Middle C

Part 1: Middle C

Hope Layton sat on a bench near David Byrne High School’s band room trying to spend her lunch hour as she always did -- translating the music in her head onto a page. Not today, though.  The ringing in her ears would not stop. 

Dang it. Why does it have to be a middle C?  Why can’t it be something deeper and more mysterious?  Like a G below middle C?

Looking around to make sure no one was watching she stood up, leaned her head to one side and hopped on one foot a few times, trying to shake out whatever was causing that sound. No luck. Next she stuck the eraser end of her pencil in her ear to clear out any wax. On the positive side, this time she’d remembered to use the eraser end, not the lead point.  On the negative side, Dreamy Cliff Calloway chose that moment to come around the corner. She shifted her hand in an attempt to look like she was just scratching the side of her head. In doing so she stuck the tip of her pencil into her eye.

When Cliff turned at her yelp of pain, she decided to look suave by leaning girlishly with one hip against the wall. She’d forgotten she was on one foot. As she fell, her sweatshirt caught on the bench, pulling it up over her head, revealing her Mickey Mouse emblazoned bra.

“Are you OK?”  She heard him walking over to where she sprawled and tried to assess which problem to deal with first, the bra or the eye.  She decided on the bra, pulling her sweatshirt down. 

“Here, let me help you up,” he said, putting out his hand. Forgetting she still held the pencil, she reached up and stabbed him in the thumb.

 “Let’s take away the pencil, shall we?  I think it’s done enough damage for one day.”  He grinned and she just knew he was making fun of her.  Everyone did.

Looking up she felt dizzy.  Dreamy Cliff Calloway’s combination of jet black hair and grey eyes always did her in.  It was like Rhett Butler and Ashley Wilkes had been melded into one glorious, radiant man. In contrast, mirrors had shown Hope that she was no Scarlet O’Hara. Her eyes were that weird hazel shade that could never be described on a driver’s license. Where Scarlet’s skin was Georgia peach fair, Hope saw hers as vampire pale. And she had given up on styling her long, wavy, boring diet-coke colored hair. She just parted it in the middle and let it cover her face as much as possible.

Cliff peered at her.  “Are you OK?  You look a little… unfocused.  Should I take you to the nurse?” 

Yes, yes, of course, she thought.  Because meeting the Dreamy Cliff Calloway in person should result in me exposing myself and winding up at the nurse. 

“No, no, it’s OK, I’m fine,” she stammered.  “I’m… I’m Hope.”

“I know who you are.”  He smiled down at her, which just intensified her confusion. He had a jaw like a hero out of a Northern myth, square and strong.  It dazzled her. “You’re Hope Layton,” he went on, “and you sit here every day with your music composition book, which I rescued from under the bench.”  He handed it to her. 

Dreamy Cliff Calloway knows who I am, she thought.  How hard did I hit my head?

“You know,” he continued, since it was clear words weren’t coming out of her mouth any time soon, “I couldn’t help seeing some of what you’ve written.  Many composers have a hard time with B Major.”

She looked down to see if her clothes were still on.  In her dreams she was always naked. 

“You know music?” Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought.  Anyone who could decipher a key signature at a glance knew music.