INTRODUCTION Helen Silverstein tried to fight back tears as she sat in the passenger’s seat of her mother’s sleek, blue Dodge. Despite the fact that Olivia Roi Silverstein, her mother, was almost breaking the speed limit, Helen felt that she could never be far enough away from her viola teacher’s house. The woman’s harsh words still rang in her ears: “You need to work on this! It won’t just come to you one day, you know.” Helen had spent weeks perfecting the Bach sonata and three-octave arpeggios that she had just played flawlessly, or so Helen thought. Obviously, her teacher thought that the performance was far from flawless. In fact, she seemed to find a fault in every note: the pitch was flat or sharp, her bow was crooked, her instrument wasn’t high enough, or worst of all, her vibrato was wrong. Why did everyone else seem to think her vibrato was so beautiful while her teacher considered it to be sloppy and terrible? Because, thought Helen, everyone who likes my playing knows nothing about music. This wasn’t quite true; after all, her parents were both excellent musicians, but did they truly enjoy her playing? Sometimes it was hard to tell. The radio cut sharply into Helen’s thoughts, and the monotonous voice of a man droning on and on about the stock market was like a needle jabbing into her temples again and again. “Mom, do you mind turning off the radio?” she asked. “I’ve got a headache.” “You know, I’m entitled to listen to something I like once in a while,” said Olivia, turning off the radio. “Did you finish your French homework yet? You said you’d do it on the way to your lesson!” The first slow, rich notes of the concerto poured from her viola “Oops! Sorry I forgot. Do you have a pen?” “It’s in my purse, and I don’t have a free hand right now! You’ll have to get it yourself!” snapped her mother. Please be calm. Take a deep breath, begged Helen silently, but she said, “I don’t mind getting the pen. Sorry to bother you.” “I just don’t see why I have to do everything for you, Helen,” sighed Mrs. Silverstein. Helen felt a lump rise in her throat. Now her mother was angry with her. Could this day possibly get any worse? She arrived home to find her house dimly lit and quiet. This was to be expected, as her dad loved privacy and conserving energy. Sighing, Helen pushed in the doorbell. After a few seconds, her dad rushed to open the door, a plate of freshly cooked chicken paprikash in one hand. A towel was tucked into his shirt collar, and his silver-gray beard and mustache glistened in the blackness of the night. His large, warm brown eyes pierced through the milky strands of moonlight that clung to the sky With a tight smile on his face, he asked, “Why’d you have such a long lesson?” Helen could hear the stormy annoyance in his voice, and she couldn’t bear to see him upset, too. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” said Helen, kissing her father. “I’ll meet you upstairs.” She jogged up the stairs to her room, changed into her pajamas, and started in on the tedious task of running a brush through her hair one hundred times. * * * MOVEMENT ONE Helen strode confidently down the hall on her way out of the Harrisburg School of Music (H.S.M.). She had just finished her last orchestra rehearsal of the year, and it had ended early. Helen hoisted her viola strap higher on her shoulder as she watched the other violists chatting happily Amy, Sara, and Katy were inseparable. In fact, the only student from Helen’s orchestra who would speak to her was her stand partner, Allysa. She hated to sound like a typical moody, depressed teenager with social problems, but sometimes Helen felt like no one liked her. Even Tori Peterson, a girl from her math class and the only other person from her grade who attended H.S.M., refused to talk to her. Instead, she and her snotty, popular friends, Quinn Wallace and Astrid Amberson, completely ignored Helen. The only time Helen felt comfortable at H.S.M. was when she was playing viola. The power of being the principal, the leader, the best violist, was invigorating, and the pure joy and love of playing rich, beautiful music enlightened her and filled her with pleasure. Helen’s only regret was that she wasn’t in the most advanced orchestra. A hot-pink flyer startled her, and Helen peered at it more closely. It was information about the advanced orchestra. Scanning the list of audition requirements, Helen popped it into the side pocket of her purple case. She also flipped through the thick stack of excerpts. Every student auditioning had to play the required excerpts, or small sections of pieces. Violins had to play Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, and Prokofiev; cellos were required to perform Haydn and Schubert. Finally, Helen’s hands found the viola excerpts. There were only two: Mozart and Haydn. Carefully sliding the excerpts into her case, she continued down the hallway. Adrenaline pulsed through her body at the thought of auditioning. It was an exciting, educational experience that always made Helen feel proud, and since performing never made her nervous, she looked upon auditions as rare opportunities to test herself and push her limits. Besides, joining this orchestra might be the key to improving her playing. * * * MOVEMENT TWO Helen anxiously flipped through her two books of pieces. The Bach sonatas all seemed too difficult or too basic to play for her audition, and she knew the judges would be annoyed to hear the same Suzuki pieces over and over again. At first, she had thought of asking her teacher to help her choose a piece, then decided against it. Helen’s teacher would only select a piece like the Seitz Student Concerto in C Major, a concerto played by
