Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“You sound just like big bro when you say that, so the nickname fits perfectly.”
She ignores me to pull her instrument out of her case for class. Several of the students are already warming up. I lean back in my chair, angling my body toward hers so I can scrutinize her form.
“Straighten your back,” I order, earning a nasty glare. “Now, Junior.”
She purses her lips but does improve her posture. Her brows are furled as though she’s pissed off at the world. Thoughts are distracting when the music wants to flow through you.
“Stop thinking about it.”
Her blue eyes cut to mine. “About what?”
“Whatever it is that has you scowling. It’s distracting. Think about Bach.”
She runs the hair of the bow along the strings, listening as she tunes the instrument. I reach over and tug at her hair.
“Don’t tilt your head,” I chide. “Head and neck need to be straight.”
Her eyes roll, but she obeys. When I tap her shoulders, she lets out a loud exhale. “What now?”
“Tense, Junior. So tense. Relax your shoulders.” I squeeze her shoulder, giving it a little massage until I feel the muscle relax. “Elbow over toe. Wrist straight. Good. Now relax your right arm. Good. Now let’s hear it.”
She plays a few notes, and I explain to her how I would do things. Her irritation is still evident, but she’s less hostile. We carry on until Mrs. Weston arrives.
“Everyone, quiet down,” Mrs. Weston says in greeting as she hurries into the room, her white hair coming loose from her tight bun. “I want to run through Fauré’s Pelléas et Mélisande, Op. 80, a couple of times before we’ll allow Alister to do his solo.” She winks my way and then brings order to the room.
We play through the music—easy for some and challenging for others—until it’s almost the end of the hour, and Mrs. Weston motions for me to do my solo. When she told me about it yesterday, I listened to it on the way home from school. After working on my sculpture, I practiced a bit. My memory is incredible when it comes to music, so hearing it a few times was all I needed to feel the piece she wanted me to play. Of course, I keep the sheet music in front of me, but I rarely look at it.
I get into position, and my eyes flutter closed as Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst’s Grand Caprice on Schubert’s “Erlkönig” begins to play from my violin. When I play music, much like when I sculpt, my mind goes to a numb, quiet place. Nothing exists except soft colors and warmth. I often wondered if it was what people called a “happy place,” but that wouldn’t be true. I’ve come here before when not at all happy. I think it should more aptly be described as “my safe place.”
A few parts of the song require me to glance at the sheet music, but only to reiterate what I already know. I play through the entire song easily, even after the bell rings. No one in class moves as they allow me to bring the song to completion. As soon as it ends, I stop abruptly and pack away my instrument.
The class claps, but I ignore them to focus on gathering my things. Carrie stops me with a hand to my arm.
“Hey, Alis,” she murmurs. “That was really good.”
“Thanks, Junior.”
She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, as though she’s considering her next words, before exhaling sharply. “Do you think you could show me more techniques?”
“Sure thing, sis,” I tease, earning an eye roll from her.
“See you around then.” She waves her fingers at me before scurrying off through the front door of the classroom.
I grab my bag and case before giving Mrs. Weston a nod on my way toward the back classroom door. The hallway that leads to the gymnasium is darkened. As soon as I step out, I sense his presence.
His condescending words don’t come like I expect. “That sounded complicated.”
“It wasn’t.” I shrug, trying to keep my eyes off the way his T-shirt stretches across his sculpted chest. Enemies aren’t supposed to be hot.
“Too complicated for them.” He nods toward the orchestra room. His thumbs move up and down beneath his backpack straps in an almost nervous way that also sets me on edge.
“I’m not them. I’m better.”
He barks out a laugh. “Not for the next hour you won’t be.”
I bite on my tongue as I start down the hallway toward the gymnasium. Canyon falls into step beside me, assaulting me with his stupidly delicious scent. I try to ignore him, but he makes my blood run hot for a multitude of reasons.
“Your arrogance can only get you so far,” I grumble to him.
“That’s rich coming from you.” He flashes me a sardonic grin. “Mr. Big Head.”