6.1
Cries and Laughters
“But reminded that I could never have you, it turns to pain, to regret.”
6.
Book of Memories:
I pray that your pretty mind will touch the hearts of everyone in the world . . .
Keep playing the piano.
People go home for relief from school. I go to school for relief from home. What would it be like to look forward to go home?
You did once when school was dangerous, when teachers were harsh. Third grade? Eager to get out of school grounds because then they can’t beat you, can’t punish you if you’re out of their sight, their jurisdiction. Home was once a safe place to be, a place you could count on for peace at least. How you took that for granted, how you miss it now that it’s gone. The simple pleasures of peace . . . to relax, knowing there’s no physical danger, no judging eyes to hide from, no emotional games to guard against . . .
But there was another reason for rushing off to home, a reward waiting just for you — the warm bottle of chocolate milk. There’d be no one home, you’d be all alone for a while, but there it’d wait for you. Some food too, but you don’t remember what they were, you remember only the milk. To come home and finally relax, with no one watching, just you and that bottle of chocolate milk. How sweet it tasted. How warm it felt. How you savored every drop. Just one lingering moment each day when everything was all right . . .
“Quiet, please. Let’s start again from the top.”
What an amazing system they have — teachers who treat students like their own and students who listen to them, without intimidation, without fear of corporal punishment. How do they do it? How did they pull off this miracle?
Paradise. At least a preview. Enough happiness for everyone, even me. Everything is magical, no one here thinks to pretend except me. I don’t know how to handle a paradise yet.
“Only the girls this time.”
Good idea. The song’s a little flat, not enough contrast. A nice, traditional Christmas song for sure, but a little boring . . .
What will I wear for the concert? Not that ridiculous suit they bought me. At least they got me one if only because it’s required. Maybe I’ll stand behind someone and no one will notice.
“OK, now boys only.”
That’s the problem. I don’t belong in this paradise. As much as I’d like to fit in, I stand out like the ugly duckling. No matter how much I excel in classes, no matter how much I prove my talents, no matter how nice I am, I’ll never be accepted.
They’re nice and kind, but it’s the kindness of common courtesy, not of acceptance. Might as well face it now, I will always be a stranger.
“Still not right, something’s missing.”
Maybe it’s the song, perhaps we should learn another one. Or is it too late?
“Let’s try a solo.”
Yes, excellent, let me! I can handle it!
No, what are you thinking? How will you hide then? Hey, look at that ugly boy with a hideous suit! Why is he coming forward? Don’t tell me he’s singing the solo!
Diary:
It’s often left alone after classes, a piano in an empty room. I would stay after school to play, not every day, just once in a while. Though I hated taking lessons, it’s fun to play when you don’t have to. Usually I’m alone and no one bothers me, but that changed when this girl (I forget her name) started showing up to talk to me. She introduced herself, and apparently, she knew me already. I think she’s in my music class though I don’t remember seeing her. I was a little surprised because girls usually aren’t this forward.
She wasn’t just being friendly. I don’t know what made me think this, maybe it was her manners, but I sensed that she wanted to be more than friends. I didn’t, however, I didn’t even want to be her friend I don’t think. Something about her I didn’t like. Maybe her attitude. I don’t know. She’s not bad-looking, and she’s nice enough. I don’t know why I shouldn’t like her. She’s just not Stephanie . . .
It’s stupid, of course. I’ll never get a girl if I keep thinking this way. Ruling out everyone except for the perfect girl. I’ve already found her and she’s too good for me. What are the chances I’ll find another one who could accept me just as I am? This is so ridiculous. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Always looking for the ideal in everything . . . Why can’t I settle for something reasonable like everyone else?
“Can I see that?”
Sure, Steph.
“You can read this?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s so different from English.”
“Yeah.”
Is that all you can say? Can’t you think of something witty?
“English must be hard for you, with so many rules and exceptions.”
“It’s not bad. Easier than learning Chinese.”
“I don’t know how you do it. You’ve been here . . . what? . . . several months? And you already speak English fluently.”
“Thanks, but I did study English for a year in Korea, so I didn’t have to start from scratch.”
“Still, if I moved to your country and went to school there, I think I’d fail every class!”
“But I’m taking easy classes until my English gets better.”
“This is not an easy class! At least not for me.”
“Math is different. All these symbols and numbers, they’re the same everywhere, easy enough to figure out regardless of the language.”
Don’t look at me like that with those adorable eyes. I can’t stand it, I’m just a curiosity to you, aren’t I? Like an astronomer with a newly discovered star, that’s how you see me.
If only you knew how I see you, how you make me feel . . . The euphoria is now replaced by pain because just thinking of you is not enough, just being around you is not enough, not anymore, not with this knowledge. I have to have you, I have to touch you, I have to know you in every way, but I know that’s impossible.
You might think I’m fascinating, you might think I’m brilliant, you might think I’m talented, but you couldn’t possibly love me. Stirring my heart every time I see you, quickening my pulse every time I talk to you, but reminded that I could never have you, it turns to pain, to regret, to something with no name.
So why do you tease me? Why do you brush your hair against my hand? Why do you bring your face so close to whisper, so close I could kiss you, so close I could taste your words? Don’t you know it’s all I can do to restrain myself?
You don’t think I’ll act on it, you don’t think I’ll bite, I’m just a harmless amusement for your pleasure. Always fun, always safe, always on perfect behavior. Maybe I’ll surprise you one of these days. Maybe I’ll call your bluff . . .
Two notes ahead, three songs behind.
Endless loop, round and round.
Playing from memory, tricky, tricky.
Mixing melodies, funny, tragic.
Can’t remember the breaks in the loop.
Can’t remember the transitions in the song.
Hear it one more time, I could play it.
See it one more time, I could play it.
Nothing but a hazy union — compatible sounds and familiar beats.
Nothing but a distant memory, a plaything of the fingers.
“What’re you playing?”
The other music teacher. Thought I was alone.
“I don’t know.”
Something in my memory, something in the past.
Melodies with no title. Useless but fun.
“I didn’t know you could play.”
“I can’t.”
Not really playing, just playing with it.
Am I rhyming? Or something like it?
“My husband tells me you’re a good musician.”
Shrug. I’m thirteen years old.
I’m a kid, not a musician.
“Would you mind singing the solo for me?”
The solo? Oh, that little intro.
“Sure.”
A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love. Read in order: 1.1, 1.2, 2.1, 2.2, 3.1, 3.2, 4.1, 4.2, 5.1, 5.2. Next.
