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Music

Joyous Ensemble

    In Shenzhen, China, the night before my first performance on tour with the Joyous String Ensemble, one of the youngest string ensembles in the world, I dreamt of a plum. Up close, it was a combination of pink, red, and orange. In front of me, two paths intersected, forming a shape like a cross, with an aqua pond in the middle and a spectacular fountain hovering in midair that had flowing, agile water, spouting melted diamonds and crystals. I looked down and was surprised to see that I was floating above the glass path, which encased running water with huge koi and calypso fish. They swam smoothly and gracefully, whipping their tails in an airy, wavelike way. There were a bunch of trees surrounding me. I could smell fruity scents and the cherry blossoms; the aroma was pure and sweet, not at all strong and overwhelming like most garden scents. I tried propelling myself by swinging my arms like helicopter blades. I went up . . . up . . . and up . . . as if I might touch the clouds. The next night, I felt a bright white light on me. Then green. Then blue. Then purple, which made the violin look orange and made my Pirastro Evah Pirazzi Gold’s bottom glow in the dark. The light testing was over. I smiled at the audience and waved, following the others, and tried my best to look straight ahead, not at anyone in particular. There was just this blurry wavering sea of heads stretched in every direction. I raised my violin to my chin, and we began our set. Accompanying us on the piano was Mr. Julian Yu, the director of the Joyous String Ensemble and an accomplished composer, conductor, and performing pianist. He has been an inspirational mentor, teaching us how to genuinely enjoy the wonders of music. He said that music is not just a sound but also an emotion, like happiness, sadness, regret, or love. He’s encouraged us to use the power of music to spread love and kindness. He believes that music can help save lives and change the world. I doubted this at first, but now, I believe that all of these ideas are within reach. As I played that night, I was brimming with nervousness, but I focused on how happy everyone had looked on the car ride to the theater. My happiest memories of being in this ensemble have taken place right before each performance—everyone excited and ready to communicate with the audience through music. Our first piece was “Summer” by Vivaldi, which slowly morphed into “Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson. Adrenaline flooded my body; the energy around the stage was magnetic, and I felt my bow moving with forces that seemed inside and outside of me at the same time. I smiled in my heart and wondered if my friends felt the same. The first set flew by, and then the second, and before I knew it the performance was over! So quickly, it was hard to track individual moments, but by the end, standing up before an audience cheering and hooting—my crazy dad especially, who kept yelling through his cupped hands—suggested it had been a success. I just kept thinking to myself, keep smiling . . . After the performance, we rode back to our hotel, where we were staying high up on the 24th floor. I gazed out the window to the streets busy with people scrambling about, advertising salesmen shoving papers into people’s hands, bicycles zigzagging in every direction. My parents called to me, reminding me to get my rest, since the next day we’d be leaving early for Beijing. I flopped into bed, cactus-style, and couldn’t help smiling again, replaying parts of the performance before I fell asleep. I had yellow watermelon for breakfast the next morning. It was soft, not as crisp as the red kind I was used to, but sweeter. It took me a while to wrap my brain around yellow juice and black seeds meshed together. Yet another reminder that I was in a new place, far from home, where I couldn’t expect to follow the same routine, or to experience the same tastes, smells, or sounds. Same as the music of chopsticks clinking together like a drum beat, the sound of knobs turning to send hotpots clicking, the flicker of flames erupting under dishes. Around the corner from our hotel, there was a small alleyway with a bunch of restaurants and a bakery. The next morning, when we left to catch our ride, the whole street was alive with spices filling my nose, sweetly offset by freshly baked bread and sugar. Our second performance was even more nerve-wracking because we would be performing with Master Lu Si Qing, the best violinist in China and one of my idols. The fact that I was going to accompany him seemed impossible. When we first met him backstage, I marveled over his shiny blue jacket and perfectly creased pants. On stage, he stood before us, chasing the melody of every piece. I felt his raw energy as he rocked and swayed, almost like the violin was an extension of his body, the music living inside him all along. Almost every face in the audience hid behind a videotaping phone, which I imagined made us look like little halos of light around our master. We accompanied him for Vivaldi’s Double Concerto, another dizzying blur. I remember this intense feeling of fatigue and excitement afterward, as the audience roared in a standing ovation. Each young player received a rose, and I was thrilled to get the reddish purple one I’d been hoping for, one that reminded me of the plum in my dream. We all exited the stage, and I was surprised when we were served glasses of water on a black tray. I slowly sipped the water, relishing its smooth, sweet taste. “ I started to think every object was part of

