Rudeness Prevails

Had my first drawing lesson today, and once again, my abundance of gratitude to Erik for such favors can only be ceaseless. Yes, thank you, Erik. Really.

To do him justice, he does teach well, but he is so damn patronizing about it. It's like the music lessons. He knows everything about everything and expects me to know the same, or at least know enough to keep pace with him. Ha! As if I could ever manage that.

You know what I hate about it? He condescends. I can just imagine him looking down on me with an expression of disdain behind his mask every time I reveal that I don't know something. He's always impatient, and it doesn't help that I don't require much provocation to lose my temper either. And then, I never know what to expect. If I could storm off, I would, but the one time I tried it, I regretted it sorely. If I could shout, I would, but shouting only succeeds in him getting angrier. So, I sit there and bottle my anger, and endeavor to smoothen things out. It doesn't help his cause at all, you know.

And then there are the times when he is almost … awkwardly … gentle and when I listen to his voice–so calm and beautiful–it seems so easy to forget everything else and give in to him and those are the times I most fear losing my mind.

I've been having mood swings ever since I came here. Smiling one moment, crying the next. It's messing up my emotional well being or whatever that thing is called. I bet he thinks that I haven't noticed. Probably doesn't credit me with half the intelligence I do have, the infuriating man. Of course I've noticed. I've not been like this since I could blame mood swings on hormones!

Agh!

I hate that he affects me so much! I was perfectly normal today until those stupid, stupid, stupid drawing lessons.

Do you want a detailed account of them, Isabella? Perhaps not, actually. I don't want to remember every excruciating detail. It isn't worth the effort. I only hope he isn't so insufferable tomorrow. Because if he is, I'm just going to tell him that I don't want to learn how to draw. I'm very happy with my own imperfect doodles, thank you very much. And let me go while you're at it.

Of course I won't put it that way. I don't like looking for trouble.

To take my mind off today's events (isn't that why I'm writing here, after all?) I'll go back to what I was talking about yesterday. And before that, I need to remember to find another place to hide you. It's a pain to have to remove the entire drawer every time I want to write, and even more so since this seems to have all the signs of becoming a habit. I can't think of any other place where I could hide this, though. Another thing to add to my To-Do List. Which is rather short, coming to think of it. What does it contain again?

- Morning: Wake up, bathe, breakfast, music lessons

- Afternoon: Lunch, stupid drawing lessons, diary

- Evening: Library session if I'm so inclined (which was most days until yesterday), walk in garden (until around two months ago; I miss the sun so much! Warmth, even. It's so cold down here. Why did he have to take even that away from me?) or diary

- Night: Dinner, diary

Yes. A day in the exciting life of Christine Forster. I suppose I could add trying not to cry at random moments, being scrutinized in the most unnerving manner at any time of the day, having to watch every word I say, being in a state of constant depression because I can't forget what it is like to be outside, and the hundred other things I do every day, but it would be rather pedantic of me to write those down. Those are givens.

Moving on. I think the last thing I wrote about was the first note he sent me. It did unnerve me for a while, but I decided to ignore it. The weekend passed uneventfully. I duly forgot about both the note and the music, and spent my time watching movies–I'm fairly certain that I saw Casablanca for the first time then, actually–and roaming around the city with friends.

Monday morning, when I opened my locker, the first thing I saw was another note; this was written by hand (he has horrible handwriting, by the way; a reflection of his true nature?), in red ink. It said something to the effect of:

Do not take me for granted, Ms. Forster. I rarely give gifts, and any refusal of them will not be taken lightly. You have frittered your weekend away on frivolous pastimes; if you are not prepared by this Friday, I will be forced to take action.

That was it. No greeting, no signing off. Just a threat, pure and simple. Of course I didn't take it seriously. I'd already thought of what to do if I got another note. The bell rang before I could do anything, though, so I crumpled up the note and shoving it into my bag, went off to class.

I was angry, very angry when I wrote my reply. I still think my note was much better than his. I remember most of it.

Dear Mr. Note Writer,

Perhaps you think that putting threatening notes in people's lockers is fun. You really must have a twisted sense of humor, or perhaps you don't know what else to do with your time. That is not my problem. Don't bother me. Your attention is more than unwelcome.

