by Eme Strife
Fuck Monday mornings, for real.
My teeth start to chatter uncontrollably, and most of my nose has already gone numb. I have to keep bringing my hands up to my mouth and blowing between my leather gloves to bring some of the feeling back into my face.
My glasses keep fogging up every fifteen seconds, and I have to struggle to see where my feet keep landing. It doesn't help my poor eyesight that the campus street lights are dim as hell.
What exactly are all the campus fee charges being spent on?
Christ.
I walk as carefully as I can, all the while trying to maintain my speed. I come close to falling twice, but manage to regain my composure each time.
"Good reflexes. Just like your mother," my grandma would say.
My chest tightens as soon as both women come to mind. I feel a bout of sadness creep up on me as I think of the woman who brought me into the world.
As I continue to dodge muddy mounds and slippery black ice, I idly remember the very first time I was allowed to play in the snow.
I was five and still living in Manchester. It was the first time I’d ever seen snow in real life, and I was so eager and excited to go out and play in all that immaculate goodness.
My mom had tried to persuade me not to, but of course, like any curious and eager child, I wasn't hearing any of it. Boy, should I have listened to her.
My so-called snow play session ended with me crying hysterically with snot all over my face because my hands were throbbing in excruciating pain.
Apparently, yours truly thought she was a mini Einstein and figured it would be a brilliant idea to try to build a snowman with her gloves off. I think my mom let me have my way to teach me a lesson. That shit had seriously hurt. Needless to say, that was the very last time I ever did that.
I wish I could also say that that was the last time I did something unbelievably stupid.
Yet another wave of frigid air quickly brings my focus back to the present, actively pushing the memories aside. I can't help but be grateful. I don't like how I feel when I think of my mother, and I don't want to start my day off feeling any more crappy than I already do.
I hum Hayley Westenra’s ‘Across the Universe of Time’ to keep my mind off both my mother and the numbing cold, as well as to hear something other than the sound of my chattering teeth. It's a song I love a lot, and it’s also the song I chose to sing for my very first solo performance last year.
I'm still amazed at all the praise and acknowledgment I got from both the audience and the entire music faculty for it. I was even asked for an encore.
Needless to say, that performance had done wonders for my ego, removing so many doubts I had at the time and increasing my love for vocal music even more. That moment also felt like a confirmation that I had indeed made the right decision coming back to college, and that I really have a shot at a successful career in music after all.
I finally reach West Campus, and I thank the non-existent stars for getting here in one piece, even though I could barely see a thing on my way here.
I head past the English, Film, and Art buildings like I always do. A minute later, I'm swiping my ID card in the slot at the main entrance to the music building. I eagerly make my way inside, happy to put an end to this annoying, frost-bitten journey.
***
I'm instantly engulfed by bright lights and hot air. I breathe out a sigh of contentment, incredibly grateful for the warm, toasty atmosphere as I feel the heat quickly neutralize the unbearable cold I felt just seconds ago.
I dust the snow off my jacket without halting my footsteps and adjust the strap of my carry-on as I feel it digging into my shoulder, bearing most of its unnecessary weight.
I make a mental note to remove whatever items in it that I don't use daily. I have a bad habit of always carrying around a lot of stuff in my bag, but there's absolutely no reason to keep carrying a butt load of crap everywhere in this shitty weather if I don't have to.
The building is dead quiet from this end, and I make my way through the hallway equally silent. Even though I'm tempted to take the elevator to head to my department, I ditch it in favor of the stairwell as usual.
I make my way up the lengthy flight of stairs, taking two at a time like I always do. I consider this part of my daily workout routine, and between my hectic schedule and lack of a gym membership, it's pretty much the ideal daily exercise option for me. Plus, it helps to fully wake and warm me up for practice on early mornings like this.
Just right before I reach the very top of the stairwell, I wince as I feel an abrupt and discomforting sensation right below my chest that makes me stop in my tracks.
Ugh. There it is again.
This is like the fourth or fifth time it's happened since it started a little over a month ago. I don't know why I keep getting this random discomfort in my stomach. I have to hold on to the railing for support as I wait for the uneasy feeling to subside.
The first two times it happened, I just figured maybe it was my body's stress response to the hectic life of juggling two majors, a full-time job, and being constantly worried about money. Now, I'm not so sure it's as simple as that.
I close my eyes momentarily and take in deep breaths, trying hard not to mentally freak out. I find relief when the sensation fades away in a few moments. A few seconds later, I hear the door of the main entrance open again from below me, and a pair of familiar, obnoxious voices follow right after.
Even without looking to see who it is, I know all too well the distinctive, high-pitched and snarky voices of Wendy Gilmore and Julianne Hendricks.
