"...One of her ribs broke off and grazed several of her vital organs. Her spinal cord was fractured in several places and most of her bones sustained fractures if they weren't completely shattered." I listened to the autopsy people go on and on. "I don't know what would have motivated her to die in such a violent way." I showed them the various online attacks she received from Respect Ability Minecraft and its supporters. "Unfortunately, Caitlin's case not the first suicide we've had that was related to this organization. Here's a list of the names we compiled earlier. I also have their ages, occupations, and some of the last things they said."
I read the list of names and ages one by one, finding that most of them were in their teens or early twenties. The oldest was 45 and the youngest was 8. Most of them had incredibly low self-esteem and/or showed signs of depression. I skimmed the organization's Twitter and found that they posted positivity and resources for various things. Why, then, were there so many suicides linked to them?
This organization seemed fishy for a number of reasons due to the fact that they practically venerated people for their disabilities, but attacked those same people the moment they found identities outside of their disability status. Respect Ability Minecraft's motto is "Empowerment for all disabled", but what they're doing is anything but empowering.
I thought back to Caitlin's interactions with the organization and the things she said and then I realized why they hated her so much. Caitlin was always forthright, even blunt, about what she saw in others, including me, and a large-scale "charity" organization was no exception. Not only that, she chose love instead of hate in nearly every circumstance. Pitting our impairments against those of others is not going to help anyone, she said. Treat others well because, inevitably, everything is reciprocated.
I missed that. Her level of character is something I'm still striving for. More than that, however, I missed the little things. I missed feeling her hand in mine and how it felt when she slept in my arms. She liked it there, most likely because it was one of few the places she felt truly safe. I missed the sound of her voice whether she was talking to me, laughing at one of Mark's bad jokes, or practicing melismas in the shower. On one occasion, after I played a jazz-style solo on piccolo trumpet, I heard her imitating it perfectly using her voice. It sounded better than what I had played.
After a few more words, I left. It was about 4:00. Strangely enough, even though all I had was coffee, I wasn't hungry. I made my way home. Landon texted me, as evidenced by "Kokoro" playing.
Hey. Can you give me directions to the neurology clinic? Why would he need to go to the neurology clinic?
Where are you?
I'm near Mindcrack and the high school contest combat team is doing stuff.
Take a right.
Okay.
I continued to give directions. As I did that, I felt every ounce of animosity I had towards the guy melt away. Landon was actually pretty nice once you got to know him for who he truly was. From my understanding, he had a tumultuous past and was looking to get past it. It wouldn't seem true from the surface, but he and Caitlin had a lot in common. Both of them loved singing, for one. Their first duet must have been arranged by fate because, with very little practice, their voices blended as if they were made for each other. He texted again.
Actually, can you meet me there for moral support? I really need a friend.
Of course. Why me of all people? Landon could have chosen anyone else, but he chose me. He chose the guy who hated him. Then again, I've found that the changes we undergo always have ways of surprising us.
I met him at the neurology clinic. His hair was messy, but not in the cool, controlled way it usually fell. He had dark circles under his eyes and was wearing a weird onesie with what looked like a distressed egg.
"Hi." I waved back.
"What is that?" I was wondering why he was wearing old pajamas.
"Where I'm going, no one cares how I look." Landon laughed and averted his gaze.
"Anything you need?" For some reason, my device's voice wouldn't work. It would either distort or start emitting the most awful noise in the world if I used certain words. I ended up using the voice labeled "kawaii" because it was the only one that would work consistently.
"I just want to kill time. I'm bored out of my mind. You know what? I don't even know what I need. Something just feels weird."
"Why are you here?" That came out more impulsively than I had originally intended.
"I think my nocturnal epilepsy came back, which really sucks. I woke up yesterday and found out that I wet the bed. I don't know if it's the grief or what, but it's awfully frustrating." Yep. I knew what it felt like to wake up reeking of urine with a soaked diaper. If it wasn't that, it was my pajamas and sheets. "It started when I was six and it got worse and worse from there until I was about twelve. After that, it just stopped, even without the medication." He continued talking and opening up to me. It occurred to me, then, that if he was this honest to me, I should return that honesty.
"I was a violin prodigy." I didn't really feel comfortable talking about my past as a violin prodigy. It wasn't something I was particularly proud of, even if I did get to perform a few concerts and get paid for it.
"Lucky! Why do you get all the good awkward secrets?" Landon nudged me playfully, prompting me to answer. To be honest, though, my past as a violin prodigy was far from what others made it out to be.
It wasn't because it was forced on me. That would have never occurred to my parents, who just wanted their four boys to survive. Those four boys were Brandon, Trevor, Corbin (I call him Cory), and Steven. We grew up in a little village where (1) everyone wanted to kill us for not being human enough or (2) everyone wanted to kill us for not being villager enough. I heard the phrase "filthy half-breed" nearly every day of my life, but that's not exactly relevant to my violin playing.
I was about three years old when I started. Cory was the one taking violin lessons because my parents inherited an old violin. He taught me a few notes and, the moment I picked up the bow, I found out that I loved the violin. We bonded over that wonderful instrument. Eventually, I became better than he was and he pestered my parents into letting me take lessons. My parents relented and took me to my first violin lesson for my fourth birthday.
Rather impressed, my teacher gave me something I barely knew how to read. The notes swirled on the page and blurred into a mess. The music came in a colored sleeve and I read it through the sleeve because I "liked it better", so I said. It was actually so I didn't get sick on my music. Going with my tendencies, the violin teacher supported me and found that I had an especial gift for the instrument. I got bored with the beginner book and began devouring etudes, scales, and other music like candy. The recitals came and went as always: with me receiving applause and eating as many cookies as I possibly could.
Unfortunately, after Cory hit his head while we were playing spleef, the medical bills piled up to the point where I had to give up my violin lessons. I kept playing and challenging myself, hoping the sound of the violin would serve as an anesthetic to my pain. It was a trying time for all of us. Brandon and Trevor started fighting even more and it escalated into Trevor getting a black eye and Brandon's school project burning into a pile of ashes. My parents started bickering over the tiniest things and blaming everything on me. My grades started declining because I couldn't think about anything else besides the unrest in my family.
I ran away so that I could be with my violin. I played in villages hoping to get money. It worked. I practiced until I couldn't bear the throbbing pain in my fingers. On weekends, I played from sunrise to sunset with very few breaks other than to get food or use the restroom. What I made I mostly gave to help with the medical bills, but I saved 1% of my money to get new bridges, strings, and food.
I gained the attention of many people and eventually started playing in concert halls along with some of the top orchestras in all of Minecraft. More importantly, they agreed to help me in my situation by sending money to my family. I went to school in the morning, played my violin at night, and worked on my violin on the weekends. I lived off of herbal cough drops, apples, and, when I got lucky, chicken and wheat soup.
Unfortunately, this newfound attention led me to basically sell myself in order to play and please the crowds. Day and night, I performed, did my homework, and gave my soul over to performance. The melody from my instrument just became noise, but I was happy as long as the crowd enjoyed it, or so I thought. The medical bills came back again and there were even more of them. I didn't want my parents to have to worry about paying them, so I played my fingers to shreds. I lied to the local luthiers that the stains on my strings were from dirt, but, in reality, I played so much that it wore through my skin. On one occasion, I couldn't shake anyone's hands after a concert because they were dripping with blood.
It hurt to hold a pencil in class. No one cared that my hands were screaming with pain or that my neck felt like it was made of steel cables. They didn't care that I performed day and night. They just cared that I cranked out a grade. I remember sitting hunched over a paper thinking of a poem that had a strong rhythm that tells a story about the life of a talented person. I ended up writing the following:
Do this.
Do that.
You should.
You can't.
Put on
A show.
Just hold
Your bow.
Learn math
And write.
Stay up
All night.
Who cares,
Who cares
About
Your life?
At my last violin concert, I was about to enter the sixth grade. I picked up my violin, the cuts on my hands showing the state of my heart. Awaiting my entrance, I listened to the orchestra play their songs. When I heard my name, I walked onstage and went through the usual ceremonies. I readied my instrument and nodded to the conductor to start.
Everything fell perfectly into place. When I came in, my fingers were fleet and fluid. I moved my bow to create the notes and, as they moved, I saw the ambulance's flashing lights heard my brother encouraging me to bow the strings, smelled burnt plastic and paper, tasted the bland hospital food, and felt the sting of the string cutting into my fingers. However, above the din, I felt the music. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was actually playing. Art washes away the dust of everyday life, so people said. I felt the dust wash away from my soul.
The orchestra moved with me, almost as if we were dancing. I closed my eyes and felt the chill of the snow and the thump of a snowball hitting my face. At the end of the thing, my hands begged for mercy as I lowered instrument, faced the crowd, and acknowledged the orchestra and their conductor. I took so many liberties with that piece it was a wonder they could stay with me, let alone sound good while they were doing it. My mother came to the concert hall, and, instead of hugging me or telling me what I played well, dragged me by the ear and scolded me for not being supportive. I was shocked. Did she know that I was sending money from my performances to help with the medical bills?
"...You know, Cory would be ashamed to have a brother like you!" She snatched my violin out of my hands and broke it on a wall, crushing the bridge under the sole of her shoe. After taking my bow, she snapped it in two. "Going out and doing this meaningless music stuff..." It was useless trying to argue because she shattered my soul along with the violin.
I never played violin ever since.
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Friday, January 13, 2017
Liar, Liar (Alex)
My oatmeal was lumpy and cold. I tried adding sugar, but it had no sweetness. It was like adding sand to mud. The sirens screamed in my head as if I were still standing as my teacher flung herself over the balcony onto the pavement below. I tried to stop her. I really did, but I don't think she heard me. The sickening crunch of bones and flesh shattering and the metallic smell of blood filled the air around me.
I tried concentrating on my oatmeal, which still tasted like sand and mud. I dragged myself out of bed, gathered my things, and headed to school. I didn't know if I could fake being the happy girl I usually was. I pulled the black jacket over my shoulders and ordered my hot chocolate. It tasted slightly bitter, more like coffee than chocolate, which was quite unusual. I ignored it, though. I drank it more for a sense of warmth than for its taste.