Music
My Piano
I sit at my piano. It lies in my family’s living room, covered in dust. Not the neglected type of dust, but the vintage, rustic type of dust, the dust that gives the piano a cozy, charming feeling. I run my fingers over the old white keys. Now I run my hand over the old chestnut top, getting a handful of dust. Rain knocks at the windows and I can hear Kelsey crying in her crib. Kelsey is my baby sister. I do get jealous of her, but I can do something she can’t; play the piano. I open the parchment pages of my music book and, all at once, my fingers fly. Dancing on their ivory carpet, my fingertips can’t stop and there is no need for my music book, but I can’t tear my hands away from the piano to take it down. I’m flying, soaring, away from Kelsey’s crying, the pounding of the rain, the rustling of the angry trees outside. All I can hear is the sweet hum of my piano’s breath, and I can almost imagine myself in a white-and-black- checkerboard room, with only me and my piano. And now my prancing fingers, cantering across the creamy white road, like ten brown horses, pulling the purple carriage of my sweater sleeve, have come to their destination. The black notes are gone from the paper, the song has ended. I rest my hands and breathe in the smell of the dust that has risen from the movement of my ten steeds, pounding the road, leaving tiny footprints of dust. I sigh, and carefully rum the pages of my music book, preparing for my next routine. Slowly, I place my hands on the board, and suddenly, there are no hands, but two fluttering tan sparrows. Their little calls match with the sighs of my piano, and again all I can hear is the singing from the chestnut base. The sparrows flutter from key to key, without any movement; just sweet, free flight. This song is shorter than the first, and my birds land soon, landing by the edge of my denim jean lake. I would’ve started another journey to that checkerboard room, my fingertips ready to turn yet another page in my music, but Momma comes in, Kelsey in her arms, wrapped up in her little pink Polartec babysuit. Obviously, Daddy has already announced that I am going to play, because the audience claps loudly Momma smiles and says to me, “That was good practicing, Brandi. I heard you from Kelsey’s nursery Do you want to take a walk with us?” “You’re taking Kelsey out in this rain?” I ask. Momma nods and says with exasperation, “I can’t get her to sleep, so I’m hoping maybe a walk will tire her out. Are you coming?” I nod and pull on my coat, boots, and scarf. Then, I run to get my umbrella. Passing the living room, I silently bid my old piano goodbye, and my toffee-colored horses crawl back into their fleece stables, my pockets, and rest. My piano is my friend. The piano is not my only friend. My best friend is Paula Leigh, although I just call her Paul, like everyone calls me Brandi, even though my real name is Brianna May. Momma and Daddy named me that because Daddy liked the name Brie and Momma liked May, and they both liked Anna. So my name is actually three combined. Anyway, Paul is my best friend, and also my neighbor. She’s three years older than me, but we’re like sisters. Sometimes she chaffs my love of piano, especially when we can’t play because of practice. I don’t mind though, because I can razz Paul about her love for trumpet, and she practices just as much as I do. We are friends because we both understand each other’s love for music. We both know how important music can be, to two kids like us, at least. The piano is my key to friendship. After Momma, Kelsey, and I are home from our walk, it is 11:12. Kelsey is asleep. After Momma puts her in her crib, she asks me if I want to go shopping with her. “No,” I say as I pour myself a glass of orange juice. She just smiles and says, “Too bad, hon. You have to come. It’s for a surprise.” So I put on my coat, hat, scarf, and boots again and we go into the car. Momma drives us to the mall and she leads me inside. “What’s the surprise?” I ask, for I love surprises. Momma smiles again and shakes her head. Finally, we stop in front of a little shop that says Dresses and Suits for the Little Folk. We go here every year to get a Christmas dress for me, and now Kelsey. I know this is only part of the surprise. When I follow Momma in, I see frills and bows and frou-frous. Two tall, chattering ladies come over immediately. They talk so fast that I cannot understand them. Eventually, they lead Momma and me to a tiny dressing room. It is amazing that we can all fit. One woman has a pile of dresses in her hands, and the other has a hairbrush, a mirror, and a pile of hair ribbons. Now the ladies pull off my sweater and my pants. I stand there in my underwear and undershirt, and I feel like a doll. The two woman are pulling dresses over my head, and then pulling them off. I’m so glad when they leave, that I don’t even see what dress they are ringing up. Momma smiles and says, “Well, as soon as we get the dress, I can tell you what your surprise is!” So we go up front and the ladies hand us the dress. As soon as we get out of the store, I pounce on Momma, “What’s the surprise?! The surprise?!!” Momma smiles knowingly and says, “You’re going to
