Wall Flower

"No more," I announced, and I closed the last book I had about Debussy. "No more shall I procrastinate and spend the night in the library researching and finishing a project!"

"I second that," Joe said, and it was slightly muffled because his face was buried in his crossed arms.

"How is it that Cassandra finished before I even finished the second page? She must have been BSing the cursed research paper, for she is more of a procrastinator than I. I do declare that she BSed, and will suffer the consequences, while I, being the good egg and determined student, will most certainly not have to suffer a grade lower than a B+ for this gosh darned paper!" I pounded the keys on my laptop with my fingers so furiously that the word I meant to write (numerous) was written as numeroourrs. I scrutinized it, fixed the mistake, and took a deep breath before citing the sentence.

I cautiously glanced at Joe and found him staring at me with the corners of his mouth twitching.

"If you must laugh, get on with it," I muttered, and I continued writing. Only the conclusion left to write, and then I will be finished. . . .

Joseph thus laughed, and it was only for a short moment. His laugh turned into a whine and a fake sob, and he groaned, "Ah, I'm so tired."

I wrote the conclusion of my research paper of the life and times of Debussy and was in the process of editing. I was halfway through the second paragraph, changing wouldn't to would not when I thought I should make the title page. I pulled up a new page, centered the text, and typed:



I did not have to change many things on my paper which slightly stunned me. My lids were heavy and my brain was experiencing fog, so therefore there should have been more to edit.
I was editing the conclusion when Joe spoke: "So, uh, the first play this year is gonna be Beauty and the Beast. Auditions for the cast and orchestra start next week on the thirty-first." He typed something and I added a couple sentences to my conclusion. "Cass, Nick and me were talking about auditioning."

“Cass, Nick, and I, Joseph, is correct. And that's wonderful," said I. "Very fitting for you three. There are a lot of dance numbers in this musical, and I am sure Cassandra will not go unnoticed."

"And you could do well in the orchestra," added Joe, "playing piano."

I was signing into my email account so I could send my professor the paper and I stopped. I glanced at him, seeing hope in his irises, and continued what I was doing. Without looking at him I said, "I shall think about the opportunity presented."

"I really think you should try," Joe said. "It'd be fun for all of us to do together - as friends."

"Quite the bonding experience, yes." I clicked send and breathed a sigh of relief. "However considering it is . . . five minutes till midnight, when our research paper is due, and I barely sent the damn thing in" - (Joe laughed at my cussing) - "and my brain is unable to make clear decisions, I will have to leave this decision un-made until morning and I have had enough rest."

"FIVE MINUTES?!" Joe shouted, and I shouted, "AH!"

"I'm awake now," I panted, clutching my shirt with tense hands. I felt my heart pounding against my chest.

My long, slim fingers ached from playing three minute to a minute and a half excerpts from the Pride & Prejudice score, the Phantom of the Opera, and a classical piece. I didn’t miss a note nor did I feel the least bit nervous; the glare from another girl who was auditioning for pianist of the orchestra went unnoticed by me until I had sat down and she went up to the piano to play. She and the fifty or more (definitely more) others who came to audition so far performed two excerpts, and the conductor and musical director did not ask them to play one more as they did me. I hope that meant I made it; I hope that was not a waste of my time; I hope I did not attain finger cramping for nothing.

Those of us who had a class starting in ten were allowed to leave, and that meant I was free to leave. A couple people praised my playing, and since social interactions between strangers make me cringe, I said thanks with a fake smile and scurried away.

Joe and Nick were waiting for me outside of the room in which I was auditioning. Joe was bouncing nervously while Nick wiped his hands on his jeans. Their greeting smiles were half-hearted.

“So? How’d it go?” Nick asked the same time Joe whimpered and then whined, “Ooooh, I feel siiiick.”

“Well, stop it,” I said to him. “You’re talented and charming and will therefore wow the director and such so much that they will have no choice but to cast you.” Nick looked expectantly at me as Joe beamed. “And of course the same goes for you, Nick.”

“The audition . . .?” he asked with a smile at his lips. I told him how I was the only one (thus far) to be asked to play an extra piece.

“Now I really really want to hear you play!” Joe whined.

“If Cass were here, she would say, ‘Want some cheese with that wine?’”

“She would,” Nick chortled.

“And I have to say, ‘Stop whining already!’ You have been whining a lot as of late.”

Joe pouted and then checked his cellular device for the time. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, his eyes became equivalent to the size of DVDs, and his palm flew to his forehead with much force. I was half expecting him to accidentally knock himself unconscious, but alas, he did not. Too bad, too, for it would have stopped the unnecessary puppy-like whine he had been producing.

He suddenly began pushing Nicholas down the hall, towards more rooms, and exploded, “Sorry Loraine I’d love to stay and chat but our audition starts in five minutes -” (Nick, while Joe exploded, argued, “Not even, dude!”) “- so we gotta go!”

They had disappeared around a corner by the time I was able to say, “Okay?”

