Standing for Weirdo

Chapter 5

"And I still can't figure out how this piece of paper is supposed to sound. Why don't you show us?" He motioned to his guitar and then to the rest of us. "The full group should premiere this piece. Then we'll see what the majority thinks about its appropriateness."

Trevor bit his lip, his eyes scanning the silent crowd that stared at him with too much curiosity. He nodded after a long pause.

"Is there a sound system here?"

"Does it look like we have guitar amps around?"

Ashley silenced Jacob, a.k.a. the Big Mouthed Idiot, with a dirty look. Trevor shrugged off the rude comment, though, as if he hadn't even noticed the scorn behind the words.

"I just need a speaker with a jack."

Professor Hedford motioned him over to the sound system, which wasn't much beyond a mic and a couple old speakers. Trevor nodded, unplugged the mic and plugged in... something small and red. Not an amp, like the ones you see on shows or TV. Just a small device with knobs and a LED screen. He played a bit with it, adjusting the dials, and only then did he connect his own guitar.

I'm not much for musical instruments, but I liked it the moment it was out of the gig bag and in his hands. Solid, rounded and compact, opposite to his own build, and lacquered in black, just like his nails. Not shiny new, but well cared for. It suited him.

"It's a partial and still unpolished," he said as an excuse, bending his head low.

Suddenly, a pick had appeared in his fingers and the guitar was playing. Those old speakers had become a concert hall.

The sound of his electric guitar blared, familiar and alien at the same time. I had heard it so many times before, but this time it was different. The sound wave didn't have to travel through concrete walls to reach me. It enveloped me, hugged me... And, while I watched him, it pulled me under right into Lady Windermere's house.

No one but Trevor could have done what he did. It was incredible. I was listening and still I could not believe the kind of emotional strength he delivered.

I had thought, as I'm sure everyone else had, that Trevor would show us the basic melody on guitar, so that it could later be arranged and played properly on a piano or something.

Not true.

His fingers danced, flew over the strings. And it might be a guitar, an electric guitar at that, but it sounded right. The key laid in the feeling. When he played, it was not just rhythm and harmony and whatever else musicians might use as their tools. It was feeling, and through it, he told us all a story.

At first, it was a tale of anxiety about the upcoming event. It was a birthday party; everyone who was anyone would be there, and it would be fabulous.

But then, just as we all started to smile, the notes faltered. They came muted, trembling. Just a few of them wavered in the air, almost unnoticeable among the fast string of their siblings... but it was there. The doubt. Suddenly, Lady Windermere remembered her husband, and his petition to invite a woman who might be his lover, and though she had felt secure and comfortable among her admirers, now she worried. Would he invite that woman himself, as he had threatened?

No more happiness for us. The longer the party lasted, the worse our insecurity became. Doubt began to edge toward certainty again—the certainty that he had dared to slight us so. Every time the door opened and a new guest was announced, the beginnings of fear would rise. Those who had been admiring us, congratulating us, vying to dance with us... they scared us too. No, not fear—rather, anguish. Were they here to witness our fall? Did they know what our husband planned to do?

And again, that sickening doubt. What had he planned to do, anyway? Lord Windermere had been so gentle, so loving, so perfect. A rock against the storm, a foundation stone, supporting us our whole lives. We loved him so, so much. How could that man betray us? It hurt, love and pain swirling and warring and—

And it stopped.

The last note hung in the air before Trevor silenced the guitar, placing his hand over the strings.

I realized I was crying. Dabbing at my eyes, mortified, I heard Stella suck in a deep breath, and when I lifted my eyes again, Professor Hedford had taken off his glasses and listened to the silence with eyes closed and a beatific smile in place.

Trevor bit his lower lip, waiting verdict. The professor stood up and took a couple steps toward him, staring him down. Then, he turned his back on him and looked at us. No one spoke, not even Jacob.

"That, dear students, is what Lady Windermere is supposed to be like. Now, I have one challenge for every single one of you: Do you think you can act up to it?"

And we roared. We clapped each other on the back, laughed, and answered him with catcalls and screams.

Oh, yes. We will be up to the challenge.

Lady Windermere was no longer a character. Her words were no longer phrases to learn. She had become a feeling. We knew her. We just had to help the rest of the world understand her half as well as we did.

Mr. Hedford nodded with pride.

"We're finished for the day, class. Think about who you are and rest well. Tomorrow, we'll be marking the stage," he said.

Marking the stage must be the worst part of being in the theater group. Boring and tiresome. It's all about running around with duct tape, trying to figure out where to put the couches and tables and where each of us should stand while speaking. Somehow, though, no one complained.

I even looked forward to it, and that surprised me.

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