When You're In Love with a girl

Chapter 32, The Performance

THE PERFORMANCE

There are no spotlights on a dark stage. No, the place is just a regular sort of large meeting room with vinyl floors and white walls. I start breathing really fast. White walls invite creativity, do you know? Will they invite us, who we are, who I am? 

There are several music stands set up. Laras and Roger sit. Arya and I stand together.

The judges look at us expectantly. It's time. I try to tell my heart to calm down.  Arya looks at me, then Roger and Laras turn their heads. 

I don't look at Roger and Laras. I stare straight into Arya's eyes. Arya, this is for you.

I raise my chin. "A—one, a—two, a—one—two—three—four!" My voice starts out quiet, but something funny happens. I break into a yell. 

I don't look at the sheet music the whole time. I just gaze at Arya. And she gazes right back at me. I play to her all of my love, so much that it hurts and I close my eyes. Somehow she manages to play and smile at me.  Together we match each other perfectly.

****

I play the last note and we all bow. The we all smile nervously and talk to our parents that came while the judges write comments. 

I am so surprised when I find Tom sitting in a seat, in a corner by himself. When did he come in? I'm breathing hard after the performance. It really took everything out of me. I walk to him and smile nervously. I wonder what he thought. "Hi Tom," I say.

There are three judges, one average man with short brown hair, one tall man with blond hair, and one lady with auburn hair. The lady with auburn hair dismisses us.

The rose lady was watching our performance, I realize. She is smiling; I hope that is a good sign.

"You all did great!" she exclaims. She and the others begin to walk out, but I want to quickly talk to Tom.

"Yeah, I came," he says, his eyes flickering around to stare everywhere but my eyes. "You did so well." He pauses. "I am glad you love her. You looked really happy up there, and you play really well."

I pick up perhaps a slight tone of jealousy, but I just answer him courteously. "Thank you so much. And thank you for coming, too. I didn't expect it."

He nods slowly. His brown eyes blink, and his mouth twitches. I am not sure he has anything else to say, and I have to catch up to the rest of the group.

"I have to go now. Um, I can catch up with you later? At school?"

"Sure," he says with little emotion, and he goes to  join the rest of the audience members as they walk out a different door. As I run out of the room, catching a sight of the rose lady's red dress rounding a corner of a hallway, I realize that perhaps Tom's words had a touch of sarcasm.

As I rejoin the group, I chastise myself. Of course not; I heard incorrectly. He is just sad that he saw real proof that I love Arya. Maybe he couldn't understand it until he saw us himself. I don't blame him. If I had just loved him, we would all be happy. Arya and I could be nice, non-romantic friends, and I would be in a straight relationship with Tom. Although either way, loving Arya or Tom, my mother would never be happy.

Some people can never be pleased, so why bother caring at all?

I'll never forget that look on my mother's face, in the audience seats, when she saw me. Me, playing my saxophone, where I belong: next to Arya.

Did I play my heart out? I tried, and sometimes that is the most that you can do.

As the rose lady walks us back to the waiting room to put away our saxophones, Arya and I look at each other and smile. Her face is flushed, and she looks marvelously alive. I am wearing a wide grin.

We both can't stop smiling.

"Good job, guys," says Arya, turning to Roger and Laras.

Roger nods and gives a cheeky thumbs-up. Laras shrugs and says, "I missed a note, but I don't think the judges noticed."

"I didn't hear a thing," says Arya warmly.

We put away my saxophones. I try something new today. I skip toward Arya and throw my arms around her. "Are you ready to leave?"

Arya looks at me in surprise. "Are you hugging me?!" She beams, like her soul is bursting with happiness. "Yeah, let's go." She sneaks a kiss.

I feel everyone's eyes on us. Especially my mom, looking at us through the open door of the waiting room. So now she know Arya is the one I love. I don't care. I kiss Arya back and enjoy it.

On the way back, Arya and I smile and laugh together. Something about this performance has made us both into sunshine, giggly girls. Mrs. Verona drives the car, my dad sits shotgun, my mom sits in the middle row by herself, and Arya and I sit in the back row together. We whisper to each other about other pieces we should learn and play together.

When I get home, I realize I have to paint it out.

Everything.

I grab a pre-primed canvas and squeeze out my paints. I take a brush from my cup. I attack the canvas.

The canvas flexes and bends at each stab. I load different colors onto the brush each time. The sounds of today play over and over in my head. My dad saying Elena Verona. The name Elena is purple in my head. The ride there, my guts feeling like the color olive but more like puke, nerves galore... and pinks and magentas the colors of soft, feathery, imaginary butterflies. The rose lady's red, blood red dress like she was bleeding from every pore on her skin. I drag red all over the canvas. And Arya's makeup—I mix a color on my palette that looks like her eyelids. I relive my moment in front of the judges. How I tried so hard to play with emotion, to play so loud. Oh, and, and Tom. I lay down a pure black over the canvas when I think of him. I don't know how to feel about him. Maybe I should give our friendship up; maybe that would be the smart thing to do.

I stand there, holding my black-stained paint brush, thinking.

No, I realize, I don't want this to be a piece of destruction. I want to tell a story.

I grab a paper towel from the bathroom and wipe, wipe it all off. You can't remove things completely, though. The canvas is still stained with the mixture of all the different colors. Really now, you can't see the mosaic of colors it once was. Now it is just gray. A warm gray, if you like, or you could call it brown-gray. The black paint didn't come out that easily. I mix thick, thick paint, and I paint Arya. Her face is flushed; her eyes are sea glass. I paint Laras and Roger standing next to her. And last, I paint myself. I mess up on painting myself. It's hard to paint oneself, I think. Eventually, I manage something decent.

It's us, standing, in what now looks like smoke all around us. I kind of like the effect. On a whim I paint flames, and our saxophones, and the glory of our makeup. I make Arya's lashes so dark she looks like a creature from the Underworld. I love her. So much.

Author's Note: Hello reader! Thank you for reading up to this point. 

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-Ta