Wendy and Julianne are, for all intents and purposes, first-class 'bee-otches'.
And that's by anyone's standard, including theirs, if they’re honest with themselves.
They're your typical rich and snotty mean girls who have it out for pretty much anyone who isn't richer and/or more overbearing than they are—which, in my class, is pretty much everyone.
Although, I sometimes wonder how long their rich-girl partnership will last. From my own experiences, girls as mean and ruthless as they are always seem to have a hard time getting along with anyone for extended periods of time, even people who are exactly like themselves.
I always do my best to avoid the 'Dastardly Duo' as my best friends, Trixie and Bill, have dubbed them.
I actually think the alias is quite fitting.
The chicks are incredibly mean for no reason at all. Lord knows I've had my fair share of mean girls in middle and high school, and even during my first go around in college, so I'm no stranger to the general behavior and attitude of girls like them, but I'm way too old to entertain or tolerate that type of juvenile bullshit anymore.
I avoid them not because I'm scared of or feel intimidated by them, but because I'm just not a very confrontational person by nature, and at the age of twenty-four, I find dealing with the B.S. and bitchy antics of their kind incredibly exhausting and draining. I have quite enough going on in my life that drains me as it is, and in the extremely rare chance that I'll actually want more crap in my life, I'll just tune in to Duck Dynasty.
I hear the echoes of their laughter and gossip becoming louder, signaling that they're getting closer.
The last thing I want right now is for the Dastardly Duo to begin their daily routine of people-spiting with me, so I push my concerns for my stomach to the side for the moment and quickly make my way to the vocal department.
***
I stop by my locker before I head to the rehearsal room to drop off my belongings. I set my satchel down and turn the grey metal dial as I enter the new combination to my locker. It takes me two tries to get it right, and it opens up with a very slight creak. I had to get it changed about two weeks ago since someone had managed to break into it and steal my iPod, my recorder, a library book—which I had to end up paying for—and a few of my other belongings.
My locker had been thoroughly vandalized, with nothing but broken glass and what looked like lipstick s
treaks left behind.
The perpetrator still hasn't been found to date, so the only thing the faculty head could do when it happened was make an announcement of the incident and arrange to have my combination replaced.
I suspected and still suspect that it’s someone in my class who did it—probably Wendy or Julianne—but I have no proof to back my theory up.
Besides, the Dastardly Duo aren't my only suspects. There are quite a few classmates who really don't care too much for my existence, and I guess that mostly has to do with the fact that I'm one of the top music students in the school and most of our professors seem to take a liking to me.
I was appointed lead vocalist earlier this semester, as well as lead pianist, and apparently, only two other students have ever held two lead positions in different departments at the same time in the music school's history. It’s obvious that some of my classmates don't think I deserve either of the highly-coveted positions, and certainly not both at the same time.
A lot of them have claimed everything from being the granddaughter of a legendary music composer to their assumption that I'm ‘part British’—which I’m not, and I don’t know why the hell that would even make a difference, but people will obviously use anything as an excuse—as the only reasons why I was given those positions. I frequently hear passing remarks like, "She's just lucky her grandfather was famous and had connections here" and "It’s not fair! I can sing so much better than she does. What makes her so damn special?"
It's crazy how much perception skews the truth. I consider myself anything but fortunate, but no one would ever agree with me based on simple outward appearances. I guess I should have expected the disgruntled reactions of my classmates.
Like most classical art fields, classical vocal music is a highly competitive field anywhere in the world, and people will use any excuse they can come up with to discredit their competition.
I'm sure the classical ballet dancers across the hall have it much, much harder. I've seen firsthand how fierce the competition in their department can get, and I sometimes wonder if most of the dancers still enjoy dancing with all the pressure they're constantly under.
Lord knows I wouldn't.
I guess I just have to be extra careful and vigilant from now on. It's not like I can afford to lose any more of my stuff.
I take my beanie and jacket off, shoving them into the medium sized locker, and my satchel soon follows. I remember to grab my new MP3 player from it before I close it. Okay, it's not exactly new, but I feel like it is.
Trixie's older brother, Drake, gave it to me last week, insisting that I take it when he heard about what had happened with my locker. I almost wish Trixie hadn't told him.
I was extremely reluctant to take his music player when he offered it to me, even though it was exactly the miracle I needed. I absolutely hate feeling indebted to anyone, and I hate the idea of Drake feeling sorry for me even more. I also hate the fact that I like the guy, and although I've had something of a crush on for him for a little over a year now, I know I'll never act on those feelings.
It probably sounds absurd to most people, and I'll never admit it to anyone, but one of the greatest fears I have in life…is falling in love.
