The Sound of Us - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - September

Simon. Simon, Simon, Simon. God, I hear that name way too much. It's not my name, if that's what you're thinking. It is—or was—my brother's name. Simon was perfect. Tall, sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, a defined jaw and angular features. And that's only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to his perfection. Throw in his natural tendency towards random acts of kindness and his patience for virtually anyone. Add a 4.0 GPA to the equation. And wait, it doesn't stop there. Simon was also basically a musical genius with a piano. He was nailing Mozart concerto pieces at age eleven and just kept getting better.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my brother. He was the best older brother I could ask for, really, but it's hard to live up to expectations when Simon set the standards.

My parents got me into music nearly right out of the womb. My father was the one who wanted his sons to grow up to be successful and amazing pianists. Play pianos and xylophones started it all when I was a toddler and ever since, I just kept upgrading to bigger and better instruments. He trained me as a pianist, just like Simon. I'd like to think that I'm pretty good at it, maybe even great. But just not as good as Simon.

Everything changed three years ago. I was thirteen, Simon was seventeen. Everything was going great for Simon—he was getting recognized by some amazing music schools and people who could help him further his musical career. And then he died.

Simon Cohen, amazing pianist and person. Lived seventeen years. Killed in a three-way car collision by a drunk driver.

He didn't deserve to die. God, I wish he was here. But he's not and I'm stuck living his life, like a ghost of him because that's what I'm supposed to do. That's what my dad seems to want from me. He wants me to be as perfect as my dead brother and I just don't think I'll ever be as perfect as Simon was. I'll always be Seth Cohen, their secretly closeted son—also known as the less amazing version of Simon Cohen.

*          *          *

“Hey, new roommate. Welcome to Heedway Hall School of the Arts. I'm Wesley Irvine, but you can call me Wes,” my roommate says, sticking out a hand for me to shake. I hesitate a moment, eying his pale and heavily freckled hand before my dad nudges me from behind and I reach out and grip Wesley's hand briefly but firmly. I can tell he's an art student already by the paint splattered jeans he's wearing with rainbow suspenders and a Beatles t-shirt. I decide any fellow Beatles fan has the potential to be a friend.

“Seth,” I reply. He steps back and lets me into the room with my father following close behind. “That's my dad.”

“Shaun Cohen. Nice to meet you, Wesley,” my father says, smiling politely at my redheaded roommate. I look around the room silently, taking it in, in a way. Wesley's side of the room looks like a rainbow threw up clothes and art all over it. His bedspread is striped and a bunch of different colors and he has clothes piled all over it, as well as thrown haphazardly on the floor and some hanging from the chair in front of his desk. You can barely see the blue of his wall because it's plastered with framed Andy Warhol art, band posters, and more art from unknown artists. The right side of the room, my side now, is barren. There's a simple bed with simple bedding and a desk with nothing on or in it. “Seth, did you want to go on that tour now?”

Do I want to go on a tour of my new boarding school with my dad as the guide? No, not particularly. In fact, I could think of a million things I'd rather be doing. Plus, it wasn't like he hadn't spent the whole trip here, and all the time while we were researching Heedway Hall, telling me facts about the school that I could honestly care less about. A tour from him would be a rehash and a waste of my time. “Oh, I could show him around, Mr. Cohen. I know the campus like the back of my hand,” Wesley pipes up. Right then, I decide I could like him. He's slightly quirky, with his red hair and color obsession, but he seems nice enough. I could see us as friends.

My father pauses, glancing at me and then away. “Okay,” he agrees, only slightly reluctantly. “I guess I should go now anyway. Your mother probably expects me home soon.” He walks over and gives me a one-armed hug, smiles slightly, and then leaves. When he's gone, I look over at Wesley who's sitting across the room on his bed and pulling on his suspenders as he looks at me like I'm a piece of art he's having trouble interpreting.

“So, um, tour time?” Wesley says, his mouth lifting up on one side in a lopsided smile.

“Sure.” I stand up and follow Wesley out of our room.

