by Lizzie Vega
“Oh yeah, that’d be dumb. I get it.” He turned to go, “Thanks for putting up with me.”
The senior officer laughed, “Musicians, you’re a quirky bunch.” He laughed again, “Nah, the Art Department. Way weirder.” He spoke briefly into his radio and turned to leave. “Hey, maybe you could put on a little concert someday for the squad. We get kinda anxious out here sometimes.”
Even the mention of a small performance made Ethan squirm, but he made the best of it, “Yeah, that’s a good idea. But...I haven’t played in front of anyone in a couple of years. Baby steps, right?”
“No rush,” the officer was quick to add, “whenever you’re comfortable. Straight to your dorm now. Be careful please.”
The next night, Ethan arrived at the basement earlier than usual. Something about the security officer’s suggestion had influenced him. When he got the door, he frowned, finding it open just a crack. It was almost enough to get him to turn around and leave. Hearing nothing from the inside, he opened the door slowly only to find the room as he had left it. Looking around the basement hallway, he quickly entered and locked the door behind him. A relieved sigh followed as he set his bookbag on the floor.
After a quick review of an upcoming History quiz and a few minutes of English Lit, he started to review the nights practice. Checking his phone, he set a timer to call it an early night just to make sure his sleep schedule didn’t get any more screwed up than it already was.
Standing, he glanced up at his blank staff paper before heading to the bathroom. The empty page mocked him, but he made the choice to ignore it over his bladder’s request for relief.
Returning quickly from the bathroom, he sat down in a huff. His momentum caused a small breeze to lift the bottom of the staff paper and it fluttered against the paneling for a second before hanging still. The movement caught his eye and he glanced up, then back down to his homework.
It only took a second for his head to rise back up to stare at the music lined sheet of paper. In the first staff lines, four stacks of quarter notes were hastily written on the page. He looked down at the desktop to see his mechanical pencil sitting at the back of the desktop.
“I locked the door when I left, I unlocked it when I came back,” he thought as he reached for the pencil. “This is my pencil. I don’t remember doing this.”
Too exhausted to be frightened, he looked back up at the page, “I gotta go home and go to bed. This is nuts. This is bad.” He looked at his prescription bottle, “Home. Gotta go home.”
He stood again, warily looking over his shoulder toward the door, then at the piano, then back to the music sheet on the wall. He recognized the notes, but with no treble or bass clef or time signature, it could have meant anything. Still, he reached for the keyboard with his right hand. A gentle round of chords with a sharp thrown in on the last one. It could have been the intro to any number of current pops songs or something from the middle of a concerto.
It didn’t matter. It was pretty and he had to adjust his ring finger to catch the warble of the sharp note. Suddenly caught up in a bit of distracting music theory, he’d forgotten about its mysterious origins.
His heart thumped in his chest and he stepped away from the piano almost tripping over his bookbag in the process. A wave of fear swept over him. He stared at the piano then at the music sheet tacked to the wall. Whoever had written the music might still be in the building. He didn’t bother to alert security to his departure, he simply ran the entire way back to his dorm room.
One month later
Ethan shook his head and closed his eyes. With half an evening’s practice under his belt, he could feel the tension growing in his shoulders. Rubbing his eyes continuously, he sat quiet for a moment. A solid month of exercises was beginning to bring his form back but mentally he was well aware of how much he was still struggling.
“One more time,” he said out loud, “then a break.” Closing the music on the stand in front of him, he ran through a quick progression of ascending chords, then reversed and worked his way back down the keyboard to the low bass keys. “Well now,” he said flatly, “that was depressing.” He looked up at the piece of staff paper on the wall in front of him and without thinking, fired off the four chords in a loud flourish.
“Much better,” he said as he studied the hastily notated mystery music. He looked back to the locked door behind him still clueless as to how it had appeared, “At least someone around here has a sense of humor.”
