Music To My Heart

Chapter 6.

Chapter 6.

♫ KAT ♫

Georgia's going berserk about cleaning. It's probably the twentieth time she has checked the dorm, and she always finds something that can be cleaner.

I've reorganized my room multiple times already in the past hour, and it's still not sufficient enough to reach her needs. I mean, if some paper is not perfectly aligned on the desk, it won't be the end of the world!

I have to admit, however, that it is quite entertaining watching her like this. Usually, she's not this anxious and excited. It's kind of weird, actually.

Apparently, Mickey finished his exams early, so he'll be able to make it to our dorm a lot sooner than expected. It's making Georgia happy (I think; I can't really tell behind her sudden obsession with housework), but I'd be lying if I say I'm super-thrilled about it.

Georgia actually is making me sleep on the couch for the duration of Mickey's stay. Honestly, I thought she was joking...but, nope. I'm not going to argue with her; I mean, it'll probably be just a little while.

While Georgia starts scrubbing - re-scrubbing - the floor, I grab my violin case and start to the café. Before school started, I would perform there every Wednesday. It isn't anything serious - no one expected a practiced recital - but the customers always enjoy it.

Carlos, the café owner, keeps asking me to come back, but I've been too busy lately to set up a song. His door is always open, though. And today, I'm in the mood to play something.

The bus drops me off at the place fifteen minutes later, and a big smile brightens my face. The café is deserted in the morning. It's an extreme contrast from the hours of dinnertime. Basically, only the regulars show up for breakfast (and by that, I mean mostly old people). I like the way their faces light up in happiness when I play for them.

Carlos is a middle-aged man and very experienced. His dark skin, hair, and eyes and different speech pattern indicate that he's Mexican, one of my favorite things about him. I like to see the way his words form when he talks so fluently in Spanish. I know I can't understand a single word, but it's intriguing.

Carlos is spraying and washing one of the small, round tables when I approach him. When he turns around and eyes my violin, he understands instantly what I've shown up for.

"You want an accompaniment?" He asks. Carlos is the best piano player I've ever met. Ask him to play anything - classical, rock, jazz - he'll be able to. It's astounding, really. He's even taught me a few songs.

I shake my head, no. I can't hear his beautiful pieces anyway, if I'm not standing near the piano. And I can't hear some other instrument and my own at the same time; it's not something I've practiced yet.

"The stage is yours," he says, dramatically gesturing as if I'm royalty. I let out a laugh and nod in gratitude, making my way up the side-steps as he retreats behind the counter.

Usually when people perform, they describe what they will play, but I can't do that. So, I just let the music do the talking anyway. The morning audience doesn't question my ways anymore; they enjoy the musical mystery.

On the floor, I undo the latches on my hard violin case, marveling at the beautiful dark wood of the instrument. My breath catches. I almost forgot about how wonderful it felt to have it in my hands. I grab the neck of the instrument and immediately, I feel at home - I feel like I'm in the right place.

A stupid smile on my face again, I wrap the rubber band around the instrument and stuff my blue sponge into it. Next, I rosin my bow thoroughly, starting from the top and going to the bottom.