He leads the way down the hall—which is quite fancy, I might add, with wood flooring obscured by a long strip of maroon and gold carpeting and deep tan painted walls—and down the set of stairs I walked up a few minutes ago with my dad. We reach the main floor and I follow Wesley down a corridor and through a set of double doors. The room we walk into is a lot more modern looking than the rest of the place. It's a huge room and a plasma TV is mounted on the left wall with a roomy couch a few feet in front of it and a handful loveseats and recliners on either side. On the right side of the room, there are various scattered chairs, two loveseats on either side of a coffee table, a big stereo against the wall, and a mini-fridge. In the back there's even a foosball table and some type of old fashioned arcade game, the type that's like a box with a screen and a joystick. There are student milling about watching TV, listening to music, and downing energy drinks. “Welcome to the guys' dorm lounge,” Wesley grins, spreading his arms in a sort of 'this is all yours' gesture.

Okay, so this is definitely not home, but I think I can get used to life at boarding school. I look around again, seeing all my laughing classmates, and hope to whatever higher power there may be that one day—preferably soon—I'll be that comfortable here. I hope that I'll have friends to goof around and hang out with. That would be a nice change from my current lonely pianist life.

I'm snapped out of my thoughts when Wesley gently but insistently pulls on my arm and I turn around and follow him out. He leads the way out of the dormitory and I'm hit by a fall breeze as we step outside. The sun is hovering above the horizon, on its way to setting slow and colorfully.

“So I should probably explain how things work around here,” Wesley starts, glancing at me and giving me one of his lopsided grins before looking ahead again and continuing, “It's simple, really. There's a high school, obviously, but there's also an elementary and middle school portion of Heedway on the other end of the campus. Parents send there 'artistically inclined' children there. For them it's like a private school, but with more education on art and music. In high school, we're all basically split into two groups. I mean not officially or anything, this is just how students here classify each other into groups. There are the art students and the music students; those are the two basic groups. There are also theatre, film, and writing students, but they're subgroups inside of the art group. And we call whatever our main focus here is our major. But I think it's mainly because it makes us sound sophisticated and less because it's what we're studying. So for instance, I'm an art student and I'm majoring in painting and printmaking. And you'd be...?”

“A music student majoring in piano.” It sounds more like a question than an answer when I say it. Probably because I'm not used to being classified into any group. I love the way students at Heedway Hall make it sound though. Like music and art are educational things that can be studied and mastered and used as a career. In public school, no one really saw becoming a pianist as something practical. No one ever really saw it how I did, like any other art, but with a lack of tangibility. Like something beautiful to be cherished. And now I go to a school full of people who think the same way as I do. Heedway Hall is sounding more and more like home by the minute.

“Right. But some people are a mixture. Like my friend Ally, she plays acoustic and electric guitar and writes songs. So technically she's a music and art student. But there's a catch for writing. You can't only major in writing. You have to do something with it, like play an instrument or do something art related. You don't necessarily have to be good at whatever other thing you choose, you just have to take another course to accompany it, basically. And majors are four year studies, so you have to at least one class on your major every year. Basically everyone takes more than one though.” Wes paused and slowed his pace. “Is this making any sense to you?”

“Yeah, I get it. Majors are the forms of art we study and we have to take at least one course all four years. I'm guessing every year the class goes up a level?” I reply.

He nods at me and then looks forward again, seeming to be trying to get his thoughts together before he starts speaking again. “Certain students can get private lesson for their majors too. Not everyone, because they'd run out of instructors, but certain people who excel at whatever it is they do. Or just people who can afford it, if they can't get lessons otherwise. Aside from regular classes like math, science, history, and all that, and our majors, there are other electives we can take. Like Foods, Gym, Photography, Psychology, Apparel, Interior Design, Marketing, a bunch of other pointless classes, and even,” Wes pauses, looking around as if anyone were there to overhear us, and drops his voice to a whisper, “Art 1.” I stare at his serious expression and can't stop myself from laughing. He said it as if it were the most ridiculous class he'd ever heard of. Sounds normal to me. “I'm serious! That is the most basic art class ever! I must've taken it in like elementary school or something. The only people who would take that class are music students just looking for another credit to go toward the amount they need to graduate. I'm in Painting 5. I've taken one painting class each semester since ninth grade.”

