Nor (Wattpad Featured Story, WriteAffair finalist)

Chapter 22: My Sweet Distraction

August. Not far from the next school semester, and it seems there is a pattern forming here. Apparently, as each new year for me draws close, my father tends to actually remember me and worry whether I'm ready, whether I'm 'on track' as he puts it, whatever that means. He tells me to go out and buy clothes, full carts of stationery, new bags, new shoes, new notes and guides – everything imaginable. But that's just the formal academic side. There's the other side, the side of whether I'm personally growing.

Such as tonight, when after dinner, I hear from him the dreaded words, "I want to hear something from you, Nora."

And for the rest of the way, my brain is singing, Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn, oh damnnnnn!

I retrieve my violin case and make my way to the study, where he's already waiting. I'm not sure where Maggie's gone to. I can only describe her movement in this house as 'slinking'. I leave the door open, taking my usual spot in the middle of the red zigzag rug while he keeps his post on the couch. My eyes roam to a window, the one that has replaced the one I broke with my old Contavalli. My new one feels even worse, unwieldy and too long. I don't like it, and it doesn't like me either.

I clear my throat nervously. "So ... what do you want?"

Please not Schindler's List again. Or that Vivaldi one.

"How about Ave Maria?"

My eyes practically bounce in their sockets. "What? Ave Maria?"

He merely stares at me. He's never even mentioned anything about my mother in, well, a really long time. He has to remember that that was one of her favorite songs, doesn't he? I mean, he was her number one fan, for God's sake, even if now, he acts like she never existed.

"Are you really sure?" the question from me is quiet.

He nods.

"OK." I can do this. Definitely, I can do this. Because I already did, on her last death-day. I know I played it well, and I know she liked it. Or would have liked it. Whatever. For once, I'm confident as I touch the strings. He doesn't even make a single comment as I make my way through the piece. My mind is filling up with memories from the notes, of her, of that death-day, of how our lives used to be before she left. Back then, I felt like it was her and me, and her and him, but never him and me, and that worked. But now, that center is gone, and he and I are like these complete opposites trying to fit with each other, only it just can't work. But we're family. So what do we do then?

It's over. The song is over. I have to choke back some emotion as I lower the violin with one hand, the bow with the other. I gaze at him, waiting for a word.

"What did you just do?"

"What?"

"What did you just do? You butchered it."

"I – what?"

"Have you even been practising?"

"Of course I have!"

"Then why did that sound like crap?" he shouts back, suddenly up on his feet. "I spend so much on teachers and your violin and your sheet music and books, and I donate so much to that stupid school of yours and that band, and this is what you come up with?"

Oh God. Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, God.

"You know what? Forget it. It's a waste of time. No more violin, no more lessons or school band or anything. Just forget it." And then he storms out, throwing the door against the wall so hard that it vibrates. He darts into his bedroom, shutting himself in, and for a moment, there is silence.