The Sound of Us - 2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“I guess we're done here, eh,” says Mr. Armentano, my piano instructor. I look over my shoulder and smile at him. He's a good teacher. Patient and kind, like a good instructor should be—and so unlike my father, with his drill sergeant-like ways. He takes his sheet notes and starts down the side stairs of the stage. “You've got five more minutes in here,” he calls, over his shoulder.

I turn back to the piano and run my fingers lightly over the keys, just feeling them. They feel like smooth little pieces of calm, somehow. I like that. I need that. A fleeting thought runs through my mind as I remember that I should get to my dorm room and study for my precalculus test tomorrow but it soon dissipates. My mind is wrapped up in a melody that my hands have been itching to play and it isn't Mozart. I already have the melody and the lyrics memorized. It's one of my favorites, though I can rarely play it. My fingers travel over the keys and I have no desire to stop myself as I start the song. My voice soon follows my fingers and I start to sing the lyrics.

Just paint the picture of a perfect place
They got it better than what anyone's told you
They'll be the King of Hearts, and you're the Queen of Spades
Then we'll fight for you like we were your soldiers

I know we've got it good
But they got it made
And the grass is getting greener each day
I know things are looking up
But soon they'll take us down,
before anybody's knowing our name.

They got all the right friends in all the wrong places
So yeah, we're going down
We've got all the wrong moves and all the wrong faces
So yeah, we're going down
They said, everybody knows, everybody knows where we're going
Yeah, we're going down
All They said, everybody knows, everybody knows where we're going
Yeah, we're going down

Do you think I'm special?
Do you think I'm nice?
Am I bright enough to shine in your spaces?
Between the noise you hear
And the sound you like
Are we just sinking in an ocean of faces?

It can be possible that rain can fall,
Only when it's over our heads
The sun is shining everyday, but it's far away
Over the world is death.

The sound of slow and deliberate clapping pulls me out of the song and I swivel around, eyes wide with fear. Someone emerges from the shadows of the stage and into the spotlight and I find myself staring down a handsome boy, probably a little older than me. The stage lights hit him in a way that shadows his eyes and makes his cheekbones look dangerously sharp. “Wow,” he says, a smile tugging at his plump pink lips. “And who might you be?”

I scramble to stand up and trip over my words as he moves closer. “I-I'm Seth. S-Seth Cohen,” I say. Now that he's closer, his face looks a lot less creepy and a lot more attractive. He smiles and I note that he has a single dimple on his right cheek. I still can't see his eyes but they look light, like they might be blue or green.

“Spencer,” he replies, extending a hand for me to shake. I shake his hand, which is considerably bigger than my own, and realize that he nearly towers over me. I stand at five feet, ten inches, which isn't so bad. This guy must be six foot three. Okay, that's not towering over me but it sure feels like it and I suddenly find myself self-consciously wiping my clammy palms on my slacks. “You've got quite a voice,” Spencer comments.

I shake my head, blushing. “No, I'm a much better pianist. I don't really sing.”

“You should.”

I stand there awkwardly for a moment, wondering if I should say something back. I'm not usually this shy or awkward but something about the way this guy is looking at me is making me second guess myself. His brown hair looks so soft, tousled to perfection. I don't notice I'm stepping closer until I realize that I can now see his eyes. They're an almost gray shade of blue, so light they look transparent. He has the type of eyes that stand out on a persons face, in contrast to his dark hair and eyebrows. He's gorgeous, a piece of art to marvel over.

I sigh inwardly because he'd probably kick my ass if he knew I was thinking these thoughts about him. He's obviously not gay. Well, I can't say that for sure because looking at a person doesn't tell you their sexuality. But I can say that even if he were gay, he's way out of my league.

Realizing I might have been staring for too long, I step back and grab my canvas messenger bag and start toward the stairs leading off the stage. “Really, you should,” I hear Spencer call after me. “Pianists are overrated.” And boy are they.

