Beca Mitchell had been sitting on the floor of the chorus room, leaning against the acoustic tiles lining the walls. As a senior, she didn't have a full roster of classes. This afforded her time to retreat daily to her place of solace. She was a well-loved student at Portland's Merriweather Lewis High School - both by teachers and students. It was hard to find something to dislike about her. She was intelligent, well mannered, friendly. She was petite and beautiful: chocolate hair, an ivory complexion, tiny size but still carrying a nice figure. Quite a few students had developed crushes on her during her three plus years on campus, yet she had never been seen connected to anyone in particular. On top of it all, she was a musical prodigy. She was involved in every school musical, the choir, and even the orchestra and band if they needed an extra set of hands. And her voice? It was as beautiful as she was: her greatest instrument. Music flowed through her, made her feel alive. It was what helped her survive her parents' sudden divorce while she was in middle school. It kept her going through all the angst-filled years of high school. And it was her entire future. When she graduated, she was heading to L.A., to the USC School of Music. And after that? The sky was the limit.
Being well loved and well known usually hung easily on Beca's shoulders. But not always. Life had not gone smoothly for the Mitchell family. Her mom was not the most compassionate of people, and she didn't always "get" Beca. She loved the attention that came from having such a notable daughter, living vicariously through the girl. But the normal peaks and valleys of emotional fortitude that comes with adolescence proved too much for Mrs. Mitchell. Beca's dad was the one who understood her best. He was an English professor and loved the arts much like his daughter. He took her to movies and plays and musicals and concerts and performances that ran the gamut. This instilled a love for all things artistic. While her father focused on the written word, Beca gravitated to music. She loved all kinds of it. From symphonies to pop to rap to EDM. It didn't matter to Beca; she found the beauty in it all. Beca especially appreciated those musical wizards who could manipulate two apparently disparate styles and weave them into one. Lin-Manuel Miranda's work in Hamilton, Metallica's S&M album with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, Daft Punk's collection of albums, David Guetta, Diplo. This was one area that Beca was especially passionate about: mixing tracks and creating completely new pieces out of already existing works. She wasn't sure where she would end up in the music world, but it would have to include freedom for her to explore just how far you could go with creating musical chimeras. Her mom didn't understand all of this. She wasn't musical; she was practical. Her dad completely got it and fed the obsession by purchasing his girl instruments and editing equipment - things rarely entrusted to children her age. But Dr. Mitchell recognized the rare ability housed in his tiny offspring and wanted to give her everything she needed to soar.
Then he left.
She remembered coming home one day in seventh grade, and she noticed her dad's car was in the driveway. He never arrived home before five; he always taught class sessions until 4:30pm. So she was confused as to what brought him home early. She hoped it was a cool surprise, like he had scored tickets to an unexpected performance somewhere. As she reached the door, though, she doubted it. Loud angry voices pierced the sunny afternoon. She knew her parents had fought from time to time, like she assumed all parents did. Mostly, though, the house was relatively calm. Evenings would find them all quietly eating, maybe sharing about their days. Then Beca would work on homework while her father sat in his chair and read and her mother sat on the couch with her laptop. If anything, her house was too quiet. She wondered why her parents didn't seem to talk to each other much. When she would visit with friends, she would sometimes be overwhelmed by how much talking went on. Her friend Maddie's family seemed to have their chatter buttons turned up to eleven. Every time she was with them, she would be peppered with questions about everything under the sun. And Maddie's parents would talk about the most banal things and seem to enjoy it, discussing oil changes and the weekend's weather and some weird bird they noticed. Now, Beca's parents talked to her. Her dad always seemed thrilled to talk to her for hours about all of artistic things they enjoyed; her mom always seemed thrilled to lecture Beca about being responsible and dedicated and trustworthy. That last word seemed to be the one at the crux of this parental explosion. But they didn't often talk to each other, until more frequently - and those conversations were actually just screaming matches.
Beca tried to ignore the fight, but it was a tornado swirling through the home - pulling and ripping everything in its path. Homework was impossible to focus on. Music wasn't loud enough to offer distraction. A pillow over her head wasn't silencing enough to block out the rage. She heard phrases like "cheating is never okay" and "emotional wasteland" and"with that slut" and "she understands." Then "I can never trust you again." Doors slammed. Feet stomped down the stairs. A car started up and squealed away. Beca sat on her bed with her knees pulled up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs, pulling herself into as small of a space as possible. Tears flowed out and puddled on her cheeks, spilling over onto her shirt. She wasn't sure how long she sat like that. After what seemed like an eternity where her head swirled with horrible images of being homeless and living in a box, her dad came into her room. He silently entered and sat next to her on the bed.