My first block class was language arts. Mrs. Hoffmann asked me for my paper. Proud of my work, I handed it in. She slammed it back on my desk, saying that I was an "insolent little brat" for not meeting her standards, which were too high in my opinion. She read my poem aloud and pointed out every little flaw she saw.
"...And this is what happens when we allow stupid people attend Mindcrack." And that is where you are wrong. I am not stupid. I'm just not pretentious about which classes I take or what grades I get, unlike some other people. Still, the jeers of the class seemed to indicate that I was. I've learned to take criticism as a performer, but an attack on my intelligence was too much. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. The mocking intensified and I just sat there helpless. I asked to be excused. Surprisingly, Mrs. Hoffmann let me go.
I made my way to an empty bathroom, found a stall, and let everything out. It wasn't fair. My paper was not stupid. An older student walked into the restroom. It's probably someone else who thinks I'm stupid.
"Let me guess: Mrs. Hoffman?"
"Yes."
"What did she do?"
"She called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"I wouldn't put it past her to do something like that." So it wasn't just me. "And she's the stupid one for not recognizing how intelligent you are." I didn't feel that intelligent. "You want me to take you to see a counselor?"
"I'd probably be in trouble for missing class." At this, she pulled out her computer and showed me the student handbook.
"It says right here that students can see a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'. Also, given what happened recently, I think they'd understand. I'll walk with you so, if anyone asks, I can tell them what the policy is."
"Thanks."
We walked together and arrived at the counselor's office. Just before making another turn, Mrs. Hoffman stopped us to ask us where we were going.
"Just where do you think you're going, you little punk?"
"To see a counselor."
"I didn't give you permission to do that!"
"It says here in the student handbook that a student can visit a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'." We left before she could say anything else.
Mrs. Akimoto sat in front of me, obviously concerned. She pushed a dish of rice candy towards me. I didn't take any.
"Is everything okay?" I noted the expression on her face. Mrs. Akimoto has a concerned face lined with thousands of emotions that I couldn't name, let alone determine accurately. She must have been here a long time since she seemed to know Mindcrack and its problems like the back of her hand.
"Well, Mrs. Hoffmann called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"A student sent me a video of the incident. I find it disturbing that a teacher, especially someone at Mindcrack, do something like that." She gave me the look that people give when they want more information.
"Do you know Miss Netherfield? I used to take vocal lessons with her."
"Oh, yes! We've talked many times. Is she doing well?" I don't know what Mrs. Akimoto has seen today, but something told me that this was an especially trying day for her.
"Well, she jumped off a building yesterday. She died about three hours later in the hospital."
I told Mrs. Akimoto everything about the incident from the smell of blood in the air to the fact that part of me jumped with my teacher. She listened intently, taking in every detail. Despite the recent string of suicides at Mindcrack, Mrs. Akimoto seemed deeply disturbed. She wrote an E-mail and dismissed me as another student stepped in.
"Just so you know, I wrote an E-mail to all your teachers that you can come see me whenever you like without even signing out." The bell rang, which meant it was time for band class.
To my surprise, Steve was there. His face was puffy from crying, but he tried to hide the fact. I guess neither of us took the recent events well. The other students had shared expressions of mingled despair and uncertainty. He went on teaching and handed out our song for the concert: Everything's Alright. Next to me, Adrian raised his hand.
"Why are we performing this song when, clearly, nothing is going right?" He had been crying too. I could tell from the red streaks on his face. Everyone mumbled uncomfortably at this question. Not quite sure how to answer, Steve shifted awkwardly. Even without the whole speech thing, it's a difficult question to answer. Eventually, he came up with some sort of response.
"We all have that one person in or lives who makes everything alright." That doesn't help when that person is dead! Still, that seemed to satisfy the others. We played scales, ran through the song, which didn't really sound like anything. After breaking the song into chunks, "dividing and conquering", as Steve calls it, the song began to fall into place.
After packing up, Steve stopped me. He plugged his device into the phone and typed something after answering a call. He gestured that I come with him, so I did. Despite terrible our situation, I was glad to skip math. We began walking and I noticed that we were moving away from the campus.
"Go see Mrs. Akimoto."
I went to see Mrs. Akimoto again. My father was there in the room, obviously troubled. I entered, unsure of what was going on.
"She's been through a lot yesterday."
"I am aware of that."
"On top of that, a teacher humiliated her in class." My father's eyes narrowed.
"How so?" Mrs. Akimoto played the video from earlier. His eyes widened again and then he turned towards me.
"Alex, if something like this happens, you need to tell me immediately." He took me in for a hug. "Mrs. Akimoto, have you seen other cases like this?"
"Yes, all from this teacher. I recommend that you pull Alex from her class. I have alerted Mrs. Hoffmann of what Alex went through yesterday and she said something that I wish not to repeat at this time. Alex, have you or any other students had your intelligence attacked by Mrs. Hoffmann?"
"Yes. It happens all the time."
"To whom?"
"To me, my friend Jasmine, and a few others. Jasmine took her own life three days ago. I found her body in the girls' bathroom near the choir room. There were two others with her, likely other sixth graders. I didn't get close enough to identify them." My father looked anxious, genuinely anxious. I've only seen him like that one other time when I twisted my ankle in the woods and there was a skeleton hot on my tail. He was clearly at a loss for words.
"Ten other sixth graders have seen me today because Mrs. Hoffmann directly attacked their intelligence. There may be more victims of her outright hostility, but I can never know for sure unless they see me."
"You can read my poem if you want." Mrs. Akimoto took it from me, scanning it. I remembered each line clear as day because I spent three hours perfecting it. "Try sending it to other English teachers to see if I honestly deserved a bad grade for it."
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Don't tell me that you're not tired.
Don't tell me that you're not sad.
Don't tell me that you're not mad.
You know that I've seen you cry.
You've said that you want to die.
Don't tell me that you have it all
When I know you're afraid to fall.
Seeing past the mask you wear,
I know you think that life's not fair.
I see enough so that I care,
Through gilded guise, the wear and tear.
"I will take your suggestion. Go home and save your strength for singing with the choir. I will make sure that your work gets to you." We did as Mrs. Akimoto told us and went home.
I tried concentrating on my oatmeal, which still tasted like sand and mud. I dragged myself out of bed, gathered my things, and headed to school. I didn't know if I could fake being the happy girl I usually was. I pulled the black jacket over my shoulders and ordered my hot chocolate. It tasted slightly bitter, more like coffee than chocolate, which was quite unusual. I ignored it, though. I drank it more for a sense of warmth than for its taste.
My first block class was language arts. Mrs. Hoffmann asked me for my paper. Proud of my work, I handed it in. She slammed it back on my desk, saying that I was an "insolent little brat" for not meeting her standards, which were too high in my opinion. She read my poem aloud and pointed out every little flaw she saw.
"...And this is what happens when we allow stupid people attend Mindcrack." And that is where you are wrong. I am not stupid. I'm just not pretentious about which classes I take or what grades I get, unlike some other people. Still, the jeers of the class seemed to indicate that I was. I've learned to take criticism as a performer, but an attack on my intelligence was too much. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. The mocking intensified and I just sat there helpless. I asked to be excused. Surprisingly, Mrs. Hoffmann let me go.
I made my way to an empty bathroom, found a stall, and let everything out. It wasn't fair. My paper was not stupid. An older student walked into the restroom. It's probably someone else who thinks I'm stupid.
"Let me guess: Mrs. Hoffman?"
"Yes."
"What did she do?"
"She called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"I wouldn't put it past her to do something like that." So it wasn't just me. "And she's the stupid one for not recognizing how intelligent you are." I didn't feel that intelligent. "You want me to take you to see a counselor?"
"I'd probably be in trouble for missing class." At this, she pulled out her computer and showed me the student handbook.
"It says right here that students can see a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'. Also, given what happened recently, I think they'd understand. I'll walk with you so, if anyone asks, I can tell them what the policy is."
"Thanks."
We walked together and arrived at the counselor's office. Just before making another turn, Mrs. Hoffman stopped us to ask us where we were going.
"Just where do you think you're going, you little punk?"
"To see a counselor."
"I didn't give you permission to do that!"
"It says here in the student handbook that a student can visit a counselor 'at any time for any reason without refusal or additional questioning'." We left before she could say anything else.
Mrs. Akimoto sat in front of me, obviously concerned. She pushed a dish of rice candy towards me. I didn't take any.
"Is everything okay?" I noted the expression on her face. Mrs. Akimoto has a concerned face lined with thousands of emotions that I couldn't name, let alone determine accurately. She must have been here a long time since she seemed to know Mindcrack and its problems like the back of her hand.
"Well, Mrs. Hoffmann called me stupid in front of the entire class."
"A student sent me a video of the incident. I find it disturbing that a teacher, especially someone at Mindcrack, do something like that." She gave me the look that people give when they want more information.
"Do you know Miss Netherfield? I used to take vocal lessons with her."
"Oh, yes! We've talked many times. Is she doing well?" I don't know what Mrs. Akimoto has seen today, but something told me that this was an especially trying day for her.
"Well, she jumped off a building yesterday. She died about three hours later in the hospital."
I told Mrs. Akimoto everything about the incident from the smell of blood in the air to the fact that part of me jumped with my teacher. She listened intently, taking in every detail. Despite the recent string of suicides at Mindcrack, Mrs. Akimoto seemed deeply disturbed. She wrote an E-mail and dismissed me as another student stepped in.
"Just so you know, I wrote an E-mail to all your teachers that you can come see me whenever you like without even signing out." The bell rang, which meant it was time for band class.
To my surprise, Steve was there. His face was puffy from crying, but he tried to hide the fact. I guess neither of us took the recent events well. The other students had shared expressions of mingled despair and uncertainty. He went on teaching and handed out our song for the concert: Everything's Alright. Next to me, Adrian raised his hand.
