I walk into the new classroom. The wing of the high school has just been constructed, so everything has a newness to it- a sheen, like it's still coming out of the shrink wrap. I wonder how long the pristine walls will keep from being written on and the chairs from being bent and scratched up. I keep my eyes down and head for the back of the classroom.
Beginning chorus. What a joke.
Not that I don't appreciate chorus, or the fact that everyone is a beginner at some point, but I am probably over-qualified for this class. In my freshman year, I auditioned in to the advanced choir and the show choir. When the choir director retired at the end of that year, I was saddened beyond words. No, this was a class I was taking because I really wanted to have another music class, and the school had finally hired a new choir director. It would be a welcome distraction from the hectic business that always came during marching season. It wouldn't mean a thing, and at the end of the semester it would just be another perfect grade in another music course. I smile in anticipation.
I look at the desk in the corner of the room. He sits there, largely ignoring the herd of students that make their way as loudly as possible through the door.
He isn't thin by anyone's standards, and he has glasses that look a little thick to be trendy. He can't be more than five years older than I, but his button up long sleeved chocolate brown shirt and khakis say that he thinks that he needs to look older. His dark hair has a little too much gel in it, and it's combed straight back from his temples, which adds on years at first glance. I look again: yes, he is young. He must be worried that the kids will not respect him. I mentally commend him for his efforts. To most of the kids, he won't look any different than the sixty year old math teacher down the hall. He looks up suddenly scanning the room and, and ends on me. I look back coolly, just long enough for him to know that when I finally retract my gaze, it is of my own accord. I open my advanced music theory workbook and pretend to be absorbed in the work, but I am thinking about the eyes that had almost surprised me into looking away immediately. They are liquid onyx, and glittering.. His eyebrows had been quirked in an almost snide expression and his mouth was narrow, but it seemed to have a haughtiness all about it. I wonder if he really thinks he is better than everyone else, or if that is his teaching head space. I immediately decide that it doesn't matter one way or the other, and so I begin my music theory in earnest.
A few minutes later, he stands and calls the class to attention. It is a motley arrangement of mostly thug wannabes and bleach blonde airheads. Here and there, scattered among them are a few emo kids and a football player or two. This does not look promising at all.
He begins calling roll, and gives me a small nod when I acknowledge my name called. His voice is strange, but not unpleasant. It has a full resonance that I have never heard in a voice before and it is very well supported, if a bit nasal.
He puts the roll sheet down and fully looks at the class. Some squirm, not used to being appraised, but as a performer, I'm probably too professional as I match his neutral expression as he glides over me.
"Welcome to Choir 101. My name is Mr. Morse. We will begin the class by learning about basic music theory. Because this is third block and our lunch is scheduled in the middle of the class, the first half of the class will be vocal and the second half will be theory- unless we're preparing for a concert or have a special day planned. Any questions?"
The room stares in disbelief. I hear a few whispers of "did he say concerts?" from some of the plastics, and a football player guffaws at the very idea. Not a great start.
"Yes, concerts. They will be your test grades, and since you only have two concerts, I suggest you make it and participate in both. You will, of course have other grades, such as participation in the vocal portion of the class, and the accuracy of the music theory work you will turn in.." he leaves room in the sentence for anything else he might want to be a grade.
Good job, new teach, I'm impressed. He must have had leadership positions throughout college. I snap out of my figuring as he seats himself at the upright studio piano in the middle of the room and says, "We'll start on 'la's".
He digs in, playing scales up and up and up. None are singing but me and another band student that I hadn't noticed earlier. He is a baritone sax player, and a good one. The rest of the class is talking and ignoring the man at the piano. I suddenly feel very bad for Mr. Morse. He stops around a staff E, looking at the class with a jaded sort of look.
"Well, since that's all you have today, we'll begin with theory early," he says and the complaints begin. "No no, you mustn't strain your voices", he says and there is a lot of sarcastic venom in his tone now. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this man or his class, but he isn't one to be trifled with.
As he turns around to write on the board, I see his eye catch my advanced theory book. He smiles a crooked little smile. I'm curious. He turns around after scribbling a staff on the board and looks at the class.
Suddenly, he moves in front of the piano, reclining against it slightly. It is a pose of ease and yet there is still some undercurrent ofauthority about his presence. I almost miss his question while I consider his mysterious power.
"Does anyone have any previous musical experience?" his voice sounds doubtful, but he scans the room quickly.
I raise my hand, and a few others do as well.
"Yes, what do you do? And-and your name, please. I'm horrible at remembering." he motions towards the sax player.