"I ordered pizza." It came out so quiet, so defeated that it barely registered. "We need to eat at some point."
Beca quietly nodded. They both stared at the display of Playbills hanging on her far wall. A fog of silence permeated the room. Finally, her dad cleared his throat and spoke again.
"I want you to know, no matter what happens, I will always love you." He finally turned and looked at Beca with tears streaming down his cheeks. "You are the best thing in my world."
The next day, when Beca came home from school, he was gone.
Beca's mom was sitting quietly in the living room with all the lights off, holding a glass with brown liquid in it. She brought her eyes up to see Beca hesitantly walking in the door. She smiled sadly, raised her glass, and rasped, "I guess it's just us girls now."
"Us girls" learned how to function in the new normal. The never struggled financially; Beca's mom was, after all, very responsible when it came to money. Plus Dr. Mitchell sent generous child support payments and took care of most of Beca's needs. At the end of the semester, he moved cross country and took a job as an English professor at a small college in Atlanta - and took his assistant Sheila with him. Beca obviously took the change hard. She hadn't just lost her dad; she had lost her artistic partner in crime. When she went to see him a couple of times a year, he would still take them to see concerts and films. But their day to day interactions disappeared. The spirited discussions in the car over the best musical or film score. The sharing of newfound artists. The book recommendations. They all dried up. Beca was angry for so many reasons at her father. She was mad at his cheating, of course. She was furious at his leaving. And she was devastated at his betrayal. Is this how someone treats the best thing in their world?
The remainder of seventh grade and the summer that followed saw Beca in some dark places. She was trying to process what her world was now going to be like, and where she fit into it. She had to grow up quickly, too. Her mom didn't neglect her, but she didn't emotionally tend to her either. Those months were very difficult. Mrs. Mitchell had never handled the downswings of her daughter's mood well. She seemed flustered and confused, trying to urge Beca to "getover it" or "see the bright side." This intensified during the divorce and subsequent upheaval. Beca realized that if she wanted life to keep going in a livable manner, she was going to have to just be okay with things. She needed to stay positive and upbeat. She wasn't sure how to accomplish that, exactly, since her world had been shattered. But there was one thing that gave her that ability.
Music.
So she poured music into herself, and poured herself in to the music. She surrounded herself with those pleasing tones. She crafted songs and devoured albums. And slowly she was able to force herself out of the darkness. By the time eighth grade started, Beca had mostly gotten herself into a place where she was okay. She reconnected with her friends. She got more involved with the musical programs at school. School became an oasis for her. Instead of seeing it as a perpetual prison, like so many of her classmates, it provided her somewhere to thrive. She was happier there. And her mother was happy that Beca was happy, because it made things easier. Beca wasn't faking it, but she was forcing it. She didn't let herself get upset. She always was smiling and talking and singing.
The only times where she allowed herself to take that guard down were her times alone in the music room. Her teachers loved her, and she was a great student, so she got special privileges. At first, she was allowed to spend some lunch periods in the chorus room instead of the insane hallways and cafeteria. She didn't do that everyday - she still wanted to see her friends. But on those days where it was too much to keep everything upbeat, she would retreat to a practice room and sit in the silence. It was like she had to recharge her batteries with music. So she would put her headphones on, sit on the floor, and let herself go for a bit. She often listened to sad songs, songs of breakup and loss. They resonated with her in those moments. They allowed her to be down, to embrace that life sometimes just … sucked. Music told her it was okay to feel the shadows as well as the light. By the end of the reprieve, she would be able to re-enter the student body and play her part.
As she moved through high school, those moments of respite became more and more necessary. Being a teenager was hard. There were so many feelings and questions and hormones. Beca needed a place to process all of those things. She couldn't do it at home. If she was too subdued or thoughtful around her mom, it would lead to questions and advice and criticisms. If she stayed her room too much, her mother would worry that Beca was in there stewing and being all angsty. There wasn't a lot of room to just be a normal teenaged girl. Beca had friends, and spent a lot of time with them. She had multiple school-related activities to distract her. Her homework also helped to minimize the dead space where she would be left alone with her thoughts. She managed to compartmentalize her rumination to those quiet moments, enrobed with her music.
That's why she was in the chorus room, alone behind her headphones on that day. Allowing herself to let her guards down for just a moment, unaware of what was striding through the halls.