He tapped out the four core notes of the passage, plinking the keys like a toy piano. His mind took over as he tried to imagine what notes might come next in the sequence. Another repeat of the notes brought a fifth chord. “I could go up another third or circle back,” he thought. Playing the sequence repeatedly, he experimented with the time signature, one time adding jazz-inflected syncopations, then transitioning it back to more of a bluesy rock at four beats to the measure.
He caught himself smiling and chuckled warmly. For once he wasn’t worried about playing it perfectly since it was without structure, but something kept bringing him back as he played the passage several more times before ending the final run with an improvised blues riff.
He reached for his pencil, then hesitated before reaching up to write on the mostly blank page. More please, he wrote and finished with a smiley. With the sequence repeating in his head, Ethan packed up his music and flipped the lock to open the door to the hallway. Finally, after a few weeks, he began to feel stronger.
Chapter 3
Twelve-year-old Mikayla was usually bored as she sat in the doctor’s office waiting for her mother to pick her up. Worn out from her weekly therapist appointment, she tapped absently at the video game on her phone.
“Here she comes,” the receptionist said brightly as she watched her mother pull up in the parking lot, “See ya next time, hun. Have a good week.”
Mikayla smiled politely, “Thanks. Seeya.”
It had taken three years and as many therapists for this one to at least pretend that Mikayla could see colors when she heard certain music. After a battery of tests and experiments with different drugs, one day the doctor looked up at her after they had listened to one of Mikayla's favorite songs in his office, “Is it pretty when you see them?”
She nodded to him, “Most of the time. Sometimes not so much.”
“And they make you feel less anxious,” he asked, “less out of control?”
“Sometimes, but not always. I just don’t feel normal.”
He’d called it synesthesia. A rare visual association of color with, in Mikayla’s case, music. He told her about other forms of the condition and his thought was, with the right choice and dosage of ADD medication, she could find a balance where she could be comfortable. She’d always thought he was just humoring what he regarded as an attention grab.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to give up music,” he’d said kindly, “That wouldn’t be a good thing. It’ll just take some time for you to get used to this. You might even grow out of it.”
It only took a week to have another effect. Her classmates, not privy to the medication, took her newly subdued behavior another way entirely.
“Mikayla is high again,” they said, “She’s stoned.” Her school experience took a nose-dive everywhere but the music room. After another month trying to adjust on the drug, she began to experiment on the dosage without her parent’s knowledge. Not days later, her musical abilities began blossom. Along with her talent, came the unwanted bonus of crippling stage fright.
Through high school, she learned to skate a thin edge between being labeled a stoner creative type and becoming an All-State musician. The scholarships that went with her talent instantly pointed her towards a career in music. Desperate to make friends as a college freshman, she’d shared her visual secret with the wrong person and the rumors and inuendo about her mental state started over. This time, far worse. Coping with the bullying and rumors led to angry outbursts, her few friends peeled away on
e by one.
After a long discussion with her parents, she’d packed her bags and transferred cross country hoping for a fresh start. Arriving late in the semester put Mikayla at an instant disadvantage.
The workload between core classes and her music studies was crushing. Juggling her time between regular classes and required orchestra practices became an instant grind. She endured it all and her supposed affliction would stay secret. She would catch up with her schoolwork eventually.
Out of sheer loneliness, Mikayla found herself spending valuable hours in the many performance halls around campus. Sitting in the quiet venues, she would indulge her fantasy about becoming a star. One day, with the pressure of a looming exam worrying her, Mikayla’s fears spiraled into a panic attack. Sitting in the middle of the Student Union, she put her hands to her face and began to cry.
After a minute, she felt the sofa cushion bounce as someone sat down next to her. Out of embarrassment and the fear that college level teasing would begin, she began to turn away.
“Hey,” she heard a bright voice next to her, “New girl. I’d cry too cuz the regular crying room doesn’t open ‘til three. Plus, there’s usually a line.”
