her sensibly short nails dug into her palms and she scowled deeper, glaring a hole in the floor. Pacing usually helped soothe her, but right now, she needed to play her violin. It was as much a part of her day as breathing was – if she didn't play it, her fingers tingled, and her breath came short, and she was in the most horrible temper all day. Right now, she despised math, her parents, homework, but mostly math. She wanted to play.
As she paced, she passed in front of her full-length mirror. Like most teenaged girls when they passed reflective surfaces, she looked at herself, sighed at her fat, and began examining themselves. She was neither short nor tall – tall enough not to be considered short, but too short to be considered tall. It was her height which bothered her the most, instead of her hooded eyes. Her father called her eyes "disdainful", her mother called them "imperious", and Amelia herself called them "lazy". In truth, it was a bit of all three – her eyes of a gold-green shade, thickly lashed and had a habit of dropping to a low stance, giving her a proud, haughty look. As for her figure, Amelia didn't pay much mind to it. She was slender, that much was enough, but recently a bit of weight had been adding to her hips and thighs since she gave up walking with her mother. Playing the violin was much more interesting than physical exercise, and her figure was suffering because of it. But it was none of these faults that bothered her – it was the fact that she was so clumsy. The only time her fingers didn't break things or drop items was when she was playing the violin, so she played it as often as possible. Her fingers and hands didn't like to cooperate with her brain, and her legs had the annoying habit of getting tangled up in tablecloths and other such items.
There was a rap at the door, and she leapt for her chair – unfortunately, too late. She struck her elbow on the corner of the desk and yelped in pain, rubbing the sensitive joint and wincing. Her mother came up behind her, laughing a little. "Still avoiding your homework?" She inquired pleasantly. "Your supper's getting cold, sweetie, you can finish up later."
"What time is it?" She asked, rubbing her eyes. Her mother sighed and began picking up the dirty clothes strung around the floor. Amelia watched her with the detached interest of a typical jaded teen.
"Late enough for your father to think you should eat and go to bed," Her mother answered. "But I convinced him to allow you to finish your homework first."
Amelia slumped in her seat. "What about my violin?" She asked. "Can I play after dinner?"
"Absolutely not," her mother said. "You've been putting off your homework for days now, and it needs to get done." She piled the clump of dirty clothes in her laundry hamper and balanced the wicker item on her hip as she stood in the doorway. "I'm glad you like playing the violin, Amelia, but schoolwork comes first. You can't get far with just a major in music – you need to expand your sights. You're so smart, honey, you could be anything."
Amelia picked morosely at the gaping edge of her desk where the faux wood lining was coming apart. "I know," she sighed. It was true – there were so many starving musicians in the world, it wasn't even funny. She rumpled her hair again and nodded. "What's for dinner?" She asked, following her mother down the stairs. Her mother shrugged a little.
"Leftovers," she said. "Your father chose to eat some old pizza and a bowl of cereal. I have some spaghetti heating up for you, and if you want I can make you a grilled cheese. Do you have any questions about your math, honey?"
She had questions, sure, but not about math. Why was she so attracted to playing the violin, for one. Why was she so good at math but so uninspired by it, was another. But she shrugged and shook her head, instead electing to eat her nuked leftovers and think about her violin. Maybe, if the rain stopped later tonight, she could finish her homework quickly and go out on the porch to play through a few stanzas. Or she could use the living room, even though her father usually watched his aggressive-sounding political shows after dinner. She twirled a few strands of pasta around a fork and began scraping her dish quickly, determined to finish dinner and homework before nine o'clock. Her mother came up from the laundry room and caught sight of her only daughter wolfing down her food. "Slow down, homework will still be there when you get to it," She reminded her, continuing down to her bedroom. There was a click of the bathroom door as her mother began getting ready for bed, and Amelia heard her father punch on the television.
Her dinner finished, she slotted her plate quickly among the other dishes and banged the door to the dishwasher shut with her hip, hurrying back upstairs, the taste of garlic sauce still lingering in her mouth. She retrieved her pencil from under the bed and began scribbling down numbers, hastily wrapping up her math homework. It would earn her a C+ at best, because she guessed half of them, but at least her homework was done. When she glanced at the clock, she saw it was six minutes to nine. Her heart sank, but she resolutely took out her violin from her case and dragged both the bulky black case and the sleek mahogany instrument downstairs. Her father's television was cranked up, and she stuck her tongue out at him when he was shouting angrily at some clip of the president. She poked her head outside and almost cried at the torrent of rain still pouring in sheets from the sky. Angrily, she slammed the door and marched down to the basement with her nose in the air. The washing machine was humming quietly in the corner, and the sound of the storm outside was mostly muffled. Although, because it was January, the temperature down in the basement was ridiculously cold, enough for her to see her breath and for her skin to pebble. She upturned a milk crate and sat down, tucking her violin under her chin and drawing her bow along the string, playing one note in the quiet of the basement, testing to see how it sounded. It was fine – rather tinny in the cramped confines of the room, but she could live with that.