*          *          *

“Dude, wake up!” I mumble something incoherent and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shut the pestering voice out along with the light streaming through the window. I turn over but my legs are tangled in my sheets and I find myself tumbling over the edge of my twin sized bed. Laughter fills the air as I groan and sit up, letting my eyes slowly drift open. I'm sitting on the floor of my dorm room, tangled in my bed sheets with my laughing roommate standing next to me. “Come on, get your ass up. You barely studied for your test last night before passing out and now you have the horrid task of studying in the morning,” Wesley says.

I quickly fix my bed out of habit and sit down at the desk on my side of the room for the quickest study session I've ever had. Words run together and I realize that I'm reading passages but I'm not really paying attention to what they say. I was lucky enough to get into Heedway Hall School of The Arts in the first place, the last thing I need is to do poorly in math. I could just imagine what my father would say. Probably something about how good Simon's grades were when he was in eleventh grade. “Man, I hope you're really as smart as you seem because I don't think forty-five minutes total of studying is going to help much,” Wesley says half an hour later when we start to put our books away and get ready for class.

“Yeah, I hope so too,” I sigh, as I throw on some khaki pants and a baby blue button down shirt. I stopped being embarrassed of changing in front of Wesley my second day at HHSA when I realized he was too girl crazed and spastic to care if he saw me in underwear, or even nude. I look over at Wesley in his ripped jeans and 'I Heart Art' t-shirt and laugh at the way his red hair sticks out at odd places on his head. “Wes, dude, fix your hair. Do all carrot tops have perpetual bedhead?”

“Ha ha,” he says sarcastically, sticking his tongue out at me but going to the mirror and getting a brush to fix his slightly wavy red hair.

I grab my bag and we head out of our room and descend the stairs to our dorm, walking out into the fresh air of the quad. The fifteen minute bell sounds and we start to pick up the pace because the boys' dorm housing is not exactly close to the main building and we have a long ways to walk. Wes starts talking about a cute girl in his class who has redder hair than his and how he couldn't imagine having kids with her because their hair would be way too red. I zone out but am snapped back to reality when the vague feeling of being watched causes the hairs on my arms to stand straight up.

I look up and lock eyes with Spencer, who is leaning against a tree and staring right at me. He smiles and gives me a head nod and my heart skips a beat. “Seth, do you know him?” Wesley asks, stopping in his tracks on the paved path we're walking on. I nearly walk into him but quickly notice that he's not moving.

“Um, yeah, he said his name was Spencer or something,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant as we start walking again. I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the pavement passing under my feet as I walk.

Wes looks at me incredulously. “Yeah, Seth, he's Spencer. Spencer Heedway. How in the hell do you know him?”

I stop mid-stride, once again. “Heedway? His name's Spencer Heedway?”

“Yeah, as in his great-grandfather or whatever founded this place. Once again, how in the hell do you know him?”

“I don't! He said like two sentences to me yesterday. Dude, he's the great-grandson of the founder? He's a Heedway?” I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that he was someone so important and he thought I was good at singing. Well, he hadn't outright said I was so I couldn't just assume he thought so but he'd implied it.

“Yeah, and he's a legend around here. Spencer's like a musical genius slash prodigy. He plays four instruments better than some professionals and he composes music. He plays cello, guitar, piano, and like harp or something. And composes. And he's like the ladies man. And his cousin, the other great-grandson is sort of an art legend, but not as famous around here as Spencer. Honestly, I think God went a little overboard when he pieced that whole family together,” Wes says.

I look over at Wesley, suddenly glad that I have a talkative roommate who's gone to the school longer than I have. Spencer was a Heedway? He could play all of those instruments plus compose and he was hot? What did he need to give me compliments for? I should practically be bowing at his feet like some students probably were.

“I didn't know. He seems pretty normal,” I say.

Wes holds the door open for me as we enter the building where classes are held on campus. “Yeah, well, I guess his great-grandfather did too at one point.”