Mikayla looked up, “Wha?” she blinked her teary eyes at the young woman sitting next to her, “You…can’t be serious?”
The petite little redhead looked slyly around the room, then leaned toward Mikayla, “Rarely.”
She grinned, “I’m Kelli. You’re in my Music Theory class. Bad day? Wanna talk about it?”
Chapter 4
“Every Thursday, right at 2 PM. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.” Amanda leaned back deep into the lounge chair, examining her freshly tipped nails, “It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash. I just can’t look away.” She turned to look at her frowning companions, “Jeez, you guys. Lighten up,” she snickered, “and don’t blink, you’ll miss it.”
New to the group, Mikayla started to gather her books, “That’s mean, Amanda. I’m not gonna watch. I’m outta-“
“Too late,” she heard and saw her friend pointing across the expansive student lounge, “Here he comes. Prepare for flop sweat.”
A young man emerged from the hallway connecting to the music building. Carrying a satchel under his arm, he lurched toward the old baby grand that sat in the corner of the University student union. Rarely played, the old piano was almost never used. Most of the music students routinely steered clear of its’ poorly maintained sound.
Ashley elbowed her friend, “God, Manda, if you’ve been here enough times to notice? I’d be lookin’ at you on the weirdo scale.”
“Not nice, Ashley.” Amanda scowled, then looked at her phone, “I have a hair appointment downtown for the rush party tonight so I gotta ditch after this. Watch him, he’s gonna dust off the piano like he owns it, then four or five lame chords and he’s done. Really sketchy.”
Mikayla looked across the lounge, glancing at a few of her classmates as her eyes tracked the young man. It seemed Amanda wasn’t the only one watching. The conversation level in the area dropped a little with most students oblivious to his presence. Mikayla squinted to see him better but didn’t recognize him. Kelli leaned forward, “That’s Ethan Carson,” she said in a poor stage whisper, then nodded her head, “This might be bad.”
Mikayla could see his eyes darting back and forth as he walked to the piano. Sitting quickly, he opened the cover to the keyboard, then glanced at the closest group of chairs with what Mikayla read as a truly frightened look. He wiped his wrinkled shirt sleeve across his forehead, then touched one key slightly. Mikayla winced at the sound, “Eww, flat.”
“Oh yes, it’s miss perfect pitch,” Amanda teased, “Don’t worry, it really won’t matter.”
The young man dug in his bag and brought out a small tuning hammer. Opening the top of the piano, he quickly located the correct tuning pin and tapped the wrench once. As he touched the ivory key a second time. Mostly out of spite for Amanda, Mikayla found herself silently encouraging him, Still flat, a little more. Another adjustment, “Just a hair sharp, so close…”
Another gentle adjustment of the tuning hammer and Mikayla smiled, Nailed it. She looked away for a moment but felt the urge to clear her throat just to make sure Amanda heard her. She thought it odd that he would only test one key and not do at least a quick tuning check of the entire full-size keyboard. That left 87 other potential suspects if the tuning was off.
“Oh,” Amanda perked up sarcastically, “Miss perfect pitch bitch, are we today?”
Mikayla could feel the eyes of the other girls looking at her as she tried to stay cool. Years of study and grueling practice had earned her a sideways entrance into this school. None of the tours or brochures said anything about the instantly brutal social atmosphere.
She did her best to fit in with the moment, “If he sucks, at least he can suck in tune. Gotta protect our special ears, right?”
That seemed to placate Amanda until Kelli piped up. The minute she leaned forward and opened her mouth, the other girls shrank back into their chairs. If it was about Amanda, it would be a dig, “Maybe ‘el Presidente should spring for a new piano. Ask your pops, Manda, or does that come out of your allowance?”
It was silent for a moment. “So,” Amanda glared across the low table separating them, “the Dark One speaks.” After another moment of awkward silence, Amanda laughed, “That was pretty good actually. I’ll mention it to him.”