"Why are we performing this song when, clearly, nothing is going right?" He had been crying too. I could tell from the red streaks on his face. Everyone mumbled uncomfortably at this question. Not quite sure how to answer, Steve shifted awkwardly. Even without the whole speech thing, it's a difficult question to answer. Eventually, he came up with some sort of response.
"We all have that one person in or lives who makes everything alright." That doesn't help when that person is dead! Still, that seemed to satisfy the others. We played scales, ran through the song, which didn't really sound like anything. After breaking the song into chunks, "dividing and conquering", as Steve calls it, the song began to fall into place.
After packing up, Steve stopped me. He plugged his device into the phone and typed something after answering a call. He gestured that I come with him, so I did. Despite terrible our situation, I was glad to skip math. We began walking and I noticed that we were moving away from the campus.
"Go see Mrs. Akimoto."
I went to see Mrs. Akimoto again. My father was there in the room, obviously troubled. I entered, unsure of what was going on.
"She's been through a lot yesterday."
"I am aware of that."
"On top of that, a teacher humiliated her in class." My father's eyes narrowed.
"How so?" Mrs. Akimoto played the video from earlier. His eyes widened again and then he turned towards me.
"Alex, if something like this happens, you need to tell me immediately." He took me in for a hug. "Mrs. Akimoto, have you seen other cases like this?"
"Yes, all from this teacher. I recommend that you pull Alex from her class. I have alerted Mrs. Hoffmann of what Alex went through yesterday and she said something that I wish not to repeat at this time. Alex, have you or any other students had your intelligence attacked by Mrs. Hoffmann?"
"Yes. It happens all the time."
"To whom?"
"To me, my friend Jasmine, and a few others. Jasmine took her own life three days ago. I found her body in the girls' bathroom near the choir room. There were two others with her, likely other sixth graders. I didn't get close enough to identify them." My father looked anxious, genuinely anxious. I've only seen him like that one other time when I twisted my ankle in the woods and there was a skeleton hot on my tail. He was clearly at a loss for words.
"Ten other sixth graders have seen me today because Mrs. Hoffmann directly attacked their intelligence. There may be more victims of her outright hostility, but I can never know for sure unless they see me."
"You can read my poem if you want." Mrs. Akimoto took it from me, scanning it. I remembered each line clear as day because I spent three hours perfecting it. "Try sending it to other English teachers to see if I honestly deserved a bad grade for it."
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Don't tell me that you're not tired.
Don't tell me that you're not sad.
Don't tell me that you're not mad.
You know that I've seen you cry.
You've said that you want to die.
Don't tell me that you have it all
When I know you're afraid to fall.
Seeing past the mask you wear,
I know you think that life's not fair.
I see enough so that I care,
Through gilded guise, the wear and tear.
"I will take your suggestion. Go home and save your strength for singing with the choir. I will make sure that your work gets to you." We did as Mrs. Akimoto told us and went home.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Nothing We Could Do (Mark)
Go away, sirens. My friend's getting married tomorrow. Give him and all of us a rest, thank you very much. No, seriously. Stop. It's getting annoying and he can barely sleep as it is. He has anxiety already, so shoo! Scat! They're not going anywhere, it seems. Against my better judgment, I decided to investigate.
"Sir, please return to your room." A woman with a well-done braided bun stopped me. Things must have been bad if I couldn't leave. What the heck was going on? It's like someone was murdered or like someone suspicious was roaming the building. Not wanting to make the woman's job harder, I slipped back into my room and turned on the TV. Steve was asleep, so I lowered the volume. I flipped through the channels, none of which interested me. I ended up watching the news.
A young woman recently jumped from a building. There was no note, no warning at all. The woman in question was in her early twenties about 4'11" with very pale skin. Could that woman have been Caitlin? She fit the description well enough. I watched on. The reporter said something about prohibiting guests from leaving their rooms so that they don't start riots or do things along those lines. Huh. That sounds a lot like...wait a second. Isn't that our hotel in the shot? And didn't she jump from the top floor?
The newscasters said they would reveal the woman's identity after the commercial break and telling us what the latest fashion trends were, so I decided to make some coffee. I chose my usual French roast and let it percolate. The hotel water smelled faintly of zombie flesh, but it was nothing that can't be fixed by adding roasted beans. However, all the world's finest coffees couldn't replace someone like Caitlin. Some people spend all their lives trying to be kind, beautiful or intelligent. Caitlin had all three of those traits. I remembered how Landon used to treat her terribly and, instead of retaliating with the same, she got to know him. That takes some level of character that I certainly do not have.
Not only that, I saw her influence on Steve. He used to be downright insufferable at times, but he did have talent, so I couldn't really say anything. However, with Caitlin's assistance, he became one of the sweetest people I know. Even with everything he's faced in the past year, he still managed to lead with the right balance of confidence and humility. His band sounds better sight reading than most bands do on the day of their concert. Of course, not every member is flawless, but his band definitely has something that other bands don't.
A familiar smell told me that the coffee was done. Not being sure of what Steve liked in his coffee, I did not add anything to his cup. I added cream and cinnamon to mine since I'm not really one for the cloying taste of pure sugar. The smell of coffee must have roused him. He made his way to the shower as the newscaster droned on and on about how men should wear chokers. It then hit me that Steve liked sugar and cream in his coffee--and lots of it.
As soon as Steve came out of the bathroom with wet hair, he sat down next to me. I didn't have the heart to tell him about the woman because I had a pretty good idea of who she was. However, that woman could have been Yasuke Inomoto or Fumiko Hiyashida. After another lecture on flattering eyeshadow colors, the newscasters were back to tell us the woman's identity.
"The woman has been identified as Caitlin Netherfield." At those words, my heart practically dropped out of my chest. Upon hearing that name, Steve came rushing to my side, obviously greatly concerned. He typed frantically, asking if she was okay. I wanted to be able to say that she was, but it was better that I just said it.
"She jumped and she's dead."
I waited for the tears to come. I waited for the denial, for Steve to say something. Instead, his knees buckled and he fainted. Luckily, I caught him and my first aid training came back. I laid him down flat on his back and tried to shake him awake. He stirred, got up, and sat on the couch shaking as he lowered himself. Seeing that neither of us have eaten, I asked Steve if he was hungry. He shook his head. I ordered room service for myself and I got an overpriced fruit plate just in case he changed his mind.
To be honest, I didn't really feel like eating either. I picked at my eggs. They were the most deliciously fluffy eggs I've ever had, but I couldn't bring myself to eat at the moment. Despite that, I prompted Steve to take a bite of fruit. He did so obligingly, later saying that it tasted like water.
"She died in the hospital after three hours, even on life support. " The camera showed a doctor in scrubs. "Her lungs filled with fluid so quickly there was nothing we could do."
There was nothing we could do. Had I known Caitlin's plans, I would have tried to talk her out of it. I don't know what is up with Mindcrack and the suicide epidemic there, but something told me that this had nothing to do with it. Would someone have been able to save her? I saw Alex begging her not to jump. She ran inside in tears when it happened. Speaking of Alex, she appeared on camera.
"I was there! I saw her fall and everything." Tears fell from her eyes. "I was telling her to stay up there and wait for me to get help, but I don't think she heard me over the noise in her head." It'a hard enough for a student to lose a teacher, as I have learned in the past, but losing a favorite teacher to a sudden, violent, and unexpected death? At such a young age, I might add? I couldn't imagine what Alex felt. More than that, Caitlin was like an older sister to her. Alex walked out of one of her lessons saying "See you later, onee-san!".
Not only did Alex lose a teacher, she lost someone that she considered family. As much as I try to promote the idea of a band family, none of them really considered me that way. Alex and Caitlin obviously had something that ran deeper than a student-teacher relationship, but I didn't know they were practically sisters.
Steve wrapped his arms around me as if begging for comfort. I sat there stroking his hair, which I think benefitted from the hotel's good shampoo. He cried into my shirt and didn't stop to breathe for a good minute. I wondered how many others were grieving the loss of a beautiful, kind, and intelligent woman. I wished someone could have saved her life so she could have been married tomorrow. Maybe Steve and I could have done it if we knew she were up there.
Or was there nothing we could do?
"Sir, please return to your room." A woman with a well-done braided bun stopped me. Things must have been bad if I couldn't leave. What the heck was going on? It's like someone was murdered or like someone suspicious was roaming the building. Not wanting to make the woman's job harder, I slipped back into my room and turned on the TV. Steve was asleep, so I lowered the volume. I flipped through the channels, none of which interested me. I ended up watching the news.
A young woman recently jumped from a building. There was no note, no warning at all. The woman in question was in her early twenties about 4'11" with very pale skin. Could that woman have been Caitlin? She fit the description well enough. I watched on. The reporter said something about prohibiting guests from leaving their rooms so that they don't start riots or do things along those lines. Huh. That sounds a lot like...wait a second. Isn't that our hotel in the shot? And didn't she jump from the top floor?
The newscasters said they would reveal the woman's identity after the commercial break and telling us what the latest fashion trends were, so I decided to make some coffee. I chose my usual French roast and let it percolate. The hotel water smelled faintly of zombie flesh, but it was nothing that can't be fixed by adding roasted beans. However, all the world's finest coffees couldn't replace someone like Caitlin. Some people spend all their lives trying to be kind, beautiful or intelligent. Caitlin had all three of those traits. I remembered how Landon used to treat her terribly and, instead of retaliating with the same, she got to know him. That takes some level of character that I certainly do not have.
Not only that, I saw her influence on Steve. He used to be downright insufferable at times, but he did have talent, so I couldn't really say anything. However, with Caitlin's assistance, he became one of the sweetest people I know. Even with everything he's faced in the past year, he still managed to lead with the right balance of confidence and humility. His band sounds better sight reading than most bands do on the day of their concert. Of course, not every member is flawless, but his band definitely has something that other bands don't.