Okay so Wes is basically a painting fanatic. And the typical eccentric artsy type, with a talkative and slightly odd personality. Plus the red hair. I like him. “Wow,” I smile. “So do art and music students mingle or is there some sort of unspoken feud because of the difference in art form?” I smirk to let him no that I'm joking.

“I'd like to say there's an unspoken feud, but mostly we mingle. I mean, I do love music—hence the Beatles t-shirt—I just can't play an instrument for shit. And I'm basically tone deaf.” Wes has one of those surprisingly deep voices for his face, if that makes sense—like you wouldn't expect him to sound how he does. I find myself laughing at the picture of him strumming a guitar and trying to sing.

I compose myself after a full thirty seconds of laughing and say, “Well I think we'll be friends. Us both being fans of The Beatles and all.”

Wesley glances over at me, the skin around his blue eyes crinkling with a toothy smile. “I think so too. Even if you probably draw like a first grader with a crayon.” I scowl and playfully bump his shoulder with mine, even though it's true. Drawing is in no way my strong suit. I'll stick to piano. We make a turn down the path to the main building and Wes holds the door open for me as we enter. I've been in the building a few times before—when Dad brought me here to check out the campus and when we were first considering the school and again about forty-five minutes ago when we came to get my school schedule and dorm keys—but it's still stunning to see the lobby. There's a slightly intimidating winding marble staircase to the left which leads up to where most of the classes are and a main office to the right. In the middle of the lobby-like area there's a fountain with an angel statue on a pedestal in the middle. It kind of makes this look like a Christian school but I think it has more to do with the taste of whoever built this place than religion.

Wes walks around the fountain and starts down a corridor and I follow closely behind. The whole place is kind of intimidating when you think about it—all fancy and gigantic. This is not a place for people like me. I could see Simon here, with his classical piano perfection and blonde hair and preppy good looks. Simon would love this place; he'd love everything about it. So why am I here? I guess it's almost like a tribute to Simon. He would want me here, chasing dreams that I might not even be good enough to have. But Simon would say that I could do anything, be anything. God, I miss him. I miss him too much.

“That's Frederick Heedway II, founder of Heedway Hall School of the Arts,” Wesley tells me, pointing to a framed painting of a man with dark brown hair and a thick, dark beard. The initials F.A.H and the Roman numeral II are etched into the bottom of the frame. “He created the school in 1952. He was a sculptor but no one understood why he sculpted or what art truly meant to him. He made this school for young artists like himself to learn and live. This building was actually built in the late 1800's by his British relatives, way before he was born and he inherited the architecture and the land and used it to make his very own art school. It kept expanding ever since, but they haven't changed the original architecture of this building.”

“Wow. They kept it in such great condition for it being around that long,” I observe. We walk along the corridor and I glance around, looking at the various artwork and paintings of Frederick Heedway and some other co-founders.

“His great grandsons, or great great grandsons or something, they go here. One's a musician, the other's an artist. Some of these paintings are by the artist grandson.” I look over at Wesley and smile at the glint he gets in his blue eyes when he talks about the school and art. He's smiling almost subconsciously and staring ahead with unfocused eyes. I wonder if I look like that when I talk about music. He looks over and meets my gaze and smiles that lopsided grin that's starting to grow on me. “Sorry, I'm boring you, aren't I?”

“No, no. It's nice to know about my school, you know? I mean, I'm going to be living here, right? It was really nice of you to do this anyway,” I say quickly. And it was. I mean, it's not like we have to be friends, just because we're roommates. But he made an effort to be my friend, even if it meant going out of his way. I hadn't had a real friend in a while, even though it was mostly my fault. I'd pulled slowly away from my friends ever since Simon had died. It was a nice change of pace, making a friend. Well, at least I thought we were friends, or on our way to being.

“It's no problem,” Wesley grins. “I hope I'm doing good with this whole making new friends thing. I'm a little rusty.”

I give him my best reassuring smile. So we're friends. Wow, an hour at HHSA and I already have a friend. That's a new personal record. Well, not that it was much of an accomplishment, since he is my roommate and kind of has to make friends with me to have a nice roommate relationship, but still. I have a new friend. “Don't worry about it. Now, for the important question. Where can I get food and how good is it?”