Mikayla ignored the comment, her attention redirected as she heard two quick taps of a freshly rosined bow on a violin string. She looked across the room at the piano. A second later, the lanky young man looked up to his right, then closed his eyes. Mikayla leaned forward in her chair. It’s the guy from the theatre.
“I’ve seen him before,” she whispered to herself but not quite softly enough.
“Dork,” Kellie chirped, “He’s in our Theory class. Every day, back row, hoodie up, head down. Kinda hard to miss all that enthusiasm.”
Mikayla tried her best not to smile, “Really.”
His hands poised above the keys; he nodded his head to a beat. One triplet chord, bright and upbeat, then a second of the same timbre and volume. Simple even elegant, Mikayla felt herself reaching out, expecting the next in the series when the first notes of a violin suddenly wove itself into the fledgling piece. She sat back staring at the young man sitting alone at the piano. A perfect vibrato on an unseen fret board, then a slide up the neck to produce a softly wavering tremolo.
In seconds, the odd performance was over. Her eyes searched the lounge for the accompanist then glanced at the overly dramatic eye roll coming from Amanda, “See?” she whined, “That is so fucked up. He’s a basket case.”
Mikayla, still searching the lounge, watched as he hurriedly gathered his bag and slunk back through the seating areas, mostly ignored. She followed him with her eyes as he disappeared down the hallway and out of sight.
She looked at Kelli and saw her shaking her head, “That was weird,” she said with characteristically chipper grin, “So helpful that he tuned up first.”
“But,” Mikayla began, only to be interrupted by Amanda, “Such a creepy vibe to him, can’t believe they let him in here.”
“Five cheesy chords and done,” Kelli said, “Car crash sorta nails it.”
“But, I heard…” Mikayla froze, suddenly the center of attention. She could feel the prickle of heat on her neck as she quickly chose not to give her newly minted friends another reason to think she was odd, “ah, never mind,” she corrected, “that was a little eccentric wasn’t it? I’m outta here. I’ve got an English paper due tomorrow.”
As she said her quick goodbyes and made her way through the Union, she looked back at the piano. She’d heard a violin and as importantly, exactly eight full measures of piano before the performance ended. No one in the lounge had acknowledged him or his unseen accompanist. She shook her head and walked out of the building into the bright afternoon sun, the brief snippe
t of his music repeating in her head.
Chapter 5
Kelli looked down at Mikayla’s fingers as they listened to the instructor run through a piece of music on his keyboard. As the fast-moving tune boomed through the classroom, Mikayla’s fingers slowly played a sequence using the folding desktop of the auditorium chairs as a pretend keyboard. It didn’t even come close to matching what they were listening to.
Kelli nudged her, “Mik?”
No response. The methodical movements of her new friend’s fingers continued without interruption. Her head supported by her hand; Mikayla’s eyes remained closed. Kelli glanced quickly to their instructor, wincing at the thought of Mikayla being caught napping by the school’s most volatile instructor. On the first day of class, she’d watched him hurl a trumpet across the room to regain the attention of a distracted student.
“Mik,” she whispered harshly, “Pay attention.”
Mikayla’s head jerked and she opened her eyes just as the feared Dr. Evenson looked up over his glasses, “Mikayla,” he offered with an accompanying sly smile, “Your thoughts on that passage?”
Kelli turned to see the color drain from her friend’s face, suddenly more concerned about guilt through association. One wrong word and they’d both end up with more assignments to their already heavy study load. She put her hand to her mouth as if to cough, “Allegro,” she whispered then cleared her throat feebly.
Mikayla smiled, pursing her lips, “Well,” she began, “this might sound a little odd.”
“Figures,” they heard from behind them as Amanda couldn’t let the opportunity pass. A snicker or two could be heard in the room.
“Ehem, odd,” Mikayla continued, “but the allegro tempo well more like allegretto, the overall beat seems out of place with what I think should be a more somber minor chord progression. They don’t fit each other. It’s too fast.”