Rock-Star Nightmare

Thump, thump, thump. My heart beat like an animal, slapping its tail on the ground. Wiggly worms crawled in my stomach. My mom called it “butterflies in your stomach.” I looked up to see a domed spiraling ceiling, the only window. I nibbled my fingers and desperately tried not to cry. “Tamari, you’ll have fun,” my mom said to me in a gentle voice. And right after she finished her sentence, a lady appeared from down the hall. I darted behind my mom’s pink dress as fast as an arrow and buried my head in it. I squeezed my eyes tightly, letting hot tears crawl down my pale cheeks. My mouth was held shut by my dry bony hands. Oh, why did my mom take me to rock-and-roll school for my birthday present? She knows I am shy! My teacher came click-clacking over in her high heels. The sound echoed across the empty huge, dim room. My teacher immediately saw me and exclaimed, “Well hello! You must be Tamari, right?” “Uh huh,’’ I whispered, wishing I could disappear. Wet sweat rolled down my messy brown hair. “We’ll go now,” my teacher, who had red cheeks and a big smile she couldn’t wipe off her face, told my mom. Mom, please don’t leave, I thought furiously. Then the teacher pulled me down the hall. Dim lights shone on the eerie cold quiet hallway. A discomforting smell of leather combined with sweat filled the hallway, as if hung by an invisible string. Rock-and-roll music sounded from each closed door. Suddenly a familiar girl’s voice called out, “Tamari! Over here!” My hands brushed against the white bumpy hallway, and the ceiling was low. The place looked like a prison. Please don’t cry. That will be embarrassing. I really wish Kamary, my best friend, was here. I hate this place, I thought. My legs felt like Jell-O as I wobbled nervously with my teacher, who held my hand, pulling me across the hallway. Our footsteps rang throughout the empty hall, as the red-and-white stone floor creaked. The sound of the air-conditioning system echoed through the halls. The hallway was an endless row of gray doors. My eyes started to leak out cold wet tears, like a broken pipe. Please, I want to go home. Please, I don’t want to stay. I hate my mom. I hate my teacher. I hate this place. But, worst of all, I hate being shy, I thought. “No need to cry. You’ll have fun,” my teacher assured me in her loud jolly voice. “N-no I-I won’t,” I stammered. “I-I I’m t-too shy.” My teacher bent down and whispered in my left ear, “You’ll have fun,” wrapping her warm hands around me. The rock-and- roll music got louder and louder. I walked slower and slower. I don’t like this. I want to leave, I thought. My heart beat with every step I took. A yummy smell of a flowery perfume took over the discomforting smell. Suddenly a familiar girl’s voice called out, “Tamari! Over here!” I quickly turned my head to see a blond curly-haired girl wearing a blue T-shirt and gray long pants which stretched down to her ankles. It was Kamary, my best friend! I raced over to her as fast as I could and wrapped my arms around her. My heart felt like it got filled with hot chocolate. My eyes filled with joyful tears as I tried not to cry, but it was hard. I could feel the smile growing on my face. Relief filled my forehead and my pale cheeks turned as red as an apple. My teacher smiled and walked over, with her hands on her hips. I could barely hear her say, “I told you.” Yes! She really came! I never knew she would come. Thanks, Mom, for bringing me to the awesome class, I thought. “This place is so nice,” I told her happily. “Yes,” she exclaimed, “with you around.” I felt like I was in a man’s best dream. Together, holding hands, we walked down the hallway to our classroom. It turned out to be all right. Rock-and-rolling is what makes me feel joyful, like a dreamy piece of dark chocolate that flows over your heart. Brian Qi, 10Lexington, Massachusetts Thomas Buchanan, 13Newalla, Oklahoma