A familiar smell told me that the coffee was done. Not being sure of what Steve liked in his coffee, I did not add anything to his cup. I added cream and cinnamon to mine since I'm not really one for the cloying taste of pure sugar. The smell of coffee must have roused him. He made his way to the shower as the newscaster droned on and on about how men should wear chokers. It then hit me that Steve liked sugar and cream in his coffee--and lots of it.
As soon as Steve came out of the bathroom with wet hair, he sat down next to me. I didn't have the heart to tell him about the woman because I had a pretty good idea of who she was. However, that woman could have been Yasuke Inomoto or Fumiko Hiyashida. After another lecture on flattering eyeshadow colors, the newscasters were back to tell us the woman's identity.
"The woman has been identified as Caitlin Netherfield." At those words, my heart practically dropped out of my chest. Upon hearing that name, Steve came rushing to my side, obviously greatly concerned. He typed frantically, asking if she was okay. I wanted to be able to say that she was, but it was better that I just said it.
"She jumped and she's dead."
I waited for the tears to come. I waited for the denial, for Steve to say something. Instead, his knees buckled and he fainted. Luckily, I caught him and my first aid training came back. I laid him down flat on his back and tried to shake him awake. He stirred, got up, and sat on the couch shaking as he lowered himself. Seeing that neither of us have eaten, I asked Steve if he was hungry. He shook his head. I ordered room service for myself and I got an overpriced fruit plate just in case he changed his mind.
To be honest, I didn't really feel like eating either. I picked at my eggs. They were the most deliciously fluffy eggs I've ever had, but I couldn't bring myself to eat at the moment. Despite that, I prompted Steve to take a bite of fruit. He did so obligingly, later saying that it tasted like water.
"She died in the hospital after three hours, even on life support. " The camera showed a doctor in scrubs. "Her lungs filled with fluid so quickly there was nothing we could do."
There was nothing we could do. Had I known Caitlin's plans, I would have tried to talk her out of it. I don't know what is up with Mindcrack and the suicide epidemic there, but something told me that this had nothing to do with it. Would someone have been able to save her? I saw Alex begging her not to jump. She ran inside in tears when it happened. Speaking of Alex, she appeared on camera.
"I was there! I saw her fall and everything." Tears fell from her eyes. "I was telling her to stay up there and wait for me to get help, but I don't think she heard me over the noise in her head." It'a hard enough for a student to lose a teacher, as I have learned in the past, but losing a favorite teacher to a sudden, violent, and unexpected death? At such a young age, I might add? I couldn't imagine what Alex felt. More than that, Caitlin was like an older sister to her. Alex walked out of one of her lessons saying "See you later, onee-san!".
Not only did Alex lose a teacher, she lost someone that she considered family. As much as I try to promote the idea of a band family, none of them really considered me that way. Alex and Caitlin obviously had something that ran deeper than a student-teacher relationship, but I didn't know they were practically sisters.
Steve wrapped his arms around me as if begging for comfort. I sat there stroking his hair, which I think benefitted from the hotel's good shampoo. He cried into my shirt and didn't stop to breathe for a good minute. I wondered how many others were grieving the loss of a beautiful, kind, and intelligent woman. I wished someone could have saved her life so she could have been married tomorrow. Maybe Steve and I could have done it if we knew she were up there.
Or was there nothing we could do?
Monday, January 2, 2017
A Leap of Faith (Caitlin)
For the life of me, I could not sleep.
The cake was delicious. Every other course was seasoned to perfection. The venue was beautiful. The decorations made everything cohesive. My dress fit like a dream. The man who would wait for
me at the end of the aisle made it all seem like none of this was real.
But something was amiss. I looked at myself in the mirror, at my messy hair and the dark circles under my eyes. I looked again at the scars on my arms. How could anyone find me desirable? Surely Steve intended to marry one of my sisters and not me. I did not deserve his loving touch or his nearly absolute devotion. I'm nothing but a burden. If not for my medical expenses, he could have paid off Alice's easily. I just live off his altruism like everyone says I do. I don't contribute anything useful or help anyone, at least nothing noteworthy.
I visited Alice in the hospital yesterday. She looked like a shadow of herself in that hospital gown, but she still had her persistent spirit. That girl went through so much with so little. I wondered, honestly, how she got by each day. Alice told me that everything was going "according to plan" with regards to her treatments, which I suppose was good, but no one actively plans to have cancer. I guess it's just one of those platitudes for use in situations when there's really nothing good to say.
The night sky glistened just beyond my window. I walked over it, wanting to touch it. Such a thought was foolish, but my impulses got the better of me. I opened the door, stepped outside, and felt the cold air on my face. I stepped out slowly, feeling the ground beneath my bare feet, and leaned on the balcony to gaze upon the desert landscape. Frustrated at my uselessness, I readied my bow and dashed a creeper's brains out. It would be one less exploding green thing terrorizing people.
I found a chair and looked up. Nothing was above me, just the sky. I was on the top floor with about twenty floors below me. Just before the desert, I saw people enjoying the hotel pool. Concrete surrounded the pool area along with a few trees. I wondered how it would feel falling from this height--or if I would feel anything at all.
It then occurred to me why I was on the top floor. Steve wanted me to jump. I'd just be a blood stain on the pavement to clean up and dispose of if I had the courage to do it. No one would notice if I was gone. Even if one person did, they'd move on with their life as if nothing ever happened. I could get myself beyond the balcony if I really wanted to. It's been said around the Internet that I shouldn't let my disabilities get in the way of me obtaining the things I desire. Well, now I desired to explode into a million pieces and get out of everyone's hair.
But why can't I do it when a simple shuffle over the railing is all I need to achieve my goal? Why am I so afraid to do something that will benefit everyone in my life? Pain is no stranger to me and I'm pretty sure a fall from this height would be fatal. Hotel staff passed underneath me. The people in the pool continued swimming. None of them would be concerned, let alone grieve. They would just scrape everything off the ground and continue with their lives.
I pulled myself up, my arms shaking from the effort. I shifted forward, throwing one leg, then the other, over the railing and relaxing my hands.
The night sky glistened just beyond my window. I walked over it, wanting to touch it. Such a thought was foolish, but my impulses got the better of me. I opened the door, stepped outside, and felt the cold air on my face. I stepped out slowly, feeling the ground beneath my bare feet, and leaned on the balcony to gaze upon the desert landscape. Frustrated at my uselessness, I readied my bow and dashed a creeper's brains out. It would be one less exploding green thing terrorizing people.
I found a chair and looked up. Nothing was above me, just the sky. I was on the top floor with about twenty floors below me. Just before the desert, I saw people enjoying the hotel pool. Concrete surrounded the pool area along with a few trees. I wondered how it would feel falling from this height--or if I would feel anything at all.
It then occurred to me why I was on the top floor. Steve wanted me to jump. I'd just be a blood stain on the pavement to clean up and dispose of if I had the courage to do it. No one would notice if I was gone. Even if one person did, they'd move on with their life as if nothing ever happened. I could get myself beyond the balcony if I really wanted to. It's been said around the Internet that I shouldn't let my disabilities get in the way of me obtaining the things I desire. Well, now I desired to explode into a million pieces and get out of everyone's hair.
But why can't I do it when a simple shuffle over the railing is all I need to achieve my goal? Why am I so afraid to do something that will benefit everyone in my life? Pain is no stranger to me and I'm pretty sure a fall from this height would be fatal. Hotel staff passed underneath me. The people in the pool continued swimming. None of them would be concerned, let alone grieve. They would just scrape everything off the ground and continue with their lives.
I pulled myself up, my arms shaking from the effort. I shifted forward, throwing one leg, then the other, over the railing and relaxing my hands.
Thursday, December 15, 2016
Progress (Steve)
I really needed to blow off steam, so I headed into the woods to punch zombies in the face. I took my sword as well, but I just honestly needed to use my body. A zombie came up behind me and I kicked it in the stomach before bashing its face in. Another came from the side. A blow to the throat knocked its head clean off. I heard the sound of arrows flying. One went screaming past my ear. I deflected a few with my sword; one arrow bounced back in such a way that delivered a fatal blow to the skeleton. Knowing that Caitlin is an archer, I harvested the arrows. She isn't much into combat, but arrows are one of those things one can never have too much of. While I was at it, I scored a few gold and iron ingots for my band program and for Alice's treatments.
The cancer spread...that far...to her central nervous system...and I never noticed. When she fainted or complained of headaches, I assumed it was from a lack of food. When she was tired, I assumed it was overexertion. I noticed that her nails curved inwards, enough to hold a drop of water. However, I never bothered to express concern because I didn't think I had the time to do so. How ignorant could I have been? I could have allowed her to obtain treatment earlier had I recognized the symptoms. I knocked off a few more zombies' heads. If I couldn't fight the internal monsters, at least I could fight external ones.
I went back home, heated up three toaster waffles, and rummaged through the fridge for syrup. Since I didn't find it, I settled for grape jelly. At least, with Caitlin not here, she can't tell me not to eat grape jelly waffles. Still, I was worried. She's lost a lot of weight under the various stressors of life and her health may take a downward spiral if we're not careful. I turned on the TV to distract myself.
Caitlin was on the screen with her hands neatly folded in her lap. She looked so composed on screen, so much so that the average viewer might not know just how much she struggled each day.
"...I just hope my dress won't fall off." Caitlin laughed, but I could still see the anxiety in her eyes.
"Isn't that a nice problem to have?" If you knew half of what Caitlin endured in order to be like that, you would think that it is most definitely not a nice problem. "And last rehearsal with the Impulsive Brass Band, you guys had a rearrangement in seating? How does it feel to be the principal hornist?" She never told me that!
"Yes, we did. Being the principal hornist is no doubt different from my previous position in the ensemble, but I am confident that I can lead our horns so that we can put on the best show possible."
"And to think that Steve told you that you could never play horn!" Wow. The reporter looked familiar: That was Brianna Turner from the cheer team. She hasn't changed at all. "Who would have said that to a principal hornist?"
