Page 1 of Broken Chords
Chapter One
Downbeat:the first beat in a measure, usually the strongest beat
Tonic triad:the chord built on the first note of a scale
Damian
Yes. Perfect.
I loosen my bow and stow it in itsslot before sliding my cello into the upright case that stands by the door of the practice room, satisfied with my progress onthe Dvorák concerto for the night. I’ve been slow-playing the concerto to get it under my fingers. My goal is to get it up to tempo by midterms, in plenty of time to add the polish and finesse before the recorded audition is due for the Gem State Concerto Competition on December 1.
It’s getting late, almost ten, and I’m one of the few diehards still in the practice rooms—those of us who prefer practicing at night rather than during the day. A handful of students will be in the computer lab, mostly sophomores working on their compositions for Dr. Paulsen and upper classmen who are taking the composition track classes. I’m sticking with Forms and Analysis and Music History and giving things like Counterpoint a pass. I have no illusions about where my talents lie. Composition is not my forte. Dr. Paulsen gave me decent grades on my dance forms and my sonata last year because they met the technical requirements of the assignments. They were boring. I was bored writing them. But they were the best I could manage.
No, performance is where I shine. Something about stepping on stage, my cello propped between my knees, its body connecting with mine … I become someone else in that moment. Something else. A conduit for the music. My cello becomes my voice, my soul, and I no longer exist as myself.
Those are the moments I live for.
Opening the door of the tiny practice room, I slip my arms into the backpack straps of my hard black case, becoming a beetle with a cello-shaped shell. Ever since I readMetamorphosisin an English class, I’ve always felt like I was channeling Gregor Samsa whenever I walk around with my case on my back. The difference being that once I stow my cello in its locker for the night, I’ll just be Damian. Long-haired, glasses-wearing cellist. The quiet guy who’s always drawn to the bright sparks in any room.
But bright sparks are drawn to other bright sparks so they can start a conflagration. Gabby and her boyfriend—fiancé I guess I should say—are the perfect example of that.
Lauren is another bright spark. We went on a date once, and I got my hopes up that she’d be willing to illuminate my world, at least for a little while. But no. She’s looking for her own bright spark. And my introverted, overthinking self is not that. I know it. But I still haven’t managed to get over the idea that she might change her mind. The longer she goes without dating anyone else, at least not seriously, the more my heart holds onto the hope that she might turn and see me again. So when I hear a violin playing while I walk down the practice hall, I wonder if it’s her.
I dismiss that thought as soon as I recognize the piece the violinist is playing. It’s a student concerto. I can’t remember the name of the composer, but I’ve heard it enough times in Strings Seminar to know it’s part of the standard progression for new violinists in Dr. Davis’s violin studio. Definitely not Lauren.
A piano playing a slow, haunting progression of chords catches my ear as I near the end of the hall. The piano majors have three practice rooms reserved for their use. Two have baby grands shoehorned into them, their dimensions slightly larger than the other practice rooms. The third room is even bigger, with just enough space next to the piano to fit another person so the piano majors can practice with the other students they sometimes accompany.
The light glows in the narrow window of the middle room’s door, one of the tiny ones, and that’s where the music is coming from.
It’s a simple chord progression, but elegant for its simplicity. The chords slide seamlessly into one another, with at least one note staying consistent between each change.
Instead of passing by the practice rooms on my way downstairs to the instrument storage room, I stop, lingering outside, listening. It’s not a song. Not really. There’s no discernible melody. No real rhythm. Just one chord morphing into another. They’re not all minor, but the overwhelming feeling is one of sadness. Or maybe nostalgia. I start to pick out a pattern, a tonal center, which makes some of the chord changes all the more surprising. Yes, they’re simple chords, but I don’t recognize the style at all. At first I thought maybe Debussy. It has a similar floating feeling of skating chords. But no. It’s too … I’m not sure. Not Debussy, though.
My familiarity with piano repertoire is lacking, so I have no more guesses. Curiosity has me peeking in the little window, even though I hate when faces appear in the window of my own practice room. Enough that now I practice with my back to the door so random eyeballs and noses popping into view don’t distract me from working.
Hopefully whoever is practicing is absorbed enough that they won’t notice me.
Stepping closer, I angle myself so I can see the pianist sitting in profile to me. Short dark hair falls forward as she leans into the next chord, her foot working the pedal. Glasses sit folded next to the music stand on top of a pile of sheet music and technique books. No music sits on the stand, though.
It’s Charlie, Lauren’s new roommate. We met a few weeks ago before classes started when Lauren invited a bunch of us over for pizza and a movie. Charlie’d been quiet at first, but had grown more animated as she relaxed, asking questions about the department and what to expect in her classes.
She’s our age, but she’s a freshman. She’d neatly changed the subject whenever anyone asked about her past, saying that she’d been traveling with her parents the last few years as to why she hadn’t started college at eighteen. That answer seemed to satisfy the others, but only piqued my curiosity more.
And now, here she is, making herself even more intriguing with her complete absorption in her music and playing something interesting enough that it makes me stop. That complete focus and dedication makes me wonder if she might be more like me than I first suspected.
Charlie’s slight frame pulls a lot of sound out of her instrument. As I watch, transfixed, she builds a crescendo, playing each chord over and over, like a fist hammering on a door, growing louder with each repetition.
At the peak, she stops, removing her foot from the pedal at the same time she removes her hands from the keys. A faint vibration echoes in the sudden silence.
And her head lifts, her pale blue eyes locking with mine.
She must be farsighted, because it’s clear she recognizes me, even without her glasses.
Swallowing hard at being caught staring at her like this, I try for a friendly smile and lift a hand to wave at her through the window.
She gives a tentative smile in return, standing and squeezing around the piano to open the door. Unlike the other practice rooms, these doors open out. With the pianos inside, there’s not enough room for them to open in.
I step back as her hand lands on the door handle, giving her room to push the door open.