"Brandon, and I play saxophone, um, tenor and bari are my favorites". Brandon looks for a moment as if he isn't sure if that's enough explanation, but Morse nods appreciatively.
"And you, miss..?" Morse motions towards a plastic that I don't know.
"My name is Tanya, and I twirl. Oh, my mother made me take flute when I was little, but twirling was our agreement. It's musical.. kinda." She giggles at herself and the surrounding girls do as well. Morse simply ignores her. I am vastly entertained by his response.
He turns to a brunette in the opposite corner from me, and she jerks her hand out of the air, though her nose stays there.
"I'm Lynn and I can sing," she states, as if he really probably should have heard of her before this moment. He cocks an eyebrow and leans back lightly on the studio piano behind him.
"Really? Who's your teacher?" he asks, and I think that I can detect an edge in his voice. He won't be easy to impress.
She rolls her eyes and titters, "Oh, I don't need a teacher. I know I can sing". I cringe into my seat lower, and nearly scoff out loud. Instead I simply look from her back to him.
I think I can see Morse struggle with himself, holding back some comment for the self-proclaimed diva. I wonder if he's always this subtly sarcastic. I can see myself getting along with him very easily.
"And you, miss?" he suddenly is motioning at me, and I pull my hand out of the air.
"Um, Evey. I'm- I'm Evey. I play trumpet and the French horn, and I have voice lessons.. Classical training. My teacher is Sainte-Jammes." I can feel my face get hot. Morse smiles to the side, dropping his eyes to a chair in front of me containing a thug wannabe and then bringing them back to my face. It's an interesting motion that I don't miss.
"She's an excellent teacher. I'm a French horn player as well. How long have you played?" he asks. I smile at him, despite myself and my feigned reserve.
"Since 7th grade for trumpet, 8th for horn," I say off handedly and then add, "and I'm a senior, so.. well, for long enough". I smile genuinely and he smiles too. I blink and his eyes are cast somewhere else and he has started discussing theory basics.
He doesn't look at me again until the bell to go to lunch rings. I approach his desk and he looks up at me from his computer chair. I realize that his eyes aren't as dark as I had thought at first. The lights were reflecting in them and they both look like mason jars full of fresh honey in the sunshine. I blink and realize that I've been staring at him.
"Sir, um, Mr. Morse, I- well, I don't care for the lunches here, and I never eat them and I usually just go to the band room for lunch, and so.. well.." I'm not sure how to continue. I've just told my teacher that I'll be somewhere.. should I ask for permission, or just go?
Morse looks at me strangely.
"You'll be in the band room doing.. what?"
I want so badly to say "nothing" but I know that is the worst answer I can give. What will I be doing that is worthwhile?
"I'm band librarian. I need to file some things before next block, um, because next block is our marching band class and I'm brass captain so I can't do it then," there, that should be a good enough answer.
He smiles at me fully, golden eyes crinkling and small even teeth showing. He has dimples in both cheeks and a very boyish charm that I hadn't noticed while he was at the front of the class.
"Are you drum major as well?"
"No sir, I'm band captain. My best friend is drum major. Junior is his name."
"Ah, you outrank everyone," he says, looking at me closely and taking me by surprise. "Well, I suppose I'll see you when lunch is over." He moves to stand from his chair and I realize that we are the only ones in the room. I am suddenly uncomfortable. I leave the room quietly before he is out from behind the desk.
* * * * *
Marching band rehearsal doesn't always run smoothly. Today, however, I am lucky and the warm up block runs without a hitch. We break off into sectionals and I put my assistant in charge, instructing him to run through the fast 3/4 part until it is perfect, and then to run it some mor. My assistant smiles sadly at me and turns to his task. He's a good assistant, and I've been instructed to let him do more this year, since I won't be here next year to be in charge. I didn't like the idea at first, but the more I realized they relied on me, the less of a favor I was doing them. I ignore the sounds of desperate trumpets behind me, cursing the 3/4 part. I don't particularly care, since I like that part. I approach the tower of power and look up at my drum major.
"Hey loser, what are you doing?" I look at him and smile. Junior looks down at me and smiles in return. He jumps down off the podium and greets me, blonde hair a curly mess in his bright blue eyes and sunburned cheeks.
"Not much. Trying to figure out who's coming down to the field. Some tubby guy," he looks into the distance, towards the school. I look too, but I can see nothing from here.
"Here, lemme look," I say, and hop up the podium's steps. I take off my sunglasses and look toward the school. The figure I see is not one I expected.
"That's Mr. Morse, the new choir teacher. Wonder what he's doing coming down here?" I look towards my best friend, who shrugs and hops up the podium steps to stand directly behind me.
