Nearly eight t-shirts later, the spectacle wouldn’t have aroused anxiety—usually there was at least one other in my class to divert the attention—if after the announcement, the principal didn’t go on to repeat my name, mentioning also that my GPA was not only the highest, but the highest by twelve points. Still, there was a strong chance no one would care or notice, or both, if not for the teacher, directed by the principal, requesting I stand at the front of the class while my peers, and those all across campus, applauded me.
Four times a year I was highly tempted to fall ill.
While I understood the methodology behind the ceremonial endeavor, for me, I thought it somewhat silly; my intelligence was accredited to two certain things: my parents’ DNA, and plenteous time to devote to my education. It came as no surprise to me that I did well academically. Those given the same opportunity as I would likely fare just as well.
~
Arriving to Music, I took my seat, well before the final bell rang. Minutes later a few latecomers poured through the door, their faces animated from lunchtime excitement. My teacher was one of them.
Mr. Balfleur—renamed Mr. Balfy because Balfleur was too difficult to pronounce—cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting amiably from the front of the room.
Mr. Balfy was adored and acclaimed among his students, past and present. Only twenty-four years young and possessing the good looks of someone unaware they are beautiful, combined with enthusiastic teaching, congeniality, and a wildly eccentric disposition, left him as the obvious choice each year for Shorecliffs’ Favorite Teacher Award. It certainly didn’t hurt that on days when his students appear a bit lethargic, he mandates fifteen-minute naps—purporting that sleep stimulates the mind, which results in an overall better learning experience. While naps weren’t uncommon occurrences, rarely did anyone choose the hour with Mr. Balfy to partake in them.
His history with Shorecliffs, I learned after reading about him in an old school newspaper, stemmed back only a few short years. While still a student, Mr. Balfy caused a massive commotion with his origination of The Senior Piece. His predecessor, a Mr. Maud—an accomplished saxist in his late sixties—nearly had a stroke when his pupil, Brandon Balfleur, composed the most intricate piece of music his seasoned eyes had ever seen. Not only were the choral and solo voice accompaniments included, comprised of sopranos, contraltos, tenor, baritones, and bass, but for the seventeen instruments the piece showcased, he had also charted out each respective part. Four years later and nearing retirement, Mr. Maud’s wish was that he be replaced by no one other than Brandon Balfleur.
At that point the story loses its credibility, as some suggest he went on to tour Europe; others say he embarked on a journey of self-exploration, acquisitioning a life of vagrancy in order to “find himself,” and when he did, it was at the summit of South America. Still, others assert Mr. Balfy simply took time off to study abroad.
While none of these theories have ever been corroborated by Mr. Balfy himself—the reason being that he wanted each of us to follow our own path, and not duplicate his—it was obvious to anyone with ears that he was a prodigy of the most remarkable kind.
As bodies all around me rose from their seats—preparing, in unison, to recite the pledge Music class routinely began with—there was not a single grunt or moan of complaint. My teacher beamed proudly at us from the front of the room.
“I am not my own. The gifts I have, I have because I am meant to share them. Let the music come first, and may inspiration always be that which drives me forward.”
Everyone sat down.
And this is the time of day when I try not to feel as though my presence here is not some egregious phenomenon of mistaken identity. Where I glance around, up and down the rows, left and right across the room, in awe of the amount of talent held within a six-hundred-square-foot room. No matter how many times I tell myself, “Foster, you belong here,” somehow a question mark sneaks its way onto the end of this statement. Whenever I am in this room, I cannot help but feel outside my means. Yes I sing, and yes I play the piano, but I am not alone in my duality, and where talent meets conviction and charisma, I am surely out of my element.
Also, I cheat.
During all the mandatory performances I hide in the back. I never volunteer for solos—much to my teacher’s deep disappointment, and I steadfastly avoid partaking in Struts: an impromptu display of a work in progress. These are opportunities to perform for a live audience and receive feedback from peers, so long as it falls under the categories Constructive or Helpful. Everyone looked forward to these. Almost everyone.
A distinct energy fell upon the room. Mr. Balfy—usually full of emphatic greetings—said nothing as each of us settled in our chairs, not relaxing. Barefoot and smirking, hair scooped tumultuously into a tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck, he walked behind his desk and turned his back.
I could hear everyone not breathing. It pulsated; the harbinger of something momentous. Around me a few bottoms lifted from chairs, hoping to catch a glimpse of what Mr. Balfy was doing. Desks creaked. Someone whispered. Someone burped. The class laughed.
Mr. Balfy peered over his shoulder, still smirking.“Are you ready?” he asked us.
Then he was turning around, spreading his hands apart, where in between them dangled a bright, gold banner of letters, spelling out words that lifted everyone from their seats like zero gravity, accompanied by a collective sound of celebration.
Senior Piece Partners
The noise, I wagered, traveled at least four classrooms in both directions, and went on for a full minute. Mr. Balfy shouted over the melee, calling us to simmer down. Instantly we were quiet. He paused to look into each of our faces. This was made easy by the desks arranged in concentric horseshoes. Everyone sat back down, and I slunk into my chair as much as I could without sliding out from my desk.
