What We Take Away

Chapter 21 | Cassie

The class buzzes with excitement at the promise of writing our own music.

"You have two days to complete the assignment. I want a minimum of twelve bars in the key and time signature of your choosing. Any and all orchestration is fair game, and those of you who are vocal majors are free to arrange your own song. However--" she pauses to look us all in the eye, "this must be a true, original work. Please do not submit something you have already written in the past. I will ask for volunteers to perform their piece in class at the end of the week."

I stare down at my hands. At the start of the school year, I had sworn off music. But I've already broken the rules since then, so it can't hurt now can it? It's just one class, and composing my very own original work sounds so very compelling...

"Now, please direct your attention to the board. We will continue with our study of modes," Dr. McLeish announces as she begins to scrawl different scales onto the chalkboard staves.

Hungry for instruction, I fish out a notebook from my backpack and push all other thoughts out of my brain.

---

With an hour and half to spare between Dr. McLeish's class and calculus, I decide to be adventurous and search for a vacant practice room to get a head start on my assignment.

Crane Recital Hall is the oldest building to sit on the Round on West campus. Compared to the newly built, modern Heron Performing Arts Center and the sophisticated, Georgian-style Louis Mallard Recital Hall, Crane looks oddly out of place with its 1950s red-brown brick facade and dark windows. But the interior is an entirely different story.

My footsteps echo through the hallway as I walk the length of the building. Sounds of laughter and musical instruments drift beneath the high vaulted glass ceiling. The distant bellow of a trombone and a soprano warming up with soaring scales makes me feel strangely at peace. Somehow, I understand the language of this place, its nostalgia and dreams.

Locating the stairs, I venture up to the second-floor. Unlike the main floor which houses multiple concert spaces, this level seems to be made up of private teaching offices for various professors. Sagging armchairs line the corridor next to numbered doors, each decorated with a small pane of glass. The nameplates read "Harry Andersson - Cello," "Celeste Lerru - Piano," "Vicky Matsuda - Piano," and so on.

I take the stairs at the end of the hall to go explore the top floor. The third floor is brightly lit by a huge arch window in the middle of the hall, offering a lovely view of the Round and the rest of the music buildings. To my left and right, practice rooms of all sizes dot the hallway with gleaming, wooden doors. No one else is here at the moment, so I walk into the first open room on my right and step inside.

The practice room is modest and cozy, with cream-colored walls and white-tiled floors. A stack of black chairs and several music stands crowd one corner of the room, but my eyes fall immediately towards the center of the room where a gorgeous, seven-foot matte black Steinway rests along with a sturdy, studded leather bench.

"Oh," I murmur.

I leave my backpack and coat on the floor and walk towards the piano. Sliding delicately onto the bench, I lift my hands to the ivory keys and press down.

The sound is divine, like luxurious dark chocolate and crystalline glass.

I sigh, remembering the last time I performed on such an exquisite instrument. I had been a senior in high school, and I'd given a final concert to commemorate many years of practice, competitions, performances, and hard work. My piano coach Iris and my family and friends all came to attend. Ma ordered a massive, pink cake from my favorite bakery, and Lex even came on stage with me for a violin-piano encore at the end. I'd saved my favorite piece for last (Scherzo No. 2 in B-flat by Frederic Chopin). But I doubt I remember any of the music now...