Gifted Connections 1

I dreaded my last class of the day. I didn’t want to see Mr. Jace. I had an emotionally draining day. I was still exhausted from my lack of sleep. The idea of possibly seeing Tom this afternoon filled me with dread. I was on edge from my conversation with Mr. Diesel, and Bridgette and her Bubble Gum Squad (like bubble gum when you blew them up they were filled with warm air) had been bothering me all day long. I was looking forward to picking up Ella, going shopping, throwing together a healthy meal for us, and possibly going to bed early tonight.

I was dragging my feet as I took my seat next to the baby grand piano. It dominated the whole stage. This class wasn’t held in a conventional classroom; it was held in the old gymnasium and had various musical instruments scattered throughout the room.

Most of the students brought their own instruments in, but I didn’t have any. Heidi had sold my guitar and my dad’s piano that I had learned to play on.

I was the only one in this class that favored the piano. Over eighty percent of the class was female and they weren’t even musically inclined. They had triangles, flutes, cymbals and other instruments that they messed around with; not really wanting to learn anything. They just hovered around Mr. Jace and asked him annoyingly obvious questions for most of the class.

Somedays he would teach us musical history, and other days he treated it like a free period, and we played our instruments. Some students surrounded Mr. Jace, some sat in groups and gossiped, and the rest of the class used the time to work on homework and study. I had study period the class before this so my homework was complete, and I had studied calculus and physics for an upcoming test this Friday.

Today was a free day, and I was looking forward to tickling my fingers on the ivory keys. When it came to music, it was my escape. All my inhibitions would slip away, and I would get lost in the music. It was in those moments I felt closest to my dad. It tore me to pieces to know his features were fading in my memories. The one and only picture I had of him was my only reminder of him physically. His voice, his love of music, the gentle way he had taught me, was a strong reminder of him when I played. Somedays I just plucked at the keys not wanting to play. Other days, like today, I know I needed the music to carry me away. To soothe my troubled thoughts.

I was currently working on an original composition. Our first practical test was next week, and I wanted to be ready for it. I knew this class was somewhat of a joke. I knew I could work hard on this composition, but the level of difficulty wasn’t considered. Airhead Bridgette could get an A for accompanying a soundtrack with her tambourine just as easy as I could by spending weeks on a song I wrote from my heart and soul. Sometimes I felt it was highly unfair, but in the end, I knew this class gave me the opportunity for an ou

tlet I had nowhere else.

“Okay class,” Mr. Jace called to us for our attention. “As you know your practical test is next week, so I would like you to continue working on your project, and I will come around the room if you need any help.”

His eyes settled briefly on me, but I quickly turned away. I didn’t want to talk to him. I needed to be left alone.

Most of the students picked up their instruments and started playing around with them. I knew only four of us really had any true talent. The other three people in my class that were proficient generally gravitated towards each other since they were in a band together; they took the time to practice the cover music they normally performed at the coffee shop downtown on Friday nights. They were often nice to me and tried to become friends with me on numerous occasions, but I was intentionally vague and explained that I was busy every time they asked me to play the keyboard for them.

I took my hoodie off and set it on top of my messenger bag and pulled off one of my hair ties from around my wrist to tie back my unruly black curls. I was getting down to business today. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let my fingers take control of the keys. The background noise faded to nothingness. The only sound that filled my ears was my music that poured from my heart and out into the keys. I knew my piece was a bit dark, hopeless, and filled with longing. To an unpracticed ear, I sounded like an angry emo kid, and to anyone who had a sincere appreciation of music they knew it was original, and it was my inner voice screaming. Later, after I released everything from within, I would fill in the notes on my sheet music. Some of the songs in my heart had a melody. Sometimes, in the privacy of my room, I would add the words that the music was trying to convey. This composition had no words.

Several moments later I finally released a deep breath and opened my eyes. The room was deadly quiet. I looked up, startled. Did I get so lost in the music that I lost track of time? Did the bell ring without me hearing it?

Nope, not my luck. Everyone stopped what they were doing and gazed up at me with various looks of wonder, surprise, and disgust (these glares coming from the Bubble Gum Squad; they hated not being the center of attention).

I ducked my head in embarrassment as the band kids started clapping, followed by most of the class. I didn’t need a mirror to know that my face was a disconcerting shade of red.

“Well done, Blake,” Mr. Jace said after the applause. “Everyone carry on.” He dismissed the rest of the class as he made his way over to me.

It seemed like I was screwing up left and right lately. Can’t a girl catch a break?

I could hear the Bubble Gum Squad clearly as Bridgette hissed at one of her cronies. “She’s not good. The only thing I heard that she’s good at is being a doorknob. Everyone gets a turn.”

Her friend in question looked thoroughly chastised, not wanting to be outcasted from the squad. The others looked sympathetically at the poor girl but still laughed as if Bridgette said the funniest thing in the world. They knew anyone that fell from Bridgette’s good graces was bullied from there on out. Bridgette immediately preened, happy to be the center of attention once more.

“‘Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.’” Mr. Jace turned towards Bridgette and her group. “Ms. Mason, I want you to tell me who said that and write an additional two-page report on spreading hate. I expect it to be turned in by tomorrow or you will immediately lose a full letter grade on your next quiz.”

Bridgette turned red, embarrassed, but still haughty as she crossed her arms and looked at him defiantly. “You can’t do that. My daddy will be here within moments.” She pulled out her phone as if threatening him.

Mr. Jace looked at her coldly, but said in a gentle tone, “Bridgette, I know your dad very well, as you know. If I were to inform Theodore on the whole situation I am sure he will agree with my decision.”

Several people laughed around the room, happy she was getting her comeuppance. She just glared at me, as if I was to blame, and stormed to the bleachers.

Mr. Jace made his way over to the piano as I turned on the bench and straddled it; absently tracing the wood grain with my fingertips. I noticed he was clean shaven, and well put together as always in his designer clothing and shoes.

“How’s everything going today?” he asked as he took a seat on the bench next to me with his back to the piano. I tried not to inhale too deeply. He always smelled pleasantly of leather and had a faint citrus smell.

I tried to shake these new feelings I was experiencing. They were disturbing and unwelcome. My life was complicated enough without a new-found crush on my music teacher. No matter how good he smelled or how attractive he was.

I cleared my throat. “Fine,” I muttered. Still not willing to talk.

He nodded but sighed. “Okay.” He turned around. “Do you mind if I join you on that piece you were working on? An original?” he asked me with a raised eyebrow.

Reluctantly, I nodded. I hadn’t played with anyone else in over seven years. Not since my dad passed. He hesitated but went to his desk, pulling out his violin from its case. I rarely heard him play, but I knew he was talented. The few times I heard him play I heard the complexity of his soul. He was an easy-going, laid-back, and kind teacher, but after hearing him play one afternoon when I came to class early, I knew he was so much deeper than his appearance.

I took the time to write more notes on the music sheet in front of me that I had added today as he tuned his instrument. I tried to ignore my sudden nervousness and shaking of my hands.