"Well, back then, I was just an awkward freshman in high school. I had to experience everything I did before I could get to this point. Initial failure is not always a measure of how you will perform later, but is a springboard of sorts that can get you where you want to be." Caitlin continued. "And back then, Steve was just some stupid jock who wanted to push me around. He needed to have his conscience knocked into place in order to be who he is today. It's funny how life works out the way it does. My point is, people change over time and there's really nothing we can do about it." One of the things I simultaneously love and hate about Caitlin is her honesty about what she sees in others. Where someone else would have hailed me as the spleef rink's hero, Caitlin called high school me a stupid jock. In all fairness, though, it was true.
I checked the clock. It was about 4:00 AM (so much easier than the tick system), so I went on Twitter and saw this explosion of memes featuring me in a variety of situations. Kyle posted a video loop of me in a news feed with the reporter saying "The concertmaster looks pleased with himself" and me lowering my trumpet after playing my solo. Of course, Kyle tagged me, saying "It's our famous band teacher! Hi!!!" Too bad he's a senior. I'm probably going to bawl like a baby when his name is called at graduation.
Still, even with the onslaught of emotions, I needed to teach. I headed over to Mindcrack after filling my coffee cup, catching the delicious scent of the roasted beans. I added a splash of milk and some sugar. There's nothing like lightly sweetened coffee in the morning before a big day. My bands have a concert, I'm getting married in three days, and final exams are forebodingly creeping up on my students. Because this is just simply not the day for a panic attack, I took my prescribed medication and proceeded to go about my day.
The intermediate band filed in. I pulled out my score and let them set their embouchures, warm up, and tune (read: play obnoxiously high notes). After I got them to settle down, I had them actually tune to an A for the woodwinds and a B flat for the brass instruments. Since our timpani pretty much had a mind of its own, I assisted in that tuning. My middle school students have not yet mastered the art of quiet timpani tuning so that task was quite a noisy one.
Alice's absence pervaded the air like a thick mist. The trumpets milled around awkwardly; without her quiet leadership, they were lost. Even the firsts noticed something was amiss and they weren't usually the most aware of what was going on around them. The woodwinds whispered amongst themselves. The percussion section stood as still and silent as stone. An unusual solemnity washed over the rest of the brass section. How am I supposed to deliver the heartbreaking news that Alice has cancer? Being a teacher, I knew that tragedy would strike my students one day or another. I just didn't expect this.
I wished, more than anything, that I could have held Alice's hand during her first round of chemotherapy. I wanted to tell her not to be scared and let her cry on my shoulder. Just thinking about it, the familiar scent of bleach filled the air around me. I wanted to tell Alice that she was doing well and that she was strong, to get something for her to eat that didn't taste disgusting, to argue with insurance companies about payment plans. I wanted her to ask me if everything was going to be alright and tell her that everything would be, even if I didn't know the outcome.
Mostly, I just wanted to be the father Alice never had. I met him during a parent-teacher conference and he seemed, with regard to Alice's wellbeing as a human, apathetic at best. He just wanted her to crank out a good GPA, even at the expense of her health. As much as I respect performance of any kind, that kind of mindset is what shatters students' hearts. Even if I can repair hearts with music, I know they'll never be the same again. I took a deep breath, pulled out my device, and decided to break the news with three words.
"Alice has cancer."
Shock and confusion passed over my students' faces. A flute, Hannah, asked if she would be okay. With that question, the questions came pouring in. They wanted answers, but they needed comfort. I told them what I could and decided to go on with rehearsing what they will do onstage. Part of being a good performer is putting on a brave face even when you feel anything but. I felt just as shaken as they did, but I still had to lead. We took our seats and listened to the middle school choir.
I saw Alex singing her heart out with the chorus. The glee on her face could light up the darkest mineshaft. I saw Adrian on the other side of the choir singing much more confidently than he ever done before. He wasn't shoving his face in his music. Around me, the lights faded away until one remained to single Alex out.
The hero's heart is heavy.
It bears the weight of all
The sorrows of his people
When he must bear his own.
Alex faded out. Caitlin would be so proud if she heard Alex's solo. Her voice was powerful but maintained a certain level of gentleness. Not only did she sound great, the lyrics hit home with me. It was as if the music department was trying to get into my head. The time came for the beginning band to perform their piece. Alex and Adrian came down from the risers to join the rest of the trumpets. Even without any percussion, the band stayed with me. I liked the piece better without percussion anyway, The flutes played their line more or less in tune despite having learned how to tune the day before. Kaito nailed the bass line. Before, he wouldn't even try it. I was immensely proud of him.
The intermediate band played after that. They played a jazzy piece that showcased our saxophones and their talents. Saxophones are an underrated section. Part of the reason why they are often the worst section in some bands is because the directors simply don't know what to do with them. They choose pieces with the most redundant, anticlimactic harmony lines and never give the saxes any reason to improve. Improvement never occurs in a vacuum. It is something that needs a catalyst, an incentive.
The day continued on as I did roughly the same things with the high school band. Kyle missed his timpani solo. (How dare you. We worked on this!) We had to run through that part again and resolve a few tuning issues in the flutes. Other than that, the high school band performed well. I conducted the orchestra and band in a symphonic piece of the orchestra director's selection. I was pleasantly surprised by the sound that came out of the strings and how they conducted themselves under my direction. They snapped to attention and watched me in a way that just doesn't happen with the orchestra director.
As the rest of the day progressed, I got prepared for the concert. My hair was all over the place, so I ran a brush through it. I plastered the flyaways with water and took another look at my reflection. The man looking back at me had a confident countenance, one that masked any trace of worry with the sparkle in his eyes. This was the guy who tuned his brass band to a B flat at every concert and strode onstage radiating confidence.
I entered the band room to find a few students milling around and playing some scales. Kyle tuned the timpani so it wouldn't be on completely different notes during the concert. More students poured in later. I told them to leave their cases against the wall to minimize tripping hazards. After leading them in some long tones and tuning, Alex raised her hand.
"Do you want me to go with the choir or you guys for the start of the concert?"
"You choose." Alex thought about this for a moment, looking at her choir music and then at Adrian. Both of them are on par with each other with regards to technical trumpet skill, but Alex has the edge of confidence. Still, I respected the fact that Alex's heart resided in her voice. Alex chose to stay with the band.
The flow of the concert allowed me to hear--truly hear--everyone's progress, not only musically, but in all other areas as well. Kyle's heart was truly in the music and Andreas lead the flutes with his quiet confidence. Both of them made grilled apple turnovers for after the concert; I could tell from the scent in the lobby and the foil package marked "From Kyle and Andreas". Alex proved herself a serious vocalist with her solo and chose to support her friend instead of doing what she really wanted to do. That takes some serious character to do. Adrian had some newfound confidence and looked me in the eye instead of shoving his face in the music stand. Kaito contributed to something bigger than himself and went from barely tolerating the din of the band room to being a frequent contributor to the noise.
And me? My previous self thought of nothing but his own image, how he measured up against everyone else. He was an insecure, conniving, hedonistic shell of a human, just some, in Caitlin's words, "stupid jock" who aimlessly chased the spotlight. I wanted to be the hero I always saw on TV, the one in shining armor who defeated his enemies effortlessly, sword in hand. Later, I've come to realize that some heroes wear skirts and leg braces while slaying the monsters of ignorance and laziness one brain at a time.
The cancer spread...that far...to her central nervous system...and I never noticed. When she fainted or complained of headaches, I assumed it was from a lack of food. When she was tired, I assumed it was overexertion. I noticed that her nails curved inwards, enough to hold a drop of water. However, I never bothered to express concern because I didn't think I had the time to do so. How ignorant could I have been? I could have allowed her to obtain treatment earlier had I recognized the symptoms. I knocked off a few more zombies' heads. If I couldn't fight the internal monsters, at least I could fight external ones.
I went back home, heated up three toaster waffles, and rummaged through the fridge for syrup. Since I didn't find it, I settled for grape jelly. At least, with Caitlin not here, she can't tell me not to eat grape jelly waffles. Still, I was worried. She's lost a lot of weight under the various stressors of life and her health may take a downward spiral if we're not careful. I turned on the TV to distract myself.
Caitlin was on the screen with her hands neatly folded in her lap. She looked so composed on screen, so much so that the average viewer might not know just how much she struggled each day.
"...I just hope my dress won't fall off." Caitlin laughed, but I could still see the anxiety in her eyes.
"Isn't that a nice problem to have?" If you knew half of what Caitlin endured in order to be like that, you would think that it is most definitely not a nice problem. "And last rehearsal with the Impulsive Brass Band, you guys had a rearrangement in seating? How does it feel to be the principal hornist?" She never told me that!
"Yes, we did. Being the principal hornist is no doubt different from my previous position in the ensemble, but I am confident that I can lead our horns so that we can put on the best show possible."
"And to think that Steve told you that you could never play horn!" Wow. The reporter looked familiar: That was Brianna Turner from the cheer team. She hasn't changed at all. "Who would have said that to a principal hornist?"
"Well, back then, I was just an awkward freshman in high school. I had to experience everything I did before I could get to this point. Initial failure is not always a measure of how you will perform later, but is a springboard of sorts that can get you where you want to be." Caitlin continued. "And back then, Steve was just some stupid jock who wanted to push me around. He needed to have his conscience knocked into place in order to be who he is today. It's funny how life works out the way it does. My point is, people change over time and there's really nothing we can do about it." One of the things I simultaneously love and hate about Caitlin is her honesty about what she sees in others. Where someone else would have hailed me as the spleef rink's hero, Caitlin called high school me a stupid jock. In all fairness, though, it was true.
I checked the clock. It was about 4:00 AM (so much easier than the tick system), so I went on Twitter and saw this explosion of memes featuring me in a variety of situations. Kyle posted a video loop of me in a news feed with the reporter saying "The concertmaster looks pleased with himself" and me lowering my trumpet after playing my solo. Of course, Kyle tagged me, saying "It's our famous band teacher! Hi!!!" Too bad he's a senior. I'm probably going to bawl like a baby when his name is called at graduation.
