The Sound of Us - 3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Eyes closed and head titled slightly to the right, I let my fingers guide me through the song. A Beethoven sonata, one of my favorites. The notes penetrate the air and I imagine little note symbols dancing above the piano with every press of a key. When the song is over, I slowly open my eyes and find Spencer Heedway looking at me with his elbows resting on the piano and his chin sitting on his interlocked fingers.

“Good...but,” he starts, walking behind the piano stool to place his hands over mine, “do it like this.” He guides my fingers through the last few notes of the sonata, leaning his chest lightly against my back. My heart gives a painful squeeze and starts trying to pound it's way out of my chest. Spencer's hands linger on mine for a split second longer than necessary and then he's gone. The feeling of his fingers on mine stays like a phantom after he lets go and I realize this is the fifth time he's found reason to touch me. “Well, I think we're pretty much done with that song for today.”

I nod and say, “Alright,” and try not to let my disappointment show on my face. I look at my watch and realize that we're done ten minutes earlier than usual and wonder if maybe Spencer is just trying to get rid of me. Am I being paranoid about him touching me? Maybe he's like that with everyone. It probably doesn't mean anything.

“We've got time left. Why don't you play me something?” Spencer says, his deep voice soft.

I look up at him, staring into the shadows cast by his eyelashes. “Like what?”

“I know you don't just play classical music. Play another song like the one you played yesterday.” I look up at him, nervously biting my lip and he smiles reassuringly down at me. “If it makes you feel any better, I'll play something if you sing a song for me.”

I take a deep breath. Oh, what the hell? My fingers shake slightly as I start up the song.

Lying next to you
Wishing I could disappear
Let you fall asleep
And vanish out into thin air

It's the elephant in the room
And we pretend that we don't see it
It's the avalanche that looms above our heads
And we don't believe it

Trying to be perfect
Trying not to let you down
Honesty is honestly
The hardest thing for me right now, yeah
While the floors underneath our feet
Are crumbling, the walls we built together tumbling
I still stand here holding up the roof
Cause it's easier than telling the truth
It's easier than telling the truth

By this point in the song, I have my eyes closed, just trying to concentrate on the piano notes etched into my mind from many nights of playing this song alone in my room. My own voice sails through the air, joining the melodies of the piano and I forget where I am for a while. I focus on the feel of my vocal chords and fingers working as I come closer to the end of the song.

Trying to be perfect
Trying not to let you down
Honesty is honestly
The hardest thing for me right now, yeah
While the floors underneath our feet
Are crumbling, the walls we built together tumbling
I still stand here holding up the roof
Cause it's easier than telling the truth
It's easier than telling the truth

My voice fades out at the last word and the theatre is bathed in silence. I open my eyes and am suddenly very aware of Spencer's presence again. He's leaning against the piano with his hands shoved into his pockets and looking at me curiously, with something like admiration sparkling in his eyes. “You know, you're really talented. You seem to love this type of music. Remind me again why you don't sing here?”

My face turns hot and I feel a blush creep up. “I'm supposed to be a pianist,” I reply simply.

Spencer takes his hands out of his pockets and gestures for me to scoot over before sitting next to me on the bench. “Supposed to? So I'm guessing you're living up so someone else's expectations. Why not be a singer too?”

“It's complicated,” I answer, fiddling with the ring hanging from a chain around my neck.

Spencer narrows his eyes at me but then just shrugs. “I get it though,” he says. “Doing what you're supposed to.” He begins playing random notes on his side of the piano, really soft and high notes that instantly soothe me. Spencer Heedway relating to me? I give him a sideways glance, studying his profile which is close to perfection. What expectations could he possibly not meet?

“You get it?” I wonder aloud. I idly start playing the same notes as him in a different key.

“Sometimes I actually like being a normal guy. I go to the movies and bowl and party with my friends and act like a crazy person at random times. Shocking right?” I chuckle slightly when I see the smirk tugging up one corner of his mouth. “Believe it or not, being a Heedway isn't all fun and games. There are expectations. Extremely high ones.” He stops playing and looks straight ahead, his blue-gray eyes clouding over with thought. He looks so far away it almost feels wrong to shatter his thoughts with a response so I stay silent.