Beethoven’s Bargain

He was a strange boy. Some people would say that he was a loner. He usually went his own way and stayed away from others. Nobody knew why. A quiet, sad boy, he hardly ever said much and so he had trouble making friends. But he was smart, very smart. He knew more than he ever revealed. It seemed like he had some kind of deep, dark secret that he kept to himself. Nobody could really understand him, but they were interested in the mystery of him. People came over to his house and rang the bell, but nobody ever answered it. The only time you could see the boy would be at midnight when he was sitting on the lawn looking up at the stars. He never spoke. He just stared at people in the oddest way. Some people believe that he took drugs and drank alcohol. On some nights you could hear him scream. It wasn’t a scream of pain or terror, but more like a long wail, one note, deep and dark like that of a foghorn calling out across a vast sea. If anything, it was a chant echoing distant and lonely. He lived a few houses down from mine and that night, that one night, I heard him. Was he calling out to someone? To me? I decided to find out and so I walked toward it. When I approached the house, I saw a single light on through a small window. As I got closer, I could see him clearly. He was playing the piano. He was lively and quick on the keys, wild, his hair flying everywhere. The music shook the house. . . . in one smooth gesture he threw the book in the air Suddenly, I sneezed. The boy flipped around on the bench and yelled, “Hey you!” I dashed away from the window and ran home. I didn’t see him again for some time but he haunted my mind like a ghost. I knew that I had to find out more about this mysterious neighbor, but I was afraid. He reminded me of a young, mad Beethoven alone in his room. I even expected to see his piano lying flat on the floor with its legs cut off and him with his ear close to the ground listening to the vibrations of the music. Who was this young boy? And why was he so strange? I had to know. For a while I forgot about it, but one day when I least expected it, I saw him again. It was in the park close to my home. I was sitting on a bench reading and enjoying the warm weather. As I looked up, I saw him in the distance. My first instinct was to leave, but something kept me there. The boy got closer and closer and then he stopped and stared at me for a long time. I wanted to run but I could not turn away. He started to walk slowly toward me and stopped a few feet away. He was carrying a book and I was close enough to see the title. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The title of the book was “Simon.” I stared at him and back at the book. The boy slowly walked away, stopped, looked back at me, smiling, and in one smooth gesture threw the book in the air. It flew! Up, up, up beyond the clouds. I watched it. It was amazing as it came down, slowly, inch by inch, and settled right into my lap. I looked at the boy. He had disappeared! I didn’t know what to think or what I was feeling and so I sat there for what seemed an eternity. The book lay on my lap. There was no mistake about it. On the cover was written “Simon” in the handwriting of a young child. My hand trembled as I carefully opened it. “My name is Simon. I am eleven years old and this is my story. I am a child of the late twentieth century, born in a time when the century and the world were about to change. “I missed most of the last hundred years, a period in history of many wars, disasters, but also of triumphs. I have heard my parents talking about all the good and evil of this time, of peace and war. Millions of innocent people were killed all over the world. The planet became polluted. Natural disasters destroyed cities and countries. There were revolutions, assassinations, inventions that saved lives and others that threatened to destroy the earth. Man walked on the moon and we looked for strangers from other worlds but never found any. These and other countless victories and defeats were part of the century I missed. I am the child of parents who were a part of these events and I learned about them through their eyes. “Together we now face the future and no one knows what the twenty-first century will bring. I will be twelve years old when it begins. I will grow up and die in the twenty-first century. During that time, I hope that the world will be a better place . . .” I stopped reading. I felt as if I was in a time warp. I certainly never wrote that story, but it was about me. It gave me the shivers. My mind raced. I started to sweat and shake. Was I in a nightmare? I was about to throw the book away but thought better of it. I put it in my bag and walked away trying to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I decided to write a note: Who are you? Where did you come from? Why did you write to me. What do you want? Simon I took the note, snuck out of the house in the cover of darkness to his house. There was a