Still, even with the onslaught of emotions, I needed to teach. I headed over to Mindcrack after filling my coffee cup, catching the delicious scent of the roasted beans. I added a splash of milk and some sugar. There's nothing like lightly sweetened coffee in the morning before a big day. My bands have a concert, I'm getting married in three days, and final exams are forebodingly creeping up on my students. Because this is just simply not the day for a panic attack, I took my prescribed medication and proceeded to go about my day.
The intermediate band filed in. I pulled out my score and let them set their embouchures, warm up, and tune (read: play obnoxiously high notes). After I got them to settle down, I had them actually tune to an A for the woodwinds and a B flat for the brass instruments. Since our timpani pretty much had a mind of its own, I assisted in that tuning. My middle school students have not yet mastered the art of quiet timpani tuning so that task was quite a noisy one.
Alice's absence pervaded the air like a thick mist. The trumpets milled around awkwardly; without her quiet leadership, they were lost. Even the firsts noticed something was amiss and they weren't usually the most aware of what was going on around them. The woodwinds whispered amongst themselves. The percussion section stood as still and silent as stone. An unusual solemnity washed over the rest of the brass section. How am I supposed to deliver the heartbreaking news that Alice has cancer? Being a teacher, I knew that tragedy would strike my students one day or another. I just didn't expect this.
I wished, more than anything, that I could have held Alice's hand during her first round of chemotherapy. I wanted to tell her not to be scared and let her cry on my shoulder. Just thinking about it, the familiar scent of bleach filled the air around me. I wanted to tell Alice that she was doing well and that she was strong, to get something for her to eat that didn't taste disgusting, to argue with insurance companies about payment plans. I wanted her to ask me if everything was going to be alright and tell her that everything would be, even if I didn't know the outcome.
Mostly, I just wanted to be the father Alice never had. I met him during a parent-teacher conference and he seemed, with regard to Alice's wellbeing as a human, apathetic at best. He just wanted her to crank out a good GPA, even at the expense of her health. As much as I respect performance of any kind, that kind of mindset is what shatters students' hearts. Even if I can repair hearts with music, I know they'll never be the same again. I took a deep breath, pulled out my device, and decided to break the news with three words.
"Alice has cancer."
Shock and confusion passed over my students' faces. A flute, Hannah, asked if she would be okay. With that question, the questions came pouring in. They wanted answers, but they needed comfort. I told them what I could and decided to go on with rehearsing what they will do onstage. Part of being a good performer is putting on a brave face even when you feel anything but. I felt just as shaken as they did, but I still had to lead. We took our seats and listened to the middle school choir.
I saw Alex singing her heart out with the chorus. The glee on her face could light up the darkest mineshaft. I saw Adrian on the other side of the choir singing much more confidently than he ever done before. He wasn't shoving his face in his music. Around me, the lights faded away until one remained to single Alex out.
The hero's heart is heavy.
It bears the weight of all
The sorrows of his people
When he must bear his own.
Alex faded out. Caitlin would be so proud if she heard Alex's solo. Her voice was powerful but maintained a certain level of gentleness. Not only did she sound great, the lyrics hit home with me. It was as if the music department was trying to get into my head. The time came for the beginning band to perform their piece. Alex and Adrian came down from the risers to join the rest of the trumpets. Even without any percussion, the band stayed with me. I liked the piece better without percussion anyway, The flutes played their line more or less in tune despite having learned how to tune the day before. Kaito nailed the bass line. Before, he wouldn't even try it. I was immensely proud of him.
The intermediate band played after that. They played a jazzy piece that showcased our saxophones and their talents. Saxophones are an underrated section. Part of the reason why they are often the worst section in some bands is because the directors simply don't know what to do with them. They choose pieces with the most redundant, anticlimactic harmony lines and never give the saxes any reason to improve. Improvement never occurs in a vacuum. It is something that needs a catalyst, an incentive.
The day continued on as I did roughly the same things with the high school band. Kyle missed his timpani solo. (How dare you. We worked on this!) We had to run through that part again and resolve a few tuning issues in the flutes. Other than that, the high school band performed well. I conducted the orchestra and band in a symphonic piece of the orchestra director's selection. I was pleasantly surprised by the sound that came out of the strings and how they conducted themselves under my direction. They snapped to attention and watched me in a way that just doesn't happen with the orchestra director.
As the rest of the day progressed, I got prepared for the concert. My hair was all over the place, so I ran a brush through it. I plastered the flyaways with water and took another look at my reflection. The man looking back at me had a confident countenance, one that masked any trace of worry with the sparkle in his eyes. This was the guy who tuned his brass band to a B flat at every concert and strode onstage radiating confidence.
I entered the band room to find a few students milling around and playing some scales. Kyle tuned the timpani so it wouldn't be on completely different notes during the concert. More students poured in later. I told them to leave their cases against the wall to minimize tripping hazards. After leading them in some long tones and tuning, Alex raised her hand.
"Do you want me to go with the choir or you guys for the start of the concert?"
"You choose." Alex thought about this for a moment, looking at her choir music and then at Adrian. Both of them are on par with each other with regards to technical trumpet skill, but Alex has the edge of confidence. Still, I respected the fact that Alex's heart resided in her voice. Alex chose to stay with the band.
The flow of the concert allowed me to hear--truly hear--everyone's progress, not only musically, but in all other areas as well. Kyle's heart was truly in the music and Andreas lead the flutes with his quiet confidence. Both of them made grilled apple turnovers for after the concert; I could tell from the scent in the lobby and the foil package marked "From Kyle and Andreas". Alex proved herself a serious vocalist with her solo and chose to support her friend instead of doing what she really wanted to do. That takes some serious character to do. Adrian had some newfound confidence and looked me in the eye instead of shoving his face in the music stand. Kaito contributed to something bigger than himself and went from barely tolerating the din of the band room to being a frequent contributor to the noise.
And me? My previous self thought of nothing but his own image, how he measured up against everyone else. He was an insecure, conniving, hedonistic shell of a human, just some, in Caitlin's words, "stupid jock" who aimlessly chased the spotlight. I wanted to be the hero I always saw on TV, the one in shining armor who defeated his enemies effortlessly, sword in hand. Later, I've come to realize that some heroes wear skirts and leg braces while slaying the monsters of ignorance and laziness one brain at a time.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
According to Plan (Alice)
Never in my life did I think I'd be poked and prodded with so many needles. Never did I think I'd have cancer. Never did I'd see so many nurses in one place.
Never did I think anyone would care about me so much.
The burning sensation of chemotherapy running through my veins startled me. I was still sleepy from the other medicine, but powering through sleep deprivation is a skill I have honed over the years. A nurse gave me a book of classic fairy tales. I turned to one about a boy who found a magical golden creeper idol in a tree and used it to become a prince by getting a very serious princess to laugh. I wanted a nice girl to do this for me. I've found a few girls at Mindcrack to be cute, but I'm scared to tell them about it. For one thing, I'm not pretty, talented, or clever enough to fake being the two. For another, they may find it weird for a girl to be attracted to other girls.
I found another one about a girl so small she could fit in a dandelion. The illustration looked suspiciously like my private teacher. The story also reminded me of my mother when she was nice, the days when she would do pretty much anything to get a laugh or a smile out of me. I remembered when she bandaged my knee after I tripped killing a zombie and stealing its boots. I grew into those boots eventually and I'm proud of them. They're a reminder that somewhere, someone cares. I'm not sure who, but someone does.
My mom actually used to care about me, before everything went downhill when, in the fourth grade, we lost most of our money and I had to start working. She began to demand more and more from me. Since I barely slept because she started screaming for pain meds in the middle of the night, my grades began to decline, which caused her to start berating me for those.
89...88...87....86
The trend continued from there. I started playing trumpet because I thought I'd be good on that instrument. When I missed a note, she would tell me it was terrible. I ended up giving up in seventh grade, thinking I could never be good enough, not just for the trumpet, but in every area of life as well. No college wants a student with my GPA, so I'll most likely end up scrubbing tables for the rest of my life.
An intense wave of nausea crashed into me. I've heard of chemotherapy having these effects, but experiencing it still shocked me. I made my way to the bathroom and expelled the contents of my stomach into the toilet. After going back to my bed, a nurse reassured me that this was normal. She brought me a glass of water, a boiled egg, and some rice topped with nori. I bit into the egg and the rice, which tasted like metal. I spit it out. How do eggs taste like metal of all things? Again, a nurse reassured me that this was normal. If this is normal, I'd hate to experience something abnormal. The nurse returned with another tray of food: apple juice, a bowl of cream of wheat with some brown sugar, and some strawberries. Though I was still thrown off by the metallic-tasting eggs, I spooned some cream of wheat and brown sugar into my mouth. The sweetness distracted me from the unsettling feeling in my mouth. I ate a strawberry, its acidity a welcome contrast to what was in my bowl. Though hospital food was supposedly not all that good, I felt as though I had eaten like a queen when I was done.
Pleased with this, the nurse took my tray and another nurse took me for more testing. I've haven't gotten around to memorizing their names yet, but I do know their different persons like the back of my hand. The one who escorted me to the testing room was plump and had skin the color of oak planks. I looked at her name tag and found that her name is Angela. She took my blood and told me that everything was going more or less as planned.
When I was going back to my room, I felt the world being pulled from under my feet. Angela caught me and returned me to my bed. Although I wanted desperately, to sleep, I got to folding cranes. I wanted to honor my teacher by practicing her art. Everything is going according to plan, Angela had said to me. This certainly wasn't in my plan, but I know the nurses are working hard to keep me--and everyone else--healthy and happy to the fullest possible extent.
Never did I think anyone would care about me so much.
The burning sensation of chemotherapy running through my veins startled me. I was still sleepy from the other medicine, but powering through sleep deprivation is a skill I have honed over the years. A nurse gave me a book of classic fairy tales. I turned to one about a boy who found a magical golden creeper idol in a tree and used it to become a prince by getting a very serious princess to laugh. I wanted a nice girl to do this for me. I've found a few girls at Mindcrack to be cute, but I'm scared to tell them about it. For one thing, I'm not pretty, talented, or clever enough to fake being the two. For another, they may find it weird for a girl to be attracted to other girls.