*          *          *

The dining hall-slash-cafeteria is huge. I kind of expected it to look like the dining hall in the Harry Potter movies, all long wood tables and low hanging chandeliers. Actually, it did have chandeliers but they weren’t low hanging. It was basically your normal cafeteria—save for a sushi bar, and about every option of food you could think of—with tons of square little tables with two chairs on either side. Wesley led me through the crowd to the lunch setup. It was split up by food type: one booth for Asian food, one booth for Italian, one booth for Caribbean, one booth for good old fashioned hamburgers, hotdogs, and assorted barbeque foods, and another booth for miscellaneous foods.

“The foreign foods are only open for lunch,” Wes sighs as he steers me toward the good old fashioned lunch foods line. We make it to the front of the line in a few minutes and I grab a hamburger, a small salad, and a water bottle and wait for Wes. He steps off line carrying a tray of way too many french fries and two hotdogs. “I usually eat outside with my friends when the weather's okay.” I follow Wes to the back of the cafeteria, a little nervous about meeting more people. The back wall is all tall glass windows, with a few doors leading out onto a patio.

Wes' usual table is the last little round mosaic table on the right side of the patio. When we get there, there are three people already sitting and talking, two pretty girls with similar haircuts—except one was blonde and the other had brown hair—and a boy about our age with light brown hair and a nice smile. “Hey, guys. This is my roommate. He's new,” Wesley says as we take our seats in the two empty chairs.

I sit down and start subconsciously rubbing the ring that hangs on a silver chain around my neck between my thumb and forefinger. The familiar feeling of the band of cold metal calms my nerves and I decide I should make an effort to stop acting so shy. I'm normally not shy at all, but then again, this is my first time at a new school with people I don't know since when we moved when I was three. And I'm not sure that even counts.

“Guys this is Seth,” Wes starts, as I look up, startled by the introduction. “Seth, that's Preston, that's Meg, and that's Ally.” He goes through their names in order from left to right; Preston's the guy, Meg's the brunette, and Ally's the blonde. Preston looks like he walked out of Ralph Lauren catalog with slicked back hair, all-American features, and the white polo to match. Not that I have anything against polo's, I wear them. It's just that he looks too perfect. Meg is down right adorable, with big hazel eyes that are more green than brown in this light and long brown hair with side bangs hanging in her face. Ally is pretty, but in a natural way, which is rare nowadays. She's got pale skin with a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks, green-blue eyes, and the same haircut as Meg but blonde. She has a willowy build, her limbs slightly lanky.

The girls smile and wave and Preston gives me a slight head nod, looking at me with an amused expression like he's trying to suppress a smile, and says, “Hey.” I decide I probably won't like him.

“Hi,” I say quietly, trying out a polite smile.

Ally reaches out a long-fingered hand and when I shake it, I'm surprised by how firm her grip is. “Nice to meet you, Seth. What's your major?”

“Piano.”

A smile breaks out on her face and I decide that I love her smile. There's something about how genuine her smile looks, like she has a lot to be happy about and whatever you just said to her is no exception. It's refreshing. “Fellow music student. I like. Meg and Wes here are art fanatics. You, Preston, Logan, and I are the music students of the group. Too bad you're all guys,” she grins, winking at me with one pretty blue eye.

“Hey! No bashing guys. We're pretty much the superior sex,” Preston jokes, laughing a laugh that sounded kind of like he was hyperventilating. Ally reaches over and grabs a couple of french fry off Wes' plate then launches them at Preston.

“No food fights. I am not getting food in my hair!” Meg chimes in, reaching up and protectively trying to cover her hair. Ally bumps Megs shoulder with her own thin one and they both laugh. These are my new friends? I can live with that. Actually, I think I might even enjoy it.

“Yeah and I'm not letting you waste my fries on throwing. Hey, where's Logan, anyway?” Wesley asks suddenly. I look around, wondering who they're talking about until I remember that Ally said there was another musician in their group named Logan.

“He ate earlier, when the dining hall first opened 'cause he had to go study or something,” Preston answers. “Shouldn't you be studying too, Wes?”