Yeah.
I'm kind of dysfunctional like that.
My greatest fear isn't dying broke or starving to death or being alone for the rest of my life. Not even the thought of having maggots crawling out of my nose makes my system shut down like the thought of being deeply in love with someone.
I don't know if that’s sad or what.
I mean, most people crave love and romance and spend incredible amounts of time and energy searching for it.
But not me.
Every time love so much as tiptoes my way, I run from it faster than Usain Bolt ever could, and do everything in my power to eradicate any sign of it in my life. I'd heartily welcome the plague over it.
I wasn't always like this, though.
I thought I wanted love once upon a time, and on very few, rare occasions, I still think I might, but I know for a fact that I wouldn't be able to handle being in love if a bucket of the stuff was thrown right in my face. I just wouldn’t; not after seeing what being in love did to my father.
Not after witnessing and being part of the toxic and destructive aftermath that resulted from that whole situation.
My body shudders involuntarily, not from any remnants of the cold outside, but from unpleasant memories. I actively push the depressing thoughts from my mind before they wander any further.
I scrunch my hair into a messy ponytail and put my earphones on as I walk to the back door of the rehearsal room, actively switching my focus to music so that I don’t have to think about my somber past.
At least not for the next few hours.
***
I scroll through my classical playlist in search for Celtic Woman's 'The Voice', one of the songs for our group performance taking place two weeks from now. I find it by the time my hand is turning the gold-plated door knob. I notice a few people in the distance, haphazardly scattered across the room as I let myself in.
The gentle hum of the heating system fills the room along with the sound of a few shuffling bodies and idle chit-chat.
The air is even warmer in here, incredibly cozy with the perfect temperature for a nap, and I have to fight the temptation to run back to my car, speed home, and dive right into my bed.
The white tiles of the recently renovated flooring look even more immaculate under the fluorescent lighting of the spacious studio.
The bright lights attack my eyes and make me squint behind my glasses as they create a glare.
Everyone here has their earphones in already, and are singing along to the music they're hearing just as I'm about to.
I look around and notice that Trixie isn't here yet, but it's not unusual. She hates coming to practice even a minute earlier than she has to.
I make my way over to a corner, right in front of one of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors so that I can properly monitor my posture as I sing. I glance at my cheap plastic watch. Its digits read 6:50 AM.
I only have ten minutes to warm up, which is good for one full go round, but considering this funkiness going on with my stomach, I'm not so sure. I'm worried I may need more time.
I regard my figure, looking intently at the eyes of the girl staring back at me from behind thin, brown-framed glasses.
I look…tired.
Incredibly tired.
And I know it's not just because it's early in the day. I always look like this. I've been constantly exhausted for years now, and it really shows. I feel a sigh escape me as I try not to let my mind wander toward negative thoughts like it normally does.
I bring my full focus to the current moment and the task at hand. I readjust my earphones as I feel one bud slipping out. I arch my back and bring my shoulders back so that they're aligned with my hips. Lightly spreading my feet apart, I straighten my spine as best as I can, and even though it still makes me feel slutty, I push my chest out to fix my slouch.
I feel the tension leave my lips as I part them slightly, a measure I always have to take against my tendency to purse them. With my posture adjusted, I hit play, and soon, the harmonious melody of Celtic Woman's 'The Voice' fills my ears.
I begin to mimic her, singing along to her hypnotic voice without having to think about the words as they are etched into my memory—thanks to having the song on replay non-stop for the last several days. As the music continues to stream into my ears, I momentarily close my eyes as I feel myself being transported out of the two thousand square foot rehearsal studio to a tranquil cottage on a lovely green meadow in Ireland.
I feel so in sync and free, and I continue to sing with increasing abandon, as if I don't have a care in the world. It all feels so…magical; like nothing else in the world. I forget all my troubles, past and present, and think only of the music and how amazing the harmonious rhythm makes me feel. I open my eyes and continue
to monitor my posture.
Everything looks and feels right so far. I glance at the MP3 player, noting that I'm already two minutes in. My surroundings have become a blur, and all I can focus on is singing, as if it's the only thing I know how to do.
Three minutes in and everything is still flowing smoothly. My timing and precision are on point. I continue to sing fairly effortlessly, and the difficult bridge is coming up. I tackle it head on as I've done many times before. I watch myself closely in the mirror again, regarding the flex of my abs as I feel their muscles contract.
I feel the various parts of my body—my diaphragm, my lungs, my larynx, and my lips—all working together in perfect synchrony to control and maintain the pitch, tone, timbre, depth, and fluidity of my voice. I feel the power in my voice as I sing at the top of my lungs, feeling the waves reverberate within me and escape my lips.