"He's kinda pasty to be outside at all, isn't he?" my friend laughs in his thick Southern accent. We both wobble for a split second. The podium barely has room for one person, and Junior isn't small. I laugh a little to myself, and put my sunglasses back on. I hold out my hand for Junior to grab and I jump off the podium, nearly pulling him down with me. We both laugh more, and I wave good bye to him as I make my way back to my section.
I return just in time to see my assistant cut the section off and pick up some sheet music to check the notes. Wait- that can't be right. This song is supposed to be memorized.
"Thanks, good job Mike, I can take it from here," I say, and he turns around quickly. He says something, more to himself than to me, and takes his place in the high brass semi circle.
"Alright, let's hear the three-four part, not too fast," I count them in and nearly immediately cut them off.
"I'm only going to ask this once: What the HELL was that?" I look around the arch, and the players look anywhere but at me. I raise my eyebrow, and I know they can see it above my slimline sunglasses. It's not a look anyone in the band would wish for, and the high brass knows it. They are very quiet.
"So? What have we been wasting our time doing for the past two and a half weeks? Surely not working this one section? I thought we were passed actually having to do pass offs. I guess not. Alright, everyone. Down the line, then. From the three part till the key change," I point at the trumpet on my far right, the only other lead soprano, besides myself. He looks at me in shame.
"You're not even gonna try?" I ask. He lowers his eyes. I look to the next trumpet. She too lowers her eyes.
"You've got to be kidding me. Alright, who can play the part?" I look down the line, and none of the players move. The mellophones look at each other, and at me. This is the first year they've been put with the trumpets and they're not used to my style. Well, I'm not used to not having a good full line.
"Alright," I say and pick up my trumpet. The heavy King 1501 is warm from lying in the sun, and I buzz quickly before I put my lips to the gold mouthpiece. I play the three part until the key change and then a little further, up an octave to make my point quite clear. I am livid by the time I put my horn down.
"From now on, we're starting practice with pass offs until you can play it in your sleep. Any questions?" I look at their faces, and most are slightly more pallid than they should have been in the Southern summer heat. They barely shake their heads.
"Good. Take off."
My section quickly places their horns in a well-practiced circle and quietly begins a lap around the field. I place my trumpet in its open slot and turn to report the set back to my drum major- and almost run over Mr. Morse.
"Oh- hello. Can I help you?" I ask.
"That is some iron fist you have around your section, Evey. And quite a nice tone as well," he says.
"Um, thank you, sir," I say and look at him curiously. "Mr. Morse, did you march? I know you said you played horn, but.." I trail off, leaving the question open. Mostly I just want to know why a choir teacher is on my field.
"I did. Here, as a matter of fact. I graduated here, as the drum major. I was under Mr. Black," he said and I smiled a little. Mr. Black had retired last year from the high school after he had been offered the head position at an out-of-state college.
"Oh? Mr. Black and I keep in touch regularly. He was here until last year, you know," I say and then mentally kick myself. Of course he knows. But he just nods and smiles. With my sunglasses on, I feel more comfortable examining his face, but I realize with a start that he has no problem with examining me right back, with no sunglasses to mask his intentions.
"Right.. Well, if you'll excuse me, my section is almost done with their lap," I turn without waiting for a response. My section gallops back to our warm up area and picks up the horns. I look at them and sigh.
"You are going to have to pick it up. I can't graduate and leave behind a very physically fit section that hasn't memorized a crucial part of the show," I smile and so does most of the section, breathing heavily and nodding. We now understand one another. I take a quick glance behind me and see that Morse is gone to the podium and is talking to Junior. Suddenly, they both look my way. I duck to pick up my horn and turn back to the section. Wait, why did I just do that? I glance behind me to see Morse walking away from the podium and Junior raising his whistle to his mouth.
A short crisp whistle blows from the podium and we all snap to attention. The new director, Mr. Ashcrowe is quietly speaking to Mr. Morse and then looks up to Junior and tells him what he wants for the rehearsal. Junior calls out in his clear tenor, "I want the band in the beginning set of the third song. Before the movement. Section leaders, make sure your people know where they're going. Your dot books are up here if you need them. We're cleaning the transitions today, hope you brought your water!"
I smile to myself. I like cleaning sets. The smallest details are the biggest points and that is what I revel in. I prepare to lose myself in the work, and in the back of my mind I tell myself that I will ignore the man standing on the sidelines, watching the rehearsal with golden eyes.
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Author's Notes: So this is a trial run. I'm not sure where this will be going, but hopefully school and all will let me keep this up. Reviews would be much appreciated!