*          *          *

There was a knock on the bathroom door and I paused to look at myself in the mirror again before answering. I'd untucked the shirt my mom had put me in, tugged my pants a little lower, and shaken my short hair out of the perfectly combed look it had. I was going to middle school now, I couldn't look like a total geek. “Come in,” I called.

The door creaked open and Simon came in, his usual smile widening when he saw me. He walked over and draped an arm around my shoulders as he studied our reflections in the mirror. We didn't look alike, we just kind of resembled each other. Blue eyes that were the same shade but a different shape, similar skinny noses and skin tone, similar eyebrow shape. Resemblance stopped there, aside from our clothes. Mine were handpicked by my mom and Simon chose to dress the way he did. Preppy. I'd decided long ago that I was doomed to dress that way for the rest of my existence.

“Ready for middle school, squirt?” Simon asked. He'd taken to calling me squirt as of late. I wasn't sure I liked it but I didn't object. At least he talked to me.

I thought about the question for a moment. I wasn't exactly ready, but at the same time I was. I was ready to be a middle schooler, I was ready to be rid of elementary school. I just wasn't sure that it was all it was cracked up to do. “Pretty ready,” I replied with a shrug.

“It'll be fun, trust me. I loved middle school,” Simon smiled.

I wanted to say “Of course you loved it, you're Simon. Just a bundle of sunshine that everyone likes,” but instead I just nodded and smiled at our reflections.

He titled his head slightly to the side and met my eyes in the mirror. “I can't wait to see you grow up,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Why?” I watched my own face as my brows crinkled with general confusion.

“I don't know. I just kind of want to see if you'll be anything like me. But I think you'll be even better,” Simon replied. He squeezed my shoulder and gave me a small smile that told me he had a lot on his mind but he wasn't planning on telling me. I was used to that though, only getting half of whatever Simon was feeling, because that's as much as he told me. I understood. I was his kid brother, not his friend. I briefly wondered what all the thoughts that Simon never shared could be and why he never shared.

But I couldn't help but wonder what Simon could possibly see in me that made him think that I could be anything like him. I'd always looked up to Simon and I still did. But that didn't mean that I thought I'd ever actually be like him. So I settled for mediocre. I settled for being similar to Simon, but not nearly as good. Even when I was his age, I didn't think I'd measure up to him. Who was I kidding? I just wasn't meant for greatness like Simon was.

So I just smiled at Simon and we walked out of the bathroom and I tried to shove my insecurities somewhere far away because I was going to sixth grade, whether I liked it or not.

My eyes fly open and the first thing I see are big brown eyes, pinched at the corners with a smile. I nearly jump out of my skin and Logan laughs and sits next to me on the grass under what I now consider to be my favorite oak tree in the quad. The memory of Simon on my first day of middle school lingers hauntingly and I can't shake his voice in my head, saying I don't know. I just kind of want to see if you'll be anything like me. But I think you'll be even better. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say and he smirks at having startled me. “I was trying to relax, thank you very much. And you succeeded in ruining that.”

“Oh did I ruin your relaxation time? I'm so sorry!” he says, smiling just a little at his own sarcasm. I glare at him, although his eyes are now closed as he sits cross-legged on the grass, in a meditating position. He smiles a toothy grin up at me, despite his closed eyes.

“You're hilarious,” I reply with the same amount of sarcasm but return his smile, despite the lack of a point, since he can't see it.

Logan chuckles. “So, what's your story?” he asks, his lips curling up in a slight grin. He flips his hair in a boyish way and I look him over, taking in his slim fitting black jeans, his v-neck t-shirt, and Vans, and let my eyes linger on the all-too-prominent bulge in his pants. It's not like I like him or anything but I can always appreciate a good looking guy when I see one. I smile as he makes a show of getting comfortable on the grass, wiggling around in his jeans..

I raise one eyebrow at him, my head involuntarily tilting. “My story?”

His eyes snap open, levelly meeting mine. “Your story. Everyone has a story. What brought you to Heedway?” He does that curious head cocking gesture of his and smiles slightly, the indent in his cheek showing.