“My friends, each of you knows what this means,” he began. His teeth flashed white. “It happens tomorrow. You will be assigned a Senior—Piece—partner!” Immediately the class released another round of cheers. “You guys, I am so stoked about this; but today I want us to dialogue a bit, all right?” Serious now, Mr. Balfy grabbed a stool and settled it in the middle of the horseshoe. “I want to hear what you’ve been working on this past week, how you feel you’re progressing so far, what sorts of things have helped you with the preparation of your pieces.” He lifted his arm, a line cutting across his bicep, and pointed straight up. “Go ahead and just call out. Let’s hear it.”
“I’ve been listening to the Beatles a lot,” said Mateo, in a Spanish accent almost unnoticeable, except for a few vowel/consonant combinations. Mateo was a classical guitarist. After seeing him play for the first time, enraptured by the quick, nimble fingers climbing up and down the frets, I decided that keeping up with his hands was like trying to keep an eye on the little red ball blurring between cups in a magic show.
“Good, Mateo, good. What else, guys?” Mr. Balfy pressed. He rose from the stool, lime green corduroys making swishing noises as he headed for the digital blackboard. “What’s inspiring you?”
“The beach.”
“Emily Dickinson.”
“Yeah, poetry for me too. I’ve been reading and writing it nonstop.”
One after the other, people called out while Mr. Balfy catalogued each answer on the board. Someone, just beginning to share their thoughts, was interrupted by another voice speaking over them.
“I . . .” Vanya Borisova announced in song-like soprano, “have something to share.” Her mouth hung partly open, tongue pressed to the inside of one cheek. “Something my partner, whoever it is, will be very glad to hear.” Vanya paused for effect, raising her chin and casting her pale blue eyes around the room, until every person’s attention was solely fixed on her. “For the last two months, I’ve been rehearsing with Taylor Swift’s vocal coach. And yesterday, when I asked if she would consider working with both of us, she agreed.” The white-blond ponytail streaming from the
crown of her head, flicked back and forth, the tip slapping each shoulder as she turned to right and left, accepting the comments of adulation from those flanking her.
At the crown of my own head, a shudder began, and rippled all the way to my feet.
What would I do if we were paired together? An entire four months spent working with someone who, from the day she laid eyes on me, had loathed the very sight of me.
The first time I officially met Vanya Borisova, it was also my first day in Mr. Balfy’s class. Coincidentally, it was also the day he went into great detail about the syllabus, explaining the Senior Piece and the Senior Gift, and what each entailed. He asked us to break off into two groups, vocalists and instrumentalists, where we would begin working on the Senior Gift—a name that clarified itself; as a parting gift, the senior class would compose an original song and present it to students, faculty, and parents on graduation day.
~
The twelve of us filtered to the back of the room. At the back of the line, I waited until everyone had acquired the furry rugs and beanbags, and then found a seat on the floor up against the wall. Everyone seemed to know each other already, so there wasn’t an introduction of any kind. All at once my classmates began speaking asunder.
“Who reads music?”
“What about having a theme?” someone suggested. “Like ‘A Moment In Time?’”
“Isn’t that a Whitney Houston song, like, from the eighties?”
“No. That’s ‘One Moment In Time.’”
“Kelly Clarkson sang ‘A Moment Like This.’”
“Oh . . . I really like that one.”
“Yeah, but Mr. Balfy says it needs to be an original song.”
Long legs crisscrossed in a comfortable recliner, Vanya raised her voice. “I have a great idea for my song.”
A few disconcerted looks were exchanged around the circle. “Your song?” someone repeated.
She smiled. “Oh, of course I mean, our song,” she said, waving her hand with a laugh. “And you’ll like where I’m going with it—don’t worry. There’s really something for everyone.”
“Uh, maybe we should take a vote,” a boy wearing a blue hat commented.
Vanya cleared her throat discreetly and the two girls sitting beside her spoke up at the same time.
“No, I like Vanya’s idea,” they said in unison.
He chuckled. “Do you even know what it is?”
Both girls looked to Vanya for an answer. She blinked, hard.
“Right,” said the boy, “Well, I still think we should take a vote.”
And so a vote was cast, and for the most part, the majority of the vocalists rallied behind Vanya’s vision. Satisfied with the results, Vanya set off in a whirlwind, retrieving notes from her purse, which conveniently were already with her. For the next twenty minutes, she assigned parts to each of the vocalists.
Someone said, “You have almost twice as many solo lines as everyone else, Vanya.”
“That’s because I wrote it,” she retorted evenly, and launched back into delegating.
I didn’t mind being left out of the solos. At one point, however, I noticed what I thought might be an incorrect lyric, a mistake homonym. I waited a moment, glancing around to see if anyone else saw the same. When it appeared we were about to move on, I spoke up.
“Sorry to interrupt, Vanya,” I said, leaning toward the sheets spread out in the circle, and pointed to the word. “Did you mean to use r-a-i-n here? Or, is it supposed to be r-e-i-g-n?” I knew which word she meant—the theme of the song was kings and queens—but I didn’t want to offend her by presuming.
Unfortunately, she was offended, among other things.