I watch him as unreadable emotions cross his face and wonder what he's thinking. When the silence becomes unbearable, I say, “I can't imagine you not meeting them.”

“Oh, but I don't. Not even close.” His response is quick and he says it so calmly that I have to look at him to make sure he's serious. He still looks far away and a frown pulls his lips down slightly. I want to ask what he means but I don't want to pry so I leave it at that.

“Shouldn't we move to the music room now? Other people have the theatre rented out for private lessons,” I ask, in an attempt to change the subject.

Spencer looks up at me, snapped out of his thoughts. “I pulled some strings. We've got the rest of the class period in here. I can get if for the rest of the time that your instructor's gone, if you want,” he smiles. I can't help but blush and break eye contact. Gosh, his eyes—and every other part of him—are distracting.

“No, that's okay. The music room is fine,” I say.

“I did say I would play a song for you, so I guess I should do that. It's just something I've been working on for fun. Nothing that good, really,” Spencer says. I stand up so he has room to play and take up a position leaning back against the piano.

He begins a lyric-less piano song that sounds classical with a modern twist. The notes range from high to low and create a melody more beautiful than almost anything I've ever heard. I look at Spencer, whose eyes are closed in concentration, and watch him bite his lip. His brows furrow slightly and he sways to the song. It's a sad melody but so beautiful, it's easy to overlook the sadness and enjoy the sounds. Nothing that good? Was he joking? When it's over, I almost ask him to play it again, just so I can have the melody etched deeply into my mind.

He smiles when he opens his eyes to find me studying him. I use the word study because 'looking' isn't quite right. I'm studying his face, trying to memorize every line and analyze every expression. I have an urge to reach out and trace the sharp point of his nose but I know I can't. “I wrote that last week,” he says, his voice near a whisper.

“You composed that?” I ask, my mouth gaping open. I knew he was a composer, but I didn't know he was that good. Actually, good wasn't a good enough word either. I didn't know he'd be that incredible.

“Yeah,” he sighs, looking down at his hands and twiddling with a ring on his middle finger. Words are etched into it but I can't see them. I jump slightly when the bell sounds, cracking through the thick silence. Spencer looks up at me and smiles, showing his teeth. “Guess it's time to go then. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I agree. I pick up my bag off the floor, give him one last smile, and leave.

*          *          *

The sound of muffled sobs seeped under the door as I stood just outside of it. My hand hovered just above the knob and I debated whether or not I should go in for a moment. I slowly turned the knob and walked in, then shut the door behind me. Simon was sitting on the rug on his floor with his elbows resting on his crossed legs and his head in his hands. His body shook as he cried. I'd never seen him so distressed over anything.

“Simon?” I whispered, my pubescent voice cracking. His head snapped up and he looked flustered as he tried to wipe his face and compose himself.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently. He stood up and put an arm around me and we sat down right there, on the floor in front of his door.

“What's wrong?” I asked. I hadn't seen Simon cry in years. He was always smiling and laughing and never had a reason to be sad, let alone sob.

He laughed a curt little humorless laugh and then looked at me seriously. “Everything. Or that's what it feels like. I just got my heart broken by the girl I love and she doesn't even care. I don't think she ever cared,” he said quietly. He stared down at his palms as if they had the answer to his problems written on them.

“Girls aren't even all that good. She's dumb if she doesn't care about you anyway.”

“You'll understand when you're older, Seth,” he sighed.

“I don't think I will. I just don't have an interest in girls and I don't think it's changing anytime soon,” I admitted, shifting uncomfortably on the wooden floor. I fiddled idly with a piece of string hanging off the hem of my polo.

Simon glanced at me sideways, sniffling slightly but looking a lot better than he had when I found him. “What, a-are you interested in guys?” he said quietly, seriousness plain on his face.

“What? No I'm not a fag, Simon!” I quickly protested, averting my gaze. I tried to look everywhere but at him, staring at the wall, the floor, the string hanging off my shirt that I was furiously tugging at. I knew what being gay was, I was in seventh grade and boys made jokes about it in the locker room. Called guys fags if they looked their way for too long. I knew being attracted to boys wasn't normal. Everyday I told myself that I'd pick a girl and make myself like her but I always found my eyes involuntarily moving to the bulge in Terry Carson's pants. Still, I wouldn't let myself admit that I was gay and I knew it.