I shrug and absently pull fistfuls of grass from the ground. “Music, of course. And my brother.”

“Your brother?” he prompts.

“Yeah. He was a classical pianist too. The best I knew. I always wanted to be just like him, I just never thought it'd actually happen,” I reply, shrugging again. I stare down at my hands and let my dirty blonde hair fall into my face and then peek up at Logan, slightly uncomfortable.

“Was?” he asks quietly, brown eyes darting toward mine and then away.

“He died a few years ago. Killed by a drunk driver.” My voice is very small when I say this. It's been years but it's still hard to talk about his death. I glare at my hands, hoping that the tears burning at the back of my eyes will not dare fall.

“What was he like?” The voice isn't Logan's and we both look up to find Wesley standing there under the tree, his face shadowed. He sits down on my left side and I start pulling out blades of grass again. “I lost my mom to cancer a while ago and it was always better when people asked what she was like instead of apologizing like they'd killed her. That way I get to talk about how great she was and not the end of her life. Sorry. I don't really have a filter, I usually just say whatever comes to mind.”

I give Wes a sideways glance, surprised by his sudden appearance and his understanding. And he's right, talking about the greatness of someone is much better than talking about their tragic end. “It's okay,” I whisper. I pause, choosing my words carefully. “He was great. A talented pianist, smart, funny, one of the most generous guys you've ever met. He was kind of just like me but...better. He was a really great brother.”

“He sounds like a pretty cool guy. Too bad he didn't have red hair, then he'd be perfect,” Wes jokes, smirking. I nudge him with my elbow but smile at him.

“I think he'd look good with any hair color but red. Blue, green, pink, anything but red,” Logan puts in, reaching around me to mess up Wes' hair. I laugh at their playfulness and find my smile widening when I realize that these are my friends. These guys who only met me four days ago and already know how to replace the frown on my face with a smile. My best friends. Gosh, it's been a while since I've been able to call anyone that.

My phone starts ringing and I quickly fish it out of my pocket. It's my dad. I sigh and flip open my phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, son. How is it over there?” comes his deep voice.

“It's good. Nice,” I reply curtly.

“That's good. Look, I was just calling to tell you I'm on the way there.”

I pause, thrown off. What could he possibly want from me already? “Why?” I ask cautiously, almost scared to know the answer.

“I want to see how piano lessons are going and check up on you. Is that all right?” he says. I can hear the fake smile in his voice. He asks the question as if I have a choice in it. He purposefully called me when he was on the way, just so I couldn't object and tell him to stay home. Typical Shaun Cohen move.

“Alright, Dad. I guess I'll see you soon.” I snap my phone shut and sigh. Not four full days in and the head Cohen has to check up on me.

“You okay, man? You look a little peeved,” Logan says, studying my face with a raised eyebrow.

I shrug. I am a little peeved. This visit is going to be nothing but more agitation and frustration at my life, and there's nothing I can really do about it. My father is just a reminder of all that I'm not and all that he wishes I were. I don't need or want that. But, again, there's nothing I can really do about it. “Nah, I'm okay, man. My Dad's on his way here to check up on me, like the nosy old man he is,” I chuckle, painting on a fake grin. “I'll catch you guys later.”

Deciding I could use some time alone before I have to see my father, I stand from my spot on the grass, dust my khakis off, and wave one last time before heading toward the rec building, where the gym, a unisex lounge, and an old art room are. I open the door to the lounge and quickly close it, shutting out the world beyond.

A throat being cleared scares me half to death and I look up, realizing that not only am I not in the lounge, I'm not alone either. My cheeks blush a deep red as I realize that I'm standing in front of the door to the spare art room and a boy my age is there, painting on a large easel, dressed in some jeans and a Superman t-shirt with a dirty smock over it. “S-Sorry. I didn't know anyone was in here,” I quickly apologize, still leaning against the door. I look past the boy, at the painting. It's of an eagle, soaring through the sky at sunrise. It's absolutely beautiful.

