Yet the ghastly tones of a piece I’ve never heard before ease past the wooden door. It’s completely out of character for the eccentric Mr. D’plume to wake up this early. Even well into the afternoon when his class takes place, his thin frame seems glued to a cup of coffee.
I swallow hard, my jaw tense, as I clutch my satchel strap.
Loneliness limns these notes. Touches of emotion that connect too fully in my head exist within them. It’s like humming in tune with someone else so perfectly the vibration shreds through your soul and lifts the hairs on the back of your neck.
I haven’t heard something this raw for years.
Dragging my fingers through my dark hair, I linger outside the door for as long as I dare. If I were someone else, I might knock, enter, see whoever is managing to make music come to life with the full presence of an entire theatrical cast, one mere note at a time.
Unfortunately, I’m not the kind of guy most want intruding on their private moments—which this undoubtedly is. It didn’t even take all of freshman year for me to gain the reputation Ihave. Rude, blunt, and a bit of a jerk doesn’t belong anywhere near this piece.
It’s fresh, pure. Innocent and lovely.
All the kinds of things I, decidedly, am not.
Shifting my bag, I sigh, leaning against the wall, waiting for the brushes of the masterpiece to ease into a soft conclusion.
At the end, it’s beautiful.
No, stunning.
It goes beyond passion and shows something deeper than skill.
My lips hook up. No doubt it came from the kind of person who didn’t merely pay their way into this pristine little place where only spite helps them pretend their way through every class. That song contained the sparkle of someone who belongs, who’s likely been offered scholarship after scholarship from a dozen begging colleges desperate for this generation’s next master to sprout from their halls.
It was genius.
I respect genius.
Kicking off the wall, I move away from the classroom to continue on my way to Grazioso Hall, otherwise known as one of the two dorms and where my only friend in this place may or may not have taken my English 102 book hostage.
I may have left a rubric in said English book.
And I may or may not also have an essay that requires it due tonight.
Needless to say, Jason owes me. And he isn’t allowed to borrow my notes anymore.
“Good thing you’re not an art major, Calypso.”
The muttered words make me stop in my tracks. They come from directly behind me, barely audible but unmistakable.
I glance over my shoulder to find a girl with a faded blue backpack walking away from me. Twin braids hang down herback and shine gold in the sunlight. Her baggy clothes leave absolutely everything to the imagination, everything except the shade of her hair and the pale tone of her skin, which is revealed in a slice at her neck.
Thatlittle thing was the one playing just now?
And her name isCalypso?
I’ve never heard that name before. Not once. Is she even in theater? I’m an acting major who is always the first to volunteer for demonstrations. I thought I’d paired with everyone in my classes by now. Has she never stood up for a role?
What does her face look like?
As the long braids sashay away, I tuck her name into the back of my mind, shake my head, and get back on task. My essay isn’t going to magically appear like a phantom piano player. For all I know, she’s a music major who sniffed out a piano like a hound dog and has never been in D’plume’s class before at all.
It’s not in my nature to go hunting girls down.
Even if the doleful tune fleeing her fingertips refuses to leave my head.
Calypso