I found another one about a girl so small she could fit in a dandelion. The illustration looked suspiciously like my private teacher. The story also reminded me of my mother when she was nice, the days when she would do pretty much anything to get a laugh or a smile out of me. I remembered when she bandaged my knee after I tripped killing a zombie and stealing its boots. I grew into those boots eventually and I'm proud of them. They're a reminder that somewhere, someone cares. I'm not sure who, but someone does.
My mom actually used to care about me, before everything went downhill when, in the fourth grade, we lost most of our money and I had to start working. She began to demand more and more from me. Since I barely slept because she started screaming for pain meds in the middle of the night, my grades began to decline, which caused her to start berating me for those.
89...88...87....86
The trend continued from there. I started playing trumpet because I thought I'd be good on that instrument. When I missed a note, she would tell me it was terrible. I ended up giving up in seventh grade, thinking I could never be good enough, not just for the trumpet, but in every area of life as well. No college wants a student with my GPA, so I'll most likely end up scrubbing tables for the rest of my life.
An intense wave of nausea crashed into me. I've heard of chemotherapy having these effects, but experiencing it still shocked me. I made my way to the bathroom and expelled the contents of my stomach into the toilet. After going back to my bed, a nurse reassured me that this was normal. She brought me a glass of water, a boiled egg, and some rice topped with nori. I bit into the egg and the rice, which tasted like metal. I spit it out. How do eggs taste like metal of all things? Again, a nurse reassured me that this was normal. If this is normal, I'd hate to experience something abnormal. The nurse returned with another tray of food: apple juice, a bowl of cream of wheat with some brown sugar, and some strawberries. Though I was still thrown off by the metallic-tasting eggs, I spooned some cream of wheat and brown sugar into my mouth. The sweetness distracted me from the unsettling feeling in my mouth. I ate a strawberry, its acidity a welcome contrast to what was in my bowl. Though hospital food was supposedly not all that good, I felt as though I had eaten like a queen when I was done.
Pleased with this, the nurse took my tray and another nurse took me for more testing. I've haven't gotten around to memorizing their names yet, but I do know their different persons like the back of my hand. The one who escorted me to the testing room was plump and had skin the color of oak planks. I looked at her name tag and found that her name is Angela. She took my blood and told me that everything was going more or less as planned.
When I was going back to my room, I felt the world being pulled from under my feet. Angela caught me and returned me to my bed. Although I wanted desperately, to sleep, I got to folding cranes. I wanted to honor my teacher by practicing her art. Everything is going according to plan, Angela had said to me. This certainly wasn't in my plan, but I know the nurses are working hard to keep me--and everyone else--healthy and happy to the fullest possible extent.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Misfortune and Mistreatment (Caitlin)
Well, my head's wrapped and covered in wires. I'm not supposed to do combat or anything that makes me sweat. That wasn't really a problem because I don't sweat easily. I'm not much of a fighter either. I'm more of the person who runs far away from danger, hides, and cries a lot until someone rescues me. A lot of my haters say they support all races, ages, genders, and orientations. I could see that they deliberately left out personality types and political ideologies to have a basis for attacking me.
"Any questions?" The technician packed up as my class filed out the door.
"Yes. How am I supposed to teach my private students, get interviewed, and perform at a concert like this?"
"Wow, you're busy!" She looked surprised. "How do you do all that?"
"I love it. It may make my life shorter, but it makes my life worth living. I'm also getting married in a week."
"To who?" The technician's eyes lit up.
"You've probably seen him on TV. I'll give you a hint. His name is Steve."
"The sleazy talk show host?" She raised her eyebrows disapprovingly.
"No. The slayer of the Ender Dragon." The technician nodded, indicating her understanding, and then stared at me in disbelief. "I know. I'm the luckiest woman in the world, doing what I love with the man I love."
"Indeed you are!" she exclaimed, though her countenance said otherwise. Her job mandates that she see the worst aspects of peoples' lives, so I wasn't all that surprised by her response. She left after that, presumably to wrap someone else's head.
Teaching the guitar class went reasonably well, considering that I know very little of the instrument's workings. It gave me more of an opportunity to have students solve problems on their own and on the fly, which is something every musician needs to learn how to do. I played a concert with the orchestra yesterday with a very chipped reed and managed to play decently. Speaking of playing decently, my students were making some excellent progress.
Adrian has an ongoing stroke of misfortune, it seems. According to what Alex said to me, he apparently got so nervous he wet his pants and started crying shortly before the fall concert. Fortunately, he was able to go onstage after a change of clothes and and some encouraging words from another band member. However, he is nervous that it will happen again during the next concert. I will find ways to remedy his anxieties shortly. Given that Adrian is such a nice kid, I want him to have better luck in the future.
Kaito had an excellent performance and was beginning to make a few friends in band. I noticed that he was talking more and his verbal abilities showed a great improvement. This transfer of skills is not uncommon either. Alex got (begrudgingly) better at singing harmony and letting others have a crack at the tune. She made about five new friends as well. Carmen will be the youngest participant in Minecraft's solo and ensemble in just a month. Naturally, I'm incredibly proud of her.
And Alice? Alice is at the hospital awaiting psych evaluations. I don't know what she was doing all the way in another universe, but she is safe and that's what's important. I'm so glad the doctor decided
against meeting her mother because, to put it nicely, she doesn't care about Alice at all. Everything she says to Alice is one big middle finger to her face.
Not only does she abuse Alice, she had the nerve to accuse Steve of cheating on me with this supermodel who neither of us know about other than how she threw her drink in a bartender's face because it didn't taste right. How she would even remotely appeal to Steve as a person I don't know. We are still trying to clear up that scandal and explain to the public that Steve would do nothing of
the sort.
Speaking of that, the interviewer came in and asked me about the incident.
"It would be very out of character for Steve to do such a thing."
"How would you know that?"
"I live with him. Trust me, I'd know if he were doing things like that." Since I was unwilling to be questioned further, much to the reporter's dismay, he moved onto another topic.
"What do you have to say about brass instruments and toxic masculinity?"My sixth graders could easily ask better questions than this
"Although instrument tends to reflect personality, I don't think it shares any connection with such a concept." I tried not to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the question. After a few more questions about why I was so passive and disengaged, I was about ready to cry. Why is it that, if I erred on the side of aggressive, I'd be more readily understood than if I were more reticent?
Carmen came in with her solo and ensemble piece. Not only do I want her to do well, I wanted her to be the best. Being nine years old, she may not be taken as seriously. Taking that and her visual impairment into account, she has more than her work cut out for her. We worked on cleaning up the runs and articulations. Crossing the break is a rough spot for her as it is for every clarinetist, so we got that squared away. Her piece of choice was very fast and technical, which is the type of piece she plays best. At the end of the lesson, she asked me what the wires were for. Instead of flipping out and being snarky as is commonly suggested, I said that my neurologist wanted to study my brain and use the information to benefit me. I was glad that Carmen asked. It's way better than staring.
Nathan came in with his band music and his solo and ensemble piece. He had a slow, lyrical piece that Steve picked out for him. I suggested that he do a bit of vibrato on the longer notes.
"I thought vibrato was for flutes!" Nathan seemed amused by the notion of vibrato on horn.
"Oh, trust me. it's for every instrument!" Upon trying it, I heard this awful jackhammer sound. After telling him to smooth it out, he switched to a slower, but still choppy, vibrato. We worked more some stylistic things such as where to push and pull. He showed very little interest in the wires on my head (or much of anything besides not fracking high notes, for that matter). After a few questions, he left.
Now that that was squared away, I clambered into bed and closed my eyes. The sweet release of sleep washed over me. After that, I woke up. Steve was working with some students from another school on lip slurs and fingerings. He would meet me at the performance venue.
Upon meeting at the venue, Steve gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and we divided to warm up in our different sections. The horns were playing lip slurs and scales. We ran through the parts where I had my solos, which turned out terrible. But a bad run through means a good concert, right?
After a group run through in which Steve forgot to come in, it was time for the concert. We made our way onstage with Landon carrying my stand as well as his own. He made no noise, even with the tap shoes. We played our opening number as if it were audition day all over again. This band was responsible, not only for much of my growth as a hornist, but as a person as well. I gained confidence I didn't even think was possible. I made a friend I never thought I'd have.
As the rest of the concert progressed, I thought of how each song reflected the player's personality. Mark made the audience laugh--and he did the choreography, which meant that he was getting a raise. The other solo numbers suited their performers just as well. After that, Landon switched instruments and tapped while playing trumpet, an impressive feat. He even, despite my advice, did a back flip with his trumpet in hand. With that, we had intermission. That was odd, seeing that we have played all of our listed numbers.
My phone rang, thing had a phone call. Due to my last experience with a phone call during intermission, I felt incredibly nervous. My hands shook so much I could barely hold my phone. I took a deep breath and answered.
"Hello?"
"This is Dr. Shelder. Alice Alder is under our care. Since we couldn't get any word from her mother, we decided to contact you." Oh no. Oh no. How was Alice? Was she okay? "Well, we have some bad news."
"Alice's blood work results look pretty odd. For one thing, her blood cell count is very low across the board and she's displaying several symptoms of anemia. The most severe is shortness of breath. She got winded walking to get food, which is odd given that she is accustomed to physical labor." Alice did seem to have poorer breath support lately. "We ran some further testing and concluded that Alice has ALL."
"What is that?" I wanted to sound more intelligent, but my head was spinning with worry. How did I not notice the symptoms?
"Acute lymphocytic leukemia. Even worse, it spread to her central nervous system. She said she wasn't feeling well today and then had a seizure. We transferred her to neurology just now. She has no diagnosis of epilepsy, is that correct?" Dr. Shelder talked about treatments, survival rates, and a whole host of other things, but I didn't really hear the rest. Steve came to ask me what was wrong. I wanted to speak, but I couldn't form the words. Even if I could, I felt like I would vomit if I opened my mouth. I continued silently to the rest of the performance.
