Sleeping On Daisies

X: The Violin.

I play the violin.

My father insisted I learned how to play it, so when the day he dies come, I would be able to play for him at his funeral. He used to say that it would be 'my own personal eulogy' to him. He enrolled me into music class at the age of seven. Since then, my have been plucking at the strings of his heart; another thing he used to say.

He was a very passionate man. He taught me to be that way, to put my passion into everything I love and to not waste time on things that I didn't because life was short, and eventually I would come to terms with death. He was right. I am coming to terms with death.

I'm alive and breathing, but I feel dead. My mom is alive and breathing, but she feels dead to me. I know that he is alive and breathing (given that no soldiers have appeared to our doorsteps), but he feels dead to me, too. It feels as if I'm almost mourning him, saying my goodbye left unsaid by playing this violin that so beautifully reminds me of him. 

A tear almost escapes my eyes, but Mr. Ketcher ceases with his baton gestures and all instruments silence.

"You guys have progressed so far, but there is still so much work to be done. " I hear a few agitated sighs from some of my bandmates. He doesn't acknowledge them but instead say, "Pack up. The bell will sound in five minutes."

I slowly stand to my feet, taking my time to walk back to the locker room, unlock my locker, and place my violin and bow back in its case. This is the last quarter, and then school's out for another sixteen hours. Strangely, I am not as giddy as I usually am to escape this prison. What waits for me at home isn't pleasant nor welcoming. I taste the bile building up in my throat and swallow it before it lands on Isaac's shoes.

"Are you okay there, Rose?" He asks. He is another one of those pretentious snots, like Crystal, who insists on addressing people by their last name.

It doesn't surprise me. A boy with the highest grade point average in the school, who plays six different instruments, and self-taught himself to draw the details of realism is bound to be ostentatious.

I nod. "I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

A few of our bandmates bypass us and I take that as my opportunity to end the conversation. I prepare to walk away and leave him with his ego, but holds on to my forearm. I almost smack him, but I choose the latter and gently pull away.

"I apologize." He says quickly, glancing down at his feet. I take that wink of moment to analyze him in his state of innocence —his index finger between his teeth, his other hand fidgeting alongside his thighs, the look of uncertainty and remorse choking him—and then his eyes meets mines again with that same disgusting confidence.

"You should go on a date with me."

The bile forces its way back up. I palm my mouth and muffle a hasty "no", watching as he frowns before storming out of the locker room. My feet rushes outside of the band room to the hallway where the bathroom is located. The bathroom is locked when I try to turn the knob. Someone is in there already. I am forced to swallow down the bile again, feeling as it itches at my throat.

Isaac isn't in the bandroom anymore when I go back. This makes me happy. I am able to gather the rest of my belongings in peace.

Clair is in the dance hall when the last dismissal bell rings. The room is empty. She is alone. I don't recall the morning announcements saying anything about dance rehearsal, but Clair is someone who lives and breathes dance. It didn't matter if there was rehearsal or not.

I watch her through the tiny window, studying her body as it gracefully bends and swirls in spirals I didn't think were possible for human bones. Her tiptoes stays pointed, her back arched and stomach tucked, her legs stiff, yet swiftly lifting in the air. I study the determination in her eyes to get her routine right and fix the minor errors in her body movements, but nothing works.

She gets frustrated and storms over to the small boombox, cutting the music off. I swallow hard as I watch her slowly glide against the wide wall-to-wall mirror. She removes her pointe shoes and sends them knocking against the wall across from her. Her knees cradle to her chest as buries her face in her arms and starts to cry. 

I've seen enough.

"Clair..." I say timidly, entering the room although her grudge may still exist. She proves me right when her eyes meets mine with pique.

Her tone is clipped as she asks, "What?"

What was I doing here? She obviously still wants nothing to do me. I prepare to leave but then I remember that I miss my friend.

"Are you okay?"

"Are serious, Sydney?"

I nod and she laughs. She doesn't stop until her laughing becomes painful and tears surface her eyes. She looks at me, more emotional now. 

"You ruined my life."

"What are you talking about?" I frown. One yellow-band can't ruin a person's life.

I don't care how much she is convinced.

"You heard me!" She raises to her feet, marching over to me. "You ruined my life and you don't even have the decency to apologize, some best friend you are!"

My cheeks are hot now. "What are you talking about? I didn't ruin your life!" I shout. I never shout, but here I am, shouting. "Some best friend you are letting a measly yellow-band come between our friendship!"

"It's not about the yellow-band, Sydney!"

"Then what are you talking about, Clair?"

She pauses and tucks her teeth between her lips. Her eyelashes are dewy and her face is flushed with this reddish glow. I try to keep the muscles in my face tensed, but the sight of her breaking down in front of me is enough to put the anger behind me. She is my best friend. We're not supposed to be childishly arguing. We should be comforting each other.

I try to place a hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away.

"Don't touch me, Sydney!" She yells. "I have a ballet audition a week from now, but I can't go anymore because you broke my toe!" 

That's it. Her movements are irregular because of her toe.

"I had to go to the hospital yesterday to get my toe inspected," she continues to yell at me. "But did you call to ask me if I were okay? No!"

I don't remember leaving, but I did.

The air is cold and crisp as I chew on the inside of my cheeks. It is only now that I realize winter is settling in Chicago. My eyes focus on my uneven steps and street signs. Tears are threatening to fall from my eyes, but I refuse to let them. Clair is just upset. She didn't mean it when she said she didn't want to be my friend anymore. She didn't mean any of the words that were slipping through her lips without much thought. I know her.

I am her best friend.