When I'm With You

I sneaked inside the Music Room that first Monday, hoping nobody would see me. If he found me and told my father I would probably be killed. By “he” I mean my brother, Jake.
Jake couldn’t find me. He would tell Dad I was in the music room instead of practicing on the field. Jake believed that if he had to abandon doing what he wanted to play football, so did I. I understand him, but this is what I love. What he used to love. What he secretly still does love.

Sometimes, when Dad went to work or was on a business trip, I heard Jake playing his guitar in his room. He probably believed I couldn’t hear him, but I could. I heard him composing new songs. When he got really excited about a new song he began to open all the drawers looking for his camera and his folder. He used to record himself so that he wouldn’t forget anything and then he would write down the lyrics and chords on a piece of paper and put it in the folder. He then would hide the folder somewhere I didn’t know and kept playing the song until he was too tired and fell asleep. He was really good and still is.
I also have an older brother, Nicholas, but Jake and I have always called him Nick. He was at New Jersey beginning college at the moment. I really missed him. He too possessed a huge musical talent. I looked up to them, but to Nick specially.

When I was young and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I would say I wanted to be like Nick. On the other hand, Jake would say he wanted to be a rock star with a “million bajillon” girl fans that would follow him everywhere. Yeah, that’s Jake.

I remember that, when we were toddlers, we used to spend our summers just playing what we called concerts to just a small group of family and friends. It was so much fun. Mom used to record us with her video camera all the time, which was when she was around of course, now she’s always at somebody’s fancy dinner or on one of those dumb social events you always see on magazines. I sometime still wonder were those tapes are right now.

I sat down in front of the piano and looked nervously around to make sure that there was really nobody there. I couldn’t take the chance of being seen by anyone. After a few seconds I relaxed a bit, completely sure that there was not someone near. I took a big breath and started playing a song I hadn’t played in a while, “My Melody”.

I wrote that song when I was 12 years old because of a girl I used and still kind of like. Sadly I was too much of a coward to tell her I like her, and she moved away before I could. I know I’m a total idiot.

“Melody, my Melody, I can’t tell you how beautiful you are, because no word can describe how magnificent you are. Melody, your voice is like music to my ears. Please, let me love you, I swear I’ll never bring you to tears. Melody, my Melody, I wrote this song for you. This melody expresses how I feel about you, my Melody. Please, tell me you love me too,” I sang the chorus of my song. I just couldn’t help myself. I love music.

My fingers moved along the keys, playing the last few notes of the song. I’d missed doing that. Playing music, I mean. I took a deep breath realizing I needed to get going, even though I wanted to stay there playing more songs.

Then my heart stopped, I heard someone clapping behind me. I’ve been caught. Silently I did a short prayer, hopping that behind me wasn’t my brother, before turning around. I turned slowly to my right to see who had caught me playing the piano. Relief swept through me when I saw a girl I had never seen before, obviously the new girl from Maryland I heard Crystal talk about. She had called her ugly, but this girl was far from ugly. I quickly changed my relieved expression into a glare, which made her small, cute smile disappear and turn into a frown. She looked really pretty even when she frowned.

I looked at her, forcing myself to give her a blank expression even though I had the urge to smile and ask her if she had liked my song while running my fingers through her long, beautiful, wavy hair. Her cheeks were turning pink because of the awkward silence between the two of us, which only made her prettier in my eyes. I wanted to talk to her really bad, but I had no idea why. If only I could say something to break the silence, to make her feel comfortable and welcomed. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t think like that, and much less do stuff like that! My father wanted me to be an all “macho” jock and not be some kind of pussy acting like a lover boy. I couldn’t be here playing a piano and talking to a girl when I was supposed to be playing football. I glared at her again.

“If you tell anyone you saw me here you’re gonna regret it,” I said standing up.

“Well, nice to meet you too. I’m Anne, thanks for being so nice by the way,” she said with a fake smile on her face. It was obvious sarcasm was her thing, and for some reason I liked it. Shit, I’m messed up.

“Yeah, whatever. Just listen, nobody can know I write music, okay? Now move so I can go to the football tryout,” I said quietly but angrily when I was close enough for her to be the only one capable to hear. If someone was on the other side of the door they would have heard nothing.

She looked up at me and I realized I was closer to her than I had intended to. Her big brown eyes staring defiantly into my blue ones showing me that she did what she wanted and was a strong and tough girl, but I saw something more behind those eyes. For a second, I swear I saw a hint of sadness and pain.

“So you think being the manly football player is better than having feelings and expressing them through songs, don’t you?” she said, making me focus in her words and not on what I had seen in her eyes.

“You don’t know me. You don’t know why I act the way I do, so shut up and move so I can go to the tryout.” Shit, I should get an Oscar for my acting skills.
“Only if you say the magic word, moron.”

“Can you PLEASE move so I can go to the tryout, Anna?” I said her name wrong on purpose, our faces inches apart. She moved to her left while she made a noise that showed how annoyed I made her, letting me grab the doorknob. “Oh, and my name’s Cameron by the way, not moron.” I turned around to see her angry face and smiled at her, which only made her angrier.

“And I told you my name was Anne, idiot.” I could tell I was getting on her nerves and she didn’t like it at all.

“Anna, Anne, what’s the difference? It’s not like your name is important to me or anyone else.” My stomach did a flip, it does that every time I lie, but I didn’t understand why. There could be no way this girl I just met was important to me. I barely knew who she was. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I looked at her, she was pissed off. Great, the new girl hates me. But I don’t care. I can’t care.

I turned around and opened the door stepping into the almost empty hallway filled mostly with class-cutters that looked like they will probably end up in juvenile hall and lost wimpy freshmen. I was a freshman that year too, but I sure didn’t look like one. My dad had me practicing all summer long with Jake so that I could be on the football team, and my brother surely enjoyed torturing me. We practiced seven days a week for two hours, and the only good thing I got out of it were my fucking muscles. Seriously, when I looked at a picture of myself from the beginning of summer I looked like a completely different person. I got taller that summer too and my voice changed. I was becoming what my dad wanted me to be, but only physically. Music still was what I liked the most.

I began walking to my next class and slightly turned around when I heard a door opening. It was Anne coming out of the music room. I checked her out from head to toe, and, God, she had her curves. Her butt was by far her best asset, even though her boobs looked great in that floral shirt of hers. She looked so girly and cute but those washed out jeans made her look sexy as hell wrapping perfectly around her ass. And that’s when she caught me staring. I gave her a malicious smirk, making her turned around in disgust and walk to her next class with her schedule on hand. Suddenly, a redheaded girl unexpectedly grabbed Anne’s hand making her jump a little bit.

“There you are! Move your big butt or we will be late for class!” it was Meghan Write. I saw them enter a classroom as Meghan dragged her. For some reason I was hoping my next class after the tryout would have been with Anne. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?