North Star

17 | manoa

"No problem." She finished packing up her things as well. She had a midterm to study for. "Us ladies got to have each other's backs, right?"

I nodded.

...

"Can you just load the dishwasher once in your damn life instead of drinking and spilling beer over my couch?"

"I just got home less than ten minutes ago. It's not gonna kill us to wait for another ten for the dishes to go inside, fucking hell."

"You know what, Bronson—"

I locked myself in my room, effectively cutting off the rest of the house. My parents didn't argue a lot but when they did, I learned it was best to stay out of it. The one time I tried to butt in—what for, I couldn't remember—we all ended up not speaking to each other for a few days.

Maybe it was just the hub of musicians I had been surrounded with, but oboes got a bad rep at both Niu Valley Middle School and Kaiser High School for being the nasally cousin of the clarinet. (A sound produced due to its double reed.) Most students who weren't in band had never even heard of it before. I wouldn't even be able to count on my fingers how many times I had been asked in a class what I played after seeing me carrying around my case, only for them to stare blankly back at me before turning away without saying another word.

It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful instrument I had ever heard, far more expressive than many other instruments I've tried playing before, including the clarinet, though I would never admit that to a clarinetist. The oboe could sound rich and full but also light and airy; a tree trunk with roots that ran deep throughout the forest or a pillowy cloud that held everyone's wishes until the stars came back out to play. While it blended extremely well with the sound of other instruments, it also stood out on its own as a statement—here it was, loud and proud.

After jumping onto my bed and placing the black hard case down in front of me, I snapped open the metal latches and slowly eased the top up. For some reason, it felt like a prerequisite for every single instrument case to have a creaky sound whenever it was opened, and the one it made now in the comfort and solitary confinement of my room was thunderous.

Admittedly, it did look quite similar to the clarinet, just a little bit thinner, so I understood the mix-up whenever someone mistook me for playing that. (The fact that I had to substitute playing the clarinet for marching band only aided in that confusion.) On both instruments, I admired the glossiness of the wood. (Or resin in the case of my instrument during middle and high school.) All of the oboes I had played, including this one that Lyanna let me borrow, were old, so some of the silver of the keys were worn down, but they still shined under the lights of my bedroom ceiling. I ran my fingers over them, smooth and cold to the touch still from the air-conditioned practice room. There were so many long lines and round shapes that jutted out in every direction. It amazed me how I could blow into two thin pieces of wood that were attached to the top of this thing and produce a beautiful melody, warped by the simple action of pressing these pieces of metal down at different intervals and with different arrangements. Even the sheet music I read in order to know how to play all of this music was a work of art. Black lines and dots—sometimes faded—drawn onto pieces of paper guided me into the ultimate form of escapism. The only acceptable form of running away I had done, had been encouraged to do. And all of this was at my fingertips whenever I wanted it, for the most part. Touching the instrument now welcomed a certain strange source of power that coursed through me. I felt the understanding of my abilities and how I could tell stories in such a beautiful way, even if I wasn't the one who created them, even if I wasn't necessarily the best at telling them. I held abilities that so many others didn't, and I shouldn't take advantage of that, my uniqueness affiliated with an instrument known to many as being difficult to learn. There was power in that and always would be.