I rolled my eyes and headed off in the opposite direction. I stopped at the door of the dance hall (a couple turns and doors down from where I auditioned) to wait for Cassandra to finish dancing. She had left for her audition while I was still in mine, so I had time to bide. I was blessed with an iPhone (I did not beg, despite what others may expect out of someone my age. My mother thought I would need an iPhone so I would not get lost – such confidence in me!) so I used the GPS to find a nearby coffee shop or small diner that would be a good “hang-out” for me and my band of merry men and woman. A few options popped up, all supporting between three and five stars; however, most were too far and would be restricted to weekend visits only. Others were Bar & Grill places, and we did not need to go to a bar. I trusted Joe, but there was no ignoring his past: he used to have an addiction, and that leads to an addictive personality. When one has an addictive personality anything that sends dopamine on a stampede through one’s brain can become one’s drug, and in Joseph’s case, his new meth or pot; therefore, sending him, a man who is barely two years over the legal drinking age, to a place with alcohol, an addictive drug in and of itself, could be a stumbling block for him. I would rather not put the temptation within his reach; I cared enough not to test him.

The last option that popped up was a coffee shop that was also a live music-entertainment diner, like the Hard Rock Café and Starbucks put into one. Employees served their customers tea or coffee and played any kind of song – classical to Broadway hits to mainstream – on the piano! “Customers - feel free to play, too,” it read, and my heart abruptly began beating at an inhuman speed like it was a racetrack horse that was just let out of the gates.

This coffee shop, Coffee, Tea & Piano Keys, was made for me.

It was late in the evening when we got in my car to go to Coffee, Tea & Piano Keys, around seven. Joe says that though not many guys auditioned for the play, the director had all of them come up more than once. Joe said he got up on the stage, sang his song of choice and was told to “stick around, ‘cause we may wanna use you again.” The same was said to Nick, and after the director and casting director figured out the two boys were brothers, asked them to come up and sing together, and since the two had not been prepared for such a thing, the director told them to sing Red and Black (The ABC Café) from Les Miserable, which Nick happened to know like the back of his hand and Joe only knew because of his younger brother.

“The casting director, Mrs. Jay, seemed impressed, actually,” Nicholas said in response to Cassandra’s question.

“Then they had us read lines,” Joe informed. “I went up with, like, three different dudes, and lastly Nick. I read for the Beast, Lefou, and Belle’s dad, uh . . .”

“Morris!” Cassandra chimed in answer.

“And you, Nick?” asked I before I almost had the unfortunate event of a heart attack and an accident with another car. “¡Santo mierda! ¿Quieres matarme, muchacho estupido? Tienes suerte que tengo el Santo Dios en mi corazon o yo tendria atropellarte sin segundo pensamiento.”

“They had me go up twice to sing with some really deep basses,” Nick answered in a wary tone. When I stole a quick glance at him (he was sitting in the passenger seat) I saw his cheek leaning against his fist with his elbow propped against the door. I could feel his caution and his confusion like a mist around me. Behind him Cassandra, very unlike Nick, was cackling like a hyena while Joe, like his brother, was cautious and he chuckled nervously.

“Guys, she said – she said – bahaha!” Cassandra squawked. “Your faces! Ahahaha! You should’a seen – bahaHA!”

“Ignore her,” ordered I, for I knew she would go on for a couple more minutes. I reached over and tapped my phone, which was clutched between Nick’s fingers. “Right, um, left turn on this street . . . right?”

“No, left,” Nick countered.

“That’s what I said.”

“You said left?”

“Yes, right.”

“No.”

I gave him a sideways glance with furrowed brows and a set mouth before I asked, “What?”

“I’m confused,” Nick answered not a second after I spoke.

A moment passed and I stopped at a light. The whole car went silent. Nick and I glanced at each other with the same expression – puzzled and baffled – before I turned left when the light turned green. Nick did not tell me I made a wrong turn and I sighed, wondering why we did not just say this before.

“What just happened?” Joe asked when I had finished the turn.

“Dunno,” Nick said in unison with my reply, a translation in Spanish: “No sé.”

Cassandra leaned over Nick’s seat with crossed arms over the shoulder of the seat, her round chin resting on her conjoined hands, fingers barely brushing Nick’s neck. I thought I saw him shiver when she asked, “Are we almost there, awkward childrens?”

“Get over to, uh, turn right and we will be,” Nick answered. He kept looking out of the corner of his eye at Cassandra in his peripheral. I wondered for a second if she knew how flustered she was making the poor guy before I answered my wondering: Yes, yes she did, and she most likely felt that it was payback for all the times he makes her feel flustered.

The rest of the short ride was silent except for Cassandra’s and Joe’s held-in giggles coming from the backseat. After I parked in front of Coffee, Tea & Piano Keys, with its romantic lighting permeating the window and setting a dull glow upon the sidewalk, Nicholas rushed out of his seat to open the door for Cassandra behind him. Despite the setting sun casting a tender orange-pink-yellow light on the world around us and despite her tan skin, Cassandra’s blush was as bright and inviting as a lighthouse at night for a searching ship.