I lifted my head and gazed around the circle of faces. Blood swarmed my cheeks as a heavy silence captivated the faces staring from me to Vanya.
No more than two feet away, I watched her eyes go still, pale skin slightly flushed in the ears and throat.
I recoiled, quickly pulling my wayward finger away from Vanya’s song. “It was only a suggestion,” I said softly. “We can keep it the way it is, if you like.”
Someone double-checked the chart, saying, “Oh, she’s right Vanya—I think you meant reign.”
Vanya turned to the girl. “Did I?” she asked tonelessly.
My blood ran cold as Vanya’s head suddenly turned, her eyes burning into mine. She smiled at me, her oval face falling curiously to the side. She was not embarrassed, I realized, but livid. Under her inspection, I became very aware of myself. I couldn’t quite explain the sensation—as people rarely looked at me this intensely—but the scrutiny was how I imagined Hester Prynne must have felt at being paraded in front of a clan of malicious villagers, bearing the opprobrious “A” upon her chest.
“Foster?” Vanya leaned forward, cupping one cheek in her palm. “Is that your name? Foster?”
I nodded, the muscles in my stomach constricting.
She made a soft noise, one that somehow captured and conveyed all the things she might have wanted to say with words. Her eyes roamed slowly down my face, to my throat, pausing at my midsection, settling at my shoes, then flicked back up in one quick motion, one last lingering glower at my hair.
I flinched.
She sighed, stretched, and sat back in the chair, crossing her arm over her chest. Then she ran a hand over the side of her head, smoothing down the sleek ponytail; though not a single hair was out of place.
“So, Foster,” she said with curiosity, “you’re from the East Coast, right? Connecticut, was it?” I was more than a little surprised she had been paying attention when Mr. Balfy introduced me. “Hm. Well, maybe back home on the farm, the goats and cows and the chickens—your friends, maybe they appreciated your input on what kind of feed to give them.” She paused, affording me another glimpse of her small white teeth, single file, one after the other. “But you’re not on the farm anymore, okay?” she said with feigned sympathy. “This is a big deal. And all of us have been in the class for two and three years in a row. I think you’re better off just observing, don’t you?”
I never made the mistake of correcting Vanya again.
It was a few weeks later that I had my second encounter with her.
With only a few minutes left before the lunch bell rang, I had left the table to wash up before class. Washing my hands before and after every meal was admittedly a compulsive habit; however, the mere thought of having germs or bacteria on my skin caused me to break into a cold sweat.
Using my clothed elbow to push down on the handle and my back to open the door, I stepped into the bathroom, marching toward the sink. The first was clogged, and the second had a suspicious red smear running down the bowl. I ended up at the one on the far side of the bathroom. And assuming it would be empty, as most of the student body preferred to savor the last few minutes of freedom before class resumed, I hadn’t noticed the one closed stall. Not until the sounds of someone retching pierced the very quiet air, followed immediately with a flush, did I realize I wasn’t the only one in there. Before I could think another thought, the door swung open, and there was Vanya, standing in the open stall, more pale-faced than usual, nearly gray in fact, eyes large and glassy. She looked as if she might swoon.
Something about the way she stared sightlessly made her appear terribly frightened. Without thinking, I turned and stepped forward in case she did actually fall; but by the time I had come full around, she was glaring at me, menacingly and full of disgust.
I barely heard her when she said, “Move.” I did, and she brushed by me, choosing the sink furthest to wash her hands. The bell rang as she reached for a paper towel, and no more than a minute later, someone else entered the bathroom.
“What happened? I turned around and you were gone,” said a girl in high-waisted navy skirt and cropped red jacket. Her thick tan legs were bare, feet disappearing into white flats.
“Yeah, well . . . Connor smeared some of his nasty hamburger on my shirt,” Vanya replied, wiping at a red spot on
her small white t-shirt. “It won’t disappear, and now I’m stuck looking at this ugly thing.” Faced toward me, she met my eyes fleetingly as she said this. “Oh, well,” she said to her friend and rolled her eyes. “It could have been worse, I guess. He could have spilled on my new jeans.”
“I have an extra shirt I keep in my locker, if you want to borrow it?”
Still dabbing the shirt, she said, “No, that’s okay, Becca—I’ll just wear my cardigan.”
Becca sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Poor, Connor.”
Vanya stopped blotting mid-stroke, and raised her eyes. “What? I’m the one who got ketchup squirted all over me.”
“No, I just mean—” She laughed. “Vanya, Connor is so in love with you.”
Vanya rolled her eyes, and let out a sound halfway between a snort and a hiss. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. He just stares at you like you’re this perfect piece of artwork.”
Vanya shrugged, her face indifferent. “I’ve never noticed.”
“Really? Why do you always sit with him? Do you even like him?”
Vanya’s face twisted into repulsed horror. “Becca, please—ew,” she said, making a point to shudder. “Connor is not even remotely my type.”
Balking, Becca turned away from the mirror where she was teasing her brown bangs. “Really, why not? I think he’s way cute.”
Vanya continued to wipe furiously at her shirt, further incensed when the moistened paper did nothing to diminish the red stain, but instead shredded into useless wet shards, leaving an irritated pink rash.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 5