“Seth, I don't care if you're gay. That's the word, by the way—gay, not fag. You're my brother whether you like guys or girls,” Simon assured me, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I-I don't like g-guys, okay? God, just leave me alone!” I nearly shouted, shrugging off his touch. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them, picking a spot on the floor to stare at. No one could know! Matter of fact, there was nothing to know. I was straight.

“Alright, Seth, I'm sorry,” he sighed. His voice shook a little with the words and I saw tears brimming in his eyes but he quickly blinked them away. I looked away, ashamed and feeling stupid for yelling and not just admitting it. But that was me, stubborn as always. So I stood up and walked quickly out, slamming the door behind me.

My hand absentmindedly strokes the silver band hanging around my neck. “Seth...Seth! Where'd you go just then? You looked really out of it,” Wes says loudly, pulling me out of the past and back to the present. Why the hell had I been so mean to Simon? He was heartbroken and I'd just made it worse. And then he'd died before I could even say I was sorry for that stupid fight that should never have happened. I'd never been able to tell him that I was, in fact, gay.

I reach over and sit the book I'd been reading back on my desk and then lay back, my eyes boring holes in the ceiling. “I was just thinking,” I sigh.

“About your brother?” Wes asks quietly and almost delicately.

I look over at him, wondering when he'd developed psychic powers. “How'd you know?”

“When you talk about him, you touch that ring. I figured since you were touching it, you were thinking about him,” Wes replies simply, smiling at me. I chuckle. Ah, so he wasn't psychic, I was just obvious, apparently.

“I should probably go study though, man. You know with that test on Thursday and all,” I lie, sitting up and stretching. To be honest, I want to go back to the old art room, just to see if I'll run into John again. Lots of people at this school intrigue me, but John is different, some how. And if I don't run into him, I guess I'll have to actually study or something. How fun.

“Alright. Have fun with that,” Wes chuckles as he turns on his TV and lays back with his hands clasped behind his head.

I stuff a random textbook and notebook into my bag and leave, quickly making my way back to the rec building. The breeze blows through my hair as I take the left fork in the path, and quickly arrive at the squat little brick building that serves as our recreational sanctuary. The building is unlocked but, once inside, I hesitate at the door to art room, and peek through the little window in the door. It's dark and abandoned looking inside but I open the door despite its emptiness. The room looks pretty abandoned, I observe. There are boxes and old furniture and desks everywhere, not to mention some artwork clinging pathetically to the stone walls. The easel John had been painting on last weekend is still there in the middle of the room but devoid of a painting.

I sigh and take a step back, simultaneously closing the door. Deciding that I should just head to the library and get some studying done, I turn around but stop in my tracks when I see John, who's eyes widen and then crinkle with a smile when he sees me. “You again,” he smiles as he ambles towards me. When he's in front of me, he sets down the can of paint supplies and canvas that's occupying his hands and reaches behind me. For a moment, I think he's going to hug me and I freeze but instead he opens the door and I'm left blushing fiercely. “Come on in,” he says cheerily as he picks up his can and stack of easel-sized canvas board and walks into the art room.

I follow hesitantly, wondering why exactly I am here. But, really, who am I kidding? I know why. I'm as intrigued by John as I am by Spencer and by the whole experience of Heedway and I want to know more. I want to know more about John and his mahogany hair and artistic ways. If I told myself that there was any other reason but personal interest, I'd be lying.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?” John calls over his shoulder as he sets up paper on his easel and then turns it around.

“Curiosity,” I say quietly. And I am curious. I'm not sure why or where this curiosity is supposed to take me but I am. I plop into a comfy rainbow colored chair in a corner and stare out of the window to my left, appreciating the beauty of the sun on the horizon, half obscured by buildings. It would make a beautiful painting, if you were into landscape art with a bit of symbolism.

“Curiosity about art or about me?” he asks casually. The question startles me and I turn to look at his face to gauge his seriousness but find myself looking half of his face because the other is blocked by the easel he's painting on.