The song she began playing was slow, soft, and almost luxurious to hear. Her fingers sketched lightly over the strings, applying just the right pressure as she drew her bow, the pure music twisting into a harmonious tapestry of sound. She closed her eyes and saw what she always saw whenever she played this song – a gentle glade full of shy sunlight, thick moss creeping slowly over tree roots, Spanish moss trailing from trees and skimming the ground. Her bow moved faster, picking up speed, and the sensual song she had been playing became a foot-taping jig, rife with whirling notes and a tempo that increased by the moment. The glade melted into mist, reforming instead to a dusty barn full of sawdust, people clapping and cheering, holding hands and dancing while she played the violin. When she finished, she was sweating and her fingers were numb from playing so quickly. Slowly, she put her violin back in her case and tried to calm her unsteady breathing. A light sheen of sweat had beaded her brow, and she got up with a smug, satisfied grin on her face. It felt so good to play – the air crackled with electricity. It was as though she could taste the music in the air as she played, feel the notes gliding around her like large glossy butterflies. She almost wished someone had been here to listen to her – she had been exceptional. With a little smirk on her face, Amelia mounted the stairs and came back up, sated, her thirst for music slaked for the moment.
"Amelia!" Her father called. "Can I stop this recording? I can't watch my football show when you have so many channels recording!" he shouted. Amelia came into the room and took the remote from his hand without a word, her good mood melting away. She looked at the screen and debated. It was Wednesday, which meant that The Mentalist would be on, and she didn't want to miss that. But it was also the night where the played How the Grinch Stole Christmas for the last time this year. With a sigh, she punched the "Stop this recording" button and left the room, ignoring her mental argument with herself. Wait, you fool! Her mind shouted at her. You're going to ignore Patrick Jane, the most handsome consultant of all time, and the Grinch, the funniest character of the holiday season, to go sit and mope? WHY? WHY, you foolish, incompetent child?
She growled a little to herself and banged open her door. I should stop talking to myself, she said in her head, because that's the first sign of a mentally unbalanced person. Then again, since when have I been balanced? This thought was punctuated by her already bruised kneecap colliding with the edge of her bed, and she yowled, rubbing the top of her knee, ignoring the smarting sensation. She had to do something. She couldn't sit here and be bored. Her haughty eyes flickered around the room, and then landed on the battered old television in the corner. Shrugging, she got up and began examining her movie collection.
Aladdin has Jafar in it, she said to herself, but it also has a princess with a brain the size of a flea. Moving on. Ooh, Lord of the Rings. A possibility, but I think it's scratched. And anyway, who wants to see Gollum prancing around naked and coughing all the time? So, ew. OH! Star Wars alert! With Liam Neeson! Even better! Aww man, it's not The Phantom Menace, it's ... Hunchback of Notre Dame? What the hell is that? She slid the movie completely out of its case and examined it. The movie seemed old, fairly scarred, and very dusty. She pushed it into her VCR and waited for the grainy screen to settle into place, sat on her bed and tucked both feet under her, careful not to knock anything over. Her fingers traced patterns on the sleek cover of her violin case in preparation for the movie. For some reason, the screen started to get fuzzier instead of clearer, so she sighed and got up. Obviously, the tape was too old to be played, so she reached for the eject button to remove it before it damaged her VCR. Her fingertip connected with the eject button, but instead of taking the movie out, the movie took her in. She barely had time to gasp when she felt the strangest sensation – almost like she had been shrunk like a sweater washed in hot water. The only texture that remained the same was the hard case of her violin under her fingertips. Everything else began to slide and shift, like sand sliding underfoot. There was a noise like a tape being ejected, and she saw only blackness.
A/N: Sorry, no muse for Lord of the Rings, so I'm moving onto Disney films! Isn't that lovely? I know this isn't my usual quality, nor my usual format, but I've been so discouraged lately that I'm hoping something like this will cheer me up. Anyway, please leave a review! All reviewers will be publically thanked!