“I take it you're a music student,” he says, glancing between me and his painting with a smile.

“Huh?” I ask stupidly.

“The way you're looking at my painting. Observing, instead of mentally picking it apart. Very un-art-student-like,” he continues, with a smile. He puts down his brush and wipes some excess paint off his hands with his smock. “I'm John, by the way. And you are?”

“Seth,” I reply quietly. He reaches out a hand and I hesitate for a split second before shaking it. He smiles again and I realize he has one of those contagious smiles, because now I'm smiling right back at him. “I didn't mean to interrupt you, or anything,” I mutter after letting go of his hand. I nervously rub at the back of my neck and look away.

“No, no, it's fine. I was just taking a break from painting anyway,” he says. I watch as he cleans some paintbrushes and then turns to face me, and I take him in fully. He is truly handsome, even more so when you look past his somewhat unconventional exterior. He has long, dark eyelashes surrounding deep blue eyes and dark, almost mahogany hair that hangs down in his face in a slightly emo look. His lips are thin but still extremely kissable and his skin is fair but not pale. I make a mental note of him being a potential friend.

“I have to go. Uh, nice meeting you though,” I mutter, hands absently pulling at my sweater. I don't really want to go, mostly because I'm sure talking to my father will not be particularly pleasant, but also because this John guy seems intriguing.

“Alright, Seth. See you around,” John smiles. I find myself smiling back again. He really is handsome, if not different. Definitely a potential friend. Another couldn't hurt.

*        *       *

“You messed up.” His voice echoes slightly through the amphitheater, traveling from the front row of seating up to the stage where I sit at the piano stool. I feel the smile drop from my face as soon as it appears. Of course the first thing he would tell me after my first time through the song outside of practice was that I'd messed up. It's Saturday, my fourth full day at Heedway and Dad's already back, hounding me about piano. “Simon could do that piece with not one mistake when he was twelve years old. How old are you, Seth? Sixteen and you still can't go through it once without messing it up,” my father continues. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, so he won't complain about me sighing and say how I don't respect him enough to listen without being obnoxious. Maybe if you weren't breathing down my neck and yelling at me to be like Simon, I'd get it right. It takes everything in me to refrain from voicing my thoughts.

“I've done it before,” is all I say.

“And at a performance they won't care if you've done it before, they'll care if you do it right then and there,” he retorts. I run my fingers over the keyboard without pressing down. I close my eyes and try to bring myself back to a time when I enjoyed the free feeling of piano keys under my fingers and notes penetrating my ears. I can't pinpoint a time but I know it was long time ago. “Well, I should be going now. I have to tend to your mother and I'm sure you have some studying to do.”

I keep my eyes closed and keep running my hands softly back and forth across the keys. There's a shuffling as my father stands from his seat and I hear his footsteps fading down the aisle and the sound of the double doors being opened and shut. I relax a little when he's gone, my rigid shoulders losing some of their tension.

“Ah, Mr. Cohen, I thought I'd find you here,” Mr. Armentano, my instructor, says as he walks through the side door to the theatre and climbs up the steps to the stage. “I wanted to let you know that I will be gone for quite some time but in the mean time, you will have a new instructor who is experienced in piano. I believe he'll be of great help to you. He's excited to be mentoring and instructing you,” Mr. Armentano says, stroking the coarse black hair that covers his chin. I nod and shift in my seat at the piano bench and close my eyes as I run my fingers over the keys, bringing myself back to a relaxed place as I do before almost every lesson. “Ah here he is,” my instructor says. I think of all the songs that I really want to play but can't which leads me to thinking of my run in with Spencer the day before. He was so mysterious that I can't help but wonder what his story was.

I hear the tell-tale sign of feet on the stage stairs and footsteps approaching. I finally open my eyes and turn around to great this new instructor, whoever he is, and find myself looking into the blue-gray eyes of Spencer Heedway himself.to great this new instructor, whoever he is, and find myself looking into the blue-gray eyes of Spencer Heedway himself.