“Should be,” Wes agrees, with a shrug and a grin. “I should do a lot of things that I don't.” I laugh because he reminds me of me. Same humor, same procrastinating tendency.

We all sit around, talking and eating until closing time. I can get used to times like this, sitting around and joking with a group of friends. I haven't done that in a really long time. And I don't think I could've asked for a better group of musicians and artists to be friends with. Preston turned out to be a really funny guy, despite my assumption that I wouldn't like him. His perfection was only skin deep. I mean, not that he has a bad personality—he definitely doesn't—it's just reassuring to know that he, like all of us, has flaws. I think what made me not like him at first was that he reminded me of Simon. And me. Dressed in country club looking cookie-cutter outfits, and picture perfect on the outside. But nothing is ever really perfect. Even Simon had flaws.

*          *          *

The next day came way too fast for my liking and I find myself walking up the steps in the main building, on my way to my first class with a nervous pit in my stomach. “So on the second floor, all the classes are numbered in the two hundreds and the third floor are all three hundreds. Basically, the floor will always be the first number of the classroom. And they go in chronological order, so you'll find 'em okay,” Wesley says. I nod absently and look over my schedule again as we climb the winding marble staircase.

“What's this class?” I ask curiously, handing him the schedule and pointing out the class I'm referring to.

“Piano Instruc.? Oh, instruction. Dude, this is private piano lessons. You must be really good,” Wes says, looking up and smiling at me. I blush and fold my schedule back up, shrugging. As we reach the second floor, Wes heads toward the hallway. “Well, this is my floor. Good luck, man.” Wesley claps my shoulder and gives me the lopsided grin that I can now say has officially grown on me.

“Thanks,” I mumble as he walks away. I take a deep breath, and attempt to will away the sinking feeling in my stomach. I don't even know what I'm nervous about. It's just school. Nothing scary, just school. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

I slowly keep walking up the stairs to the fourth flour. The halls are crowded with people rushing off to their first hour class and a lot more people standing around and talking. I look around as I walk. All of these people are artists and musicians. It's almost weird to be in a school full of artists. All the same, in a way, but so completely different. I look down at the paper in my hand. Room 413. Thirteen is a lucky number, right? I decide that I'll like this class.

I reach the class a just before the late bell sounds and pick a random seat in the middle of the classroom. The middle is the ideal place for me to sit in a classroom. Not too close to the front where the teacher notices when I'm not paying any attention but not so far back that it screams 'I'm just gonna sit here and do nothing'. I drop my bag on the floor and try to make myself comfortable in the metal chair attached to my desk.

The first twenty minutes of class I try my best not to fall asleep listening to my teacher, Mrs. Meloni, talk about math and equations. I don't think she could make precalculus any more boring if she tried. I stare straight ahead, unfocusing and focusing my eyes out of sheer boredom. “Do you see the way her nose wiggles up and down when she talks? Looks kind of like a beak, right?” someone whispers. I look to my left and see a boy with black hair cut in a skater-like style and brown eyes. I notice immediately how cute he is. “Kind of like a parrot's beak, but maybe longer.” He tilts his head slightly to the side and puts a finger on his chin, as if he's considering it. I chuckle quietly and smile at him and he looks up and smiles back. “You new here?”

“Yeah, first day. I'm Seth,” I whisper back.

“Logan. Welcome to Heedway Hall.” I like his smile. It brings out this little indent on his right cheek. Not quite a dimple, but just a cute little indent.

Wait, Logan? As in the other musician in my new group of friends? I decide it's worth a shot to ask. “You don't happen to be Wesley Irvine's friend Logan, do you?”

“Actually, I do happen to be that Logan. How do you know Wes?” He raises one thick black eyebrow, cocking his head slightly. It's a cute curious gesture. Okay, I've called him cute a few times now. But, he is. I'm just acknowledging a fact.

“Roommate,” I answer. He nods with an 'ah-hah' look on his face. Mrs. Meloni clears her throat and we both promptly shut up. I think I can get used to life at Heedway. I think I might even like it. Who knows, I might never want to go home. Now that sounds like an idea.