I clear my throat nervously. “Both, I guess,” I whisper.

He leans around his easel, blue eyes sparkling, and smiles at me teasingly. “So, what's your major?” I watch for a moment as he dips his paint brush into a color and makes a few strokes on his paper.

“Piano,” I answer as I settle back into my position of staring out the window. When John continues to paint silently for a while, I say, “And I'm guessing yours is painting?”

“Yeah, that's one of my majors. I also play guitar, so I major in that too,” he says. I glance at him and meet one of his blue eyes briefly before turning away again.

“What type? Of guitar, I mean.”

“Any,” he says simply. I have the urge to look at his face again but I stop myself.

“Any other talents I should know about?” I smile.

“Oh, I can also play the piano with my toes and the drums with my elbows. And sculpt, but just with my hands.” He leans around the easel again to wink at me and I can't help but laugh.

“I'm not even sure how that would work,” I chuckle, trying to picture him playing the drums with his elbows.

“Me either, but it makes me sound talented, doesn't it?” John smiles.

“I don't think you really need help sounding talented.”

“Well, thank you,” he says quietly, smiling slightly. The room falls into silence and he continues to paint. I sit there, feeling almost as if I'm penetrating his tranquil painting time but not wanting to leave. Although it's quiet, this is fun. I feel like John is the type of person who I could sit silently with and just enjoy his company, no words needed. I need a friend like that.

“How long have you been here?” I ask. I note that the half of the sun that is still visible is an orange-ish color and the sky is a shade of purple. Thinking in this artistic way really shows how much Heedway has rubbed off on me in less than a week. I never would have looked twice at a sunset, much less paid attention to specific shades of it.

“Since kindergarten,” he replies, his smile slightly nostalgic.

“How was it?” I wonder aloud. I can't imagine going to a school like Heedway my whole school career. I mean, I was always different from other kids but I had a fairly normal childhood and I liked it. I can't imagine going to such a prestigious academy as a child. Wouldn’t that take away the experience of being a kid?

John's paintbrush hovers in the air for a moment as his eyes stare off into space. His eyes quickly refocus and he starts painting in short but determined strokes again. “It was hard,” he laughs, “But I was doing what I loved so it was fun. It was nice to grow up with kids like me. I have a feeling I wouldn't fit it in public school—or private school for that matter.”

I smile and comfortable silence stretches on for a long while until John places his paintbrushes down and stands up. “I think this is ready for an unveiling,” John announces. I stand up, slightly surprised that John would show me his painting. Actually, more than slightly surprised. Artwork seems like something almost sacred and personal, especially to most art students Heedway. I can't help but feel honored to be the first to see John's painting—and for him to be comfortable enough with me to show it to me.

John takes his canvas down from the easel and turns it around slowly. I gasp as I take in the picture laid out before me. The painting is of a boy, sitting in a rainbow colored chair and staring out of a window at a colorful sunset. Half of the boy's face is shadowed and the other half is light, showing one bright blue eye while the other looks almost black. The sun, which is casting a shadow throughout the room, is orange-ish against a back drop of almost purple. The boy looks thoughtful and beautiful there. It doesn't take me long to figure out that the boy is me.

“John,” I whisper, taken aback. I don't think thank you really covers it. And is thank you even the thing to say here? I mean what do you say to someone when they paint you in such a beautiful light (and I mean that literally and figuratively)? It is absolutely breathtaking. “Wow. This is amazing. You're amazing. Thank you.” I say it even though it doesn’t seem like enough.

“I saw you sitting there with the light streaming in and I just had to paint it. I hope you don't mind. I know it's kind of weird,” John says shyly, his cheeks coloring an adorable red.

“No, no. I don't mind at all! I'm honored, to be honest,” I chuckle. My own cheeks turn slightly red. Not necessarily because I'm honored by the gesture but because I've made two new friends at Heedway that I'm starting to feel something for. No matter how much I don't like to admit it, I'm starting to develop feelings for Spencer and now John too, though I'm not sure what I feel for John. Whatever it is—and any way I to look at it—it's just one more complication to my life.