Not yours at all,

Christine

PS: As for the thing next month, maybe you should update your schedule, since you seem to have gotten your information from dubious sources. There won't be any singing before the play, and hence, no auditions. And it's not a travesty. At least see the rehearsals before you start judging.

PPS: Here's your music. It's pretty, but you can keep it.

I think I can realistically imagine his reaction to that. If I'd been around when he read it, I'd have probably wanted to shut myself in my room and hide as soon as I could. I was such a presumptuous little twerp back then….

Anyway, I folded the letter, wrote 'To the Note Writer' in big letters on the back, tied the music sheets to it, and put them in my locker during lunch. I figured that since I didn't have any plans to learn the song, it was likely that the note writer would see them when he (I was convinced it was a 'he') next decided to chastise me.

I didn't forget the notes as easily this time. I was preoccupied all through my singing lessons that day, mucking up my notes, forgetting cues, that sort of thing. I was finally snapped to attention when Ms. Violet announced that there had been a staff meeting that morning and it had been decided that there would be a musical compendium before the play next month. Anyone who wanted to try out for it was to be ready for an audition on Friday.

Spooked is not sufficient enough to describe my reaction. I panicked because:

- He got into my locker (How the hell did he get my locker combination, for starters?), which is scary enough, as it is, without any external help such as …

- knowing about staff decisions before they were made and …

- because it was just plain damn creepy!

I spent the rest of the class vacillating between terror and a vague sort of hope. Hope? Because I'd always wanted to be recognized for my talent and that could have been my lucky chance. Yeah, I was so full of myself back then. Now, I'd be happy to simply be with those I care for. Or free. Yes, I could settle for freedom.

Surprisingly, though, it took me longer than it should have to make the connection between the fallout of a rude note and the chances of my getting a tutor who, if he could teach as well as he could compose, would be just darn brilliant.

Yes, added to being full of myself, I was also a bit slow.

I was halfway home with Kate, when it suddenly struck me, and leaving her gaping at me as if I were mad, I ran all the way back to school. The doors had already been locked, however, and I was left staring longingly through them, and hoping madly that the note writer wouldn't see the note.

I trudged home moodily, and locked myself in my room. Again. I used to do that a lot back then. I was certain that I would never hear from the note writer again, and that I had lost my one and only chance to become famous. I honestly think that if my 14- or 15-year old self were here right now, I'd detest her. A lot. I don't think I'd be able to be in the same room as her for more than five minutes, either.

The next day, all my fears were realized. I'd say hopes now, in hindsight, but there you have it. The music sheets were back in the locker, as was another note. I don't remember that one too clearly, though. One line in particular sticks out:

The music is a gift. Keep it.

The rest was all about how he would henceforth remain uninvolved. Ruder, certainly–that's Erik for you–but all the same, aloof and unconcerned. There weren't any apologies either.

Panic again. I hastily dashed off another note, apologizing to him for my rudeness, but expressing my wish to be taught. I also tried to justify my reaction with something like this:

At least tell me who you are. Did you think that I'd follow your commands without a second thought if I didn't know who you are? I don't know about you, but 'E' really doesn't convey anything to me.

Some more groveling later, I left the letter in the locker, hoping wildly against all hopes that he would forgive me. The music, I kept. And learned. And sang in the auditions. And got through them on the strength of that song.

I had Important Events earlier. I would count this, however, as Mistake No. 1. He would have left me alone if I had not apologized, or sung the song. I am certain of it. Well, not 'certain' certain. Just 'a little hunch' certain. He would have lost interest in me because I had disregarded him and I wouldn't be here today.

There was never any reply to my note. Instead, about a month after I'd got through the auditions–a week after the play, I think; again, I can't be sure; time just stands still here, and I've forgotten what it feels like–I first heard the night music.

And dammit. I seem to stop at interesting bits all the time. However, you must forgive me. I don't want Erik to start wondering what I'm doing in my room in the afternoons, instead of coming to the library, as I normally do. The risk of him finding you is far worse than leaving some things for next time. By all estimates, I'll have all the time in the world to continue. Besides, I'm hungry and I want to grab something to eat from the kitchen. Au revoir, Isabella! I'll find you a better hiding place when I get back.