Forever Untitled
The feather fluttered to the ground. I looked about me, as if affirming that no one would deprive me of this precious trinket. A red-breasted robin broke out in song. I closed my eyes and breathed in the lightly fragrant aroma of its music. Music. One of the few things in life that can’t be described in words. I relished the robin’s tune for a few short minutes, clutching the feather (which had a texture of raw silk) for the whole experience. The tender autumn air rustled my hair ever so slightly, like that of the first sunshine of spring. The sensation of autumn flooded through me, and “Forever Untitled,” as I had decided to call the robin’s melody, rang through my veins. It seemed as if this day of bliss would never come to an end. But there were other things to be done that day. I slowly strolled home, not wanting to pop the magical bubble which nature had conjured. Upon arriving home, I was greeted with a terse “do the dishes.” Not wanting to get in trouble with my parents for neglecting my duties, I reached for a dirty plate, leaving my feather of remembrance upon my desk. The rest of the day seemed like awakening from a dream of perfection. I felt lost and guilty that I had abandoned nature’s beauty and indescribable music. My freshly scoured hands, cloaked in dishwashing liquid, longingly reached out the kitchen window. I pinched a small piece of air, oh so light and wonderful. My hands brushed absently against the foliage scented with the fruitful smell of honeysuckle. I closed my eyes and breathed in the lightly fragrant aroma of its music Finally I was done. I shook my hands briskly to dry them. I had not been done one minute when five crisp, snow-white envelopes were thrown carelessly on the kitchen table. I swept my locks of raven-black hair out of my eyes and examined each envelope attentively. The first two were of no surprise. An electric bill and a note informing us of the cost of the new door. I sighed. Electric bills were common additions to our postage. My family had a reputation for wasting electricity. In truth I was not to blame, as I spent most of my time in the comforting luxury of the outdoors. A resounding shriek caused me to pause during the process of opening the third envelope (which was addressed to me from my most devoted friend, Loretta). I couldn’t help but smile; I knew what it was to feel triumphant. My eight-year-old sister, Marion, shuffled towards me happily. “Alex, look!” she said, barely breathing in her excitement. She presented me with a large, circular object. I paused, both shocked and a bit horrified. A beautiful mask was before me, scattered with (I gulped) the sad remains of a robin’s feather. “It, well,” I said slowly, “it’s lovely.” Marion looked at me blankly for a few moments, and I knew that my remark was not as praising as she would have hoped. I knew that she could tell from my tone that I was unsatisfied. “You don’t like it,” she said finally, crestfallen. “Oh, no, it is not that!” I exclaimed. “I think it is beautiful. I’m just wondering where you got the materials.” “You’re wondering about the feather, aren’t you?” my sibling said, reading my thoughts. “It was the one on your desk. I thought you wouldn’t mind, as there are plenty of feathers to go around.” In my mind I shuddered. I tried to convince myself that it was just a feather, a recent token representing my love of the things around me, but I couldn’t. However, I managed to give my sister a dishonest smile and say heartily, “Oh. Well, it’s beautiful.” My disappointment was short-lived though, and time had soon consumed any feelings of anger towards my sister. It was 5:30 P.M. Suppertime. I quickly grabbed five mismatched forks and hurried to the dining room. My brother, Reginald, my senior by two years, was already at the table. Soon my other family members had entered. The dinner was uneventful. Instant rice dinner and stuffed apples were passed silently along the table, while glasses of chilled ice water were sipped with lack of ceremony After the meal I slipped upstairs unnoticed. The moment my head hit the pillow I fell asleep. * * * The next morning the sun shone bright and I awoke with no traces of straggling fatigue. When I entered the kitchen a flood of rock music filled my ears. I glanced at my sister, then at the radio, which was shaking so violently. I feared it would fall off the shelf supporting it. The sound of magic filled the room I groped for the cornflakes box. “Not this early in the morning, Marion.” I now opened the fridge, looking for the milk. Marion switched off the music immediately. After breakfast I washed the dishes and Marion took out her violin, intending to play me a jaunty tune. When I told her no, and perhaps some classical, she seemed obviously puzzled, but nevertheless obeyed my request. The sound of magic filled the room. I was entranced by the spell that the simple wooden instrument had conjured. Of course, all music had its magic, but to savor its full flavor you had to sit down and enjoy it. At this moment there were only two words to describe the sensation. A name that was not really a name. “Forever Untitled,” I murmured, and the robins broke out in chorus. Margaret Bryan, 10Holden, Maine Ashley Burke, 12Cedar Park, Texas