"Since our musicians are so talented, it is my pleasure to embarrass them publicly. I meant praise their talents. Let's start with Miss Caitlin Netherfield." Wait, what? Why am I getting commended in front of a crowd? Still, I didn't feel compelled to celebrate. Alice's life was on the line. "You could feel the emotion in her first solo as if she were really auditioning to be with us." The others received their praises, and, though I smiled, I felt like I didn't really mean it. After the applause died as the last member was acknowledge, I ducked into a small room backstage and called Alice's mother.
"Such a bad child for running away. Doesn't she know what's good for her?"
"She's been hospitalized for depression." I added that you caused in my head. However, this was not a time for spite.
"Hospitalized? For depression? That insensitive little brat should realize her place in the world." Alice is the furthest thing from an insensitive brat. She has the strongest work ethic of anyone I know, student or teacher.
"Anyway, the doctors found out she has ALL, acute lymphocytic leukemia. It spread to her central nervous system and..." I did not want my voice to break. Not now. I needed to sound strong and professional.
"And what? And she finally realized what it's like to be me taking several pills a say just to not feel like I'm on fire?" That was it. No one uses disability as an excuse for mistreating my students.
"I'd be more concerned about the fact that Alice has cancer and could possibly die than whatever's going on with you at the moment. Do you think that I, someone with epilepsy, wanted her to know what it's like for me to have a seizure? Of course not. Those things are terrible. You have been nothing but petty and downright abusive."
"I'm reporting you for malicious speech." She hung up frantically before I could say more. I've never felt more angry. What drives someone to belittle another person like that, especially their own child?
"Any questions?" The technician packed up as my class filed out the door.
"Yes. How am I supposed to teach my private students, get interviewed, and perform at a concert like this?"
"Wow, you're busy!" She looked surprised. "How do you do all that?"
"I love it. It may make my life shorter, but it makes my life worth living. I'm also getting married in a week."
"To who?" The technician's eyes lit up.
"You've probably seen him on TV. I'll give you a hint. His name is Steve."
"The sleazy talk show host?" She raised her eyebrows disapprovingly.
"No. The slayer of the Ender Dragon." The technician nodded, indicating her understanding, and then stared at me in disbelief. "I know. I'm the luckiest woman in the world, doing what I love with the man I love."
"Indeed you are!" she exclaimed, though her countenance said otherwise. Her job mandates that she see the worst aspects of peoples' lives, so I wasn't all that surprised by her response. She left after that, presumably to wrap someone else's head.
Teaching the guitar class went reasonably well, considering that I know very little of the instrument's workings. It gave me more of an opportunity to have students solve problems on their own and on the fly, which is something every musician needs to learn how to do. I played a concert with the orchestra yesterday with a very chipped reed and managed to play decently. Speaking of playing decently, my students were making some excellent progress.
Adrian has an ongoing stroke of misfortune, it seems. According to what Alex said to me, he apparently got so nervous he wet his pants and started crying shortly before the fall concert. Fortunately, he was able to go onstage after a change of clothes and and some encouraging words from another band member. However, he is nervous that it will happen again during the next concert. I will find ways to remedy his anxieties shortly. Given that Adrian is such a nice kid, I want him to have better luck in the future.
Kaito had an excellent performance and was beginning to make a few friends in band. I noticed that he was talking more and his verbal abilities showed a great improvement. This transfer of skills is not uncommon either. Alex got (begrudgingly) better at singing harmony and letting others have a crack at the tune. She made about five new friends as well. Carmen will be the youngest participant in Minecraft's solo and ensemble in just a month. Naturally, I'm incredibly proud of her.
And Alice? Alice is at the hospital awaiting psych evaluations. I don't know what she was doing all the way in another universe, but she is safe and that's what's important. I'm so glad the doctor decided
against meeting her mother because, to put it nicely, she doesn't care about Alice at all. Everything she says to Alice is one big middle finger to her face.
Not only does she abuse Alice, she had the nerve to accuse Steve of cheating on me with this supermodel who neither of us know about other than how she threw her drink in a bartender's face because it didn't taste right. How she would even remotely appeal to Steve as a person I don't know. We are still trying to clear up that scandal and explain to the public that Steve would do nothing of
the sort.
Speaking of that, the interviewer came in and asked me about the incident.
"It would be very out of character for Steve to do such a thing."
"How would you know that?"
"I live with him. Trust me, I'd know if he were doing things like that." Since I was unwilling to be questioned further, much to the reporter's dismay, he moved onto another topic.
"What do you have to say about brass instruments and toxic masculinity?"My sixth graders could easily ask better questions than this
"Although instrument tends to reflect personality, I don't think it shares any connection with such a concept." I tried not to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the question. After a few more questions about why I was so passive and disengaged, I was about ready to cry. Why is it that, if I erred on the side of aggressive, I'd be more readily understood than if I were more reticent?
Carmen came in with her solo and ensemble piece. Not only do I want her to do well, I wanted her to be the best. Being nine years old, she may not be taken as seriously. Taking that and her visual impairment into account, she has more than her work cut out for her. We worked on cleaning up the runs and articulations. Crossing the break is a rough spot for her as it is for every clarinetist, so we got that squared away. Her piece of choice was very fast and technical, which is the type of piece she plays best. At the end of the lesson, she asked me what the wires were for. Instead of flipping out and being snarky as is commonly suggested, I said that my neurologist wanted to study my brain and use the information to benefit me. I was glad that Carmen asked. It's way better than staring.
Nathan came in with his band music and his solo and ensemble piece. He had a slow, lyrical piece that Steve picked out for him. I suggested that he do a bit of vibrato on the longer notes.
"I thought vibrato was for flutes!" Nathan seemed amused by the notion of vibrato on horn.
"Oh, trust me. it's for every instrument!" Upon trying it, I heard this awful jackhammer sound. After telling him to smooth it out, he switched to a slower, but still choppy, vibrato. We worked more some stylistic things such as where to push and pull. He showed very little interest in the wires on my head (or much of anything besides not fracking high notes, for that matter). After a few questions, he left.
Now that that was squared away, I clambered into bed and closed my eyes. The sweet release of sleep washed over me. After that, I woke up. Steve was working with some students from another school on lip slurs and fingerings. He would meet me at the performance venue.
Upon meeting at the venue, Steve gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and we divided to warm up in our different sections. The horns were playing lip slurs and scales. We ran through the parts where I had my solos, which turned out terrible. But a bad run through means a good concert, right?
After a group run through in which Steve forgot to come in, it was time for the concert. We made our way onstage with Landon carrying my stand as well as his own. He made no noise, even with the tap shoes. We played our opening number as if it were audition day all over again. This band was responsible, not only for much of my growth as a hornist, but as a person as well. I gained confidence I didn't even think was possible. I made a friend I never thought I'd have.
As the rest of the concert progressed, I thought of how each song reflected the player's personality. Mark made the audience laugh--and he did the choreography, which meant that he was getting a raise. The other solo numbers suited their performers just as well. After that, Landon switched instruments and tapped while playing trumpet, an impressive feat. He even, despite my advice, did a back flip with his trumpet in hand. With that, we had intermission. That was odd, seeing that we have played all of our listed numbers.
My phone rang, thing had a phone call. Due to my last experience with a phone call during intermission, I felt incredibly nervous. My hands shook so much I could barely hold my phone. I took a deep breath and answered.
"Hello?"
"This is Dr. Shelder. Alice Alder is under our care. Since we couldn't get any word from her mother, we decided to contact you." Oh no. Oh no. How was Alice? Was she okay? "Well, we have some bad news."
"Alice's blood work results look pretty odd. For one thing, her blood cell count is very low across the board and she's displaying several symptoms of anemia. The most severe is shortness of breath. She got winded walking to get food, which is odd given that she is accustomed to physical labor." Alice did seem to have poorer breath support lately. "We ran some further testing and concluded that Alice has ALL."
"What is that?" I wanted to sound more intelligent, but my head was spinning with worry. How did I not notice the symptoms?
"Acute lymphocytic leukemia. Even worse, it spread to her central nervous system. She said she wasn't feeling well today and then had a seizure. We transferred her to neurology just now. She has no diagnosis of epilepsy, is that correct?" Dr. Shelder talked about treatments, survival rates, and a whole host of other things, but I didn't really hear the rest. Steve came to ask me what was wrong. I wanted to speak, but I couldn't form the words. Even if I could, I felt like I would vomit if I opened my mouth. I continued silently to the rest of the performance.
"Since our musicians are so talented, it is my pleasure to embarrass them publicly. I meant praise their talents. Let's start with Miss Caitlin Netherfield." Wait, what? Why am I getting commended in front of a crowd? Still, I didn't feel compelled to celebrate. Alice's life was on the line. "You could feel the emotion in her first solo as if she were really auditioning to be with us." The others received their praises, and, though I smiled, I felt like I didn't really mean it. After the applause died as the last member was acknowledge, I ducked into a small room backstage and called Alice's mother.
"Such a bad child for running away. Doesn't she know what's good for her?"
"She's been hospitalized for depression." I added that you caused in my head. However, this was not a time for spite.
"Hospitalized? For depression? That insensitive little brat should realize her place in the world." Alice is the furthest thing from an insensitive brat. She has the strongest work ethic of anyone I know, student or teacher.
"Anyway, the doctors found out she has ALL, acute lymphocytic leukemia. It spread to her central nervous system and..." I did not want my voice to break. Not now. I needed to sound strong and professional.
"And what? And she finally realized what it's like to be me taking several pills a say just to not feel like I'm on fire?" That was it. No one uses disability as an excuse for mistreating my students.
"I'd be more concerned about the fact that Alice has cancer and could possibly die than whatever's going on with you at the moment. Do you think that I, someone with epilepsy, wanted her to know what it's like for me to have a seizure? Of course not. Those things are terrible. You have been nothing but petty and downright abusive."
"I'm reporting you for malicious speech." She hung up frantically before I could say more. I've never felt more angry. What drives someone to belittle another person like that, especially their own child?
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