My door opened beside me and I broke out of my reverie of Nick riding on a military ship decked out with UFOs and Star Wars-like space crafts, dressed in midnight-black fighting gear and a belt of plasma rays and a light saber, looking out into the night to find the lighthouse where Cassandra waited in a rippling purple dress, dancing and fighting aliens (oh the depths of my imagination!). When I looked at Joseph he had his arm draped over the door as if it were a woman’s shoulder he had his arm around and was giving me a look that, in my mind, said, “I’m handsome, I look rugged with my 5 o’clock shadow at 7 o’clock, and I opened your door for you, so you therefore have no choice to drool over me and love me.” However, the reality of things were always much more realistic and mundane than my fantasy-filled and sci-fi-packed mind.

Nick and Cassandra were inside by the time I stepped out of my car and Joe had closed the door. For a brief moment, when Nick opened the door for my sister in Christ, I heard a sweet, simple, yet very elegant piano piece caress my ears – and then it disappeared, and my heart ached for the memory of it. I immediately walked towards the door, the power of the music pulling me to the shop as if the pianist was a puppet master, using the piano strings as puppet strings and moving my legs towards him.

“. . . and I, um – hey, Loraine? I was, um -”

“You were what?” I asked without really paying attention to what he would answer.

“Talking,” he answered in a small voice as I reached for the door handle. I did not mean to be so insensitive; however, given the situation, he had to have realized what a lure the sound of a piano had on me.

“. . . you and me, but you’re not listening to me so never mind.” By the time I had clocked in, as one would say, he was speaking normally but soon ended his sentence with a slight tune.

“Oh, yeah, I see,” said I half-heartedly as the smell of tea, coffee, and something baked and sweet flooded my senses, seeped into my pores.

The shop was, as I said before, dimly and romantically lit. The walls were a pastel-beige-blue color; one wall had a white cherry blossom tree painted onto it while the rest had shadow-box framed sepia-themed photography. Brown leather loveseats sat here and there around the shop; wood tables with sepia-themed pictures of postcards printed onto their surfaces and matching chairs joined the leather seats. The star of this place, the black grand piano, sat proudly upon a black platform at the corner of a wall and window-wall (to the right of me where I entered through said window-wall); upon the matching piano bench sat a man with brown disheveled hair and goatee playing passionately (you could tell when one played with their heart when their body unwillingly swayed to the tempo of the music). My eyes rested on the chalkboard menus hung over a display of baked goods that I saw Cassandra eyeing hungrily.

“. . . but I really want a cobblestone muffin but not a whole one,” I caught her saying to herself as I approached with Joe at my heels. She often spoke out loud to herself; it was a subconscious habit of hers that one grows used to and actually fond of.

“And I don’t,” she continued, not speaking to anyone in particular, “want to pay four bucks for something that won’t be fresh tomorrow if I save it and bring it home.”

“I’ll get it for you, then,” Nick suggested, “and we’ll share. I wanted one too but I wouldn’t be able to finish it, either. Diabetes can limit your sugar.”

“Yeah, I know, my brother. . . . But, Nick, you’d be in the same pickle I am in if you did that, and that’s not fair.” She and he did not break their stare as she pondered and then came to a proposal: “Halvesies, yes? I’ll pay you two bucks if you buy it with your order.” He opened his mouth to counter offer but she would not have it, so he gave in.

While they ordered I observed the tea side of the chalkboard menu above me:

English Breakfast Tea
Chai Tea
Earl Gray Tea
Chamomile
Green Tea
Passion Fruit & Mango Tea

Those were but a few options and I found myself torn between two teas.

The music stopped and the man got up. I saw that his eyes were a mixture of pastel green and baby blue and had a sweet smile. He thanked those who got up to compliment him and he sat down with his friends.

I itched to play; my fingers twitched in anticipation. My audition today did not satisfy my ache to play; instead, it intensified it.

“To take the path of spicy but sweet that is a chai tea,” I explained to Joseph beside me, “or the path of nostalgia for a place I have never been that is an English breakfast tea – that is the question.”

Taking a closer look I found that Joe was pensively looking at the menu – or so I thought. When I really looked at him it came to light that he was not concentrating on the menu but caught in a reverie of something deeper, becoming distant and forming his facial features to that of exasperation. I then realized, as Nick and Cassandra left to sit at a table near the man who had just played the piano, how I had been so inconsiderate of Joe’s feelings and what he had to say from before.

“What’s going on, Joe?” I asked, and I put my hand on his shoulder. I felt him tense before he looked at me, eye-to-eye, and he relaxed. It felt as though his muscles breathed a sigh of relief beneath my palm.

“Um . . . nothing,” he dismissed. I waited expectantly. He knew I knew better, so he therefore elaborated: “It’s – never mind. Some other time, really.”

“Some other time for what?”

“What I was going to tell you – or what I was trying to tell you.” He sighed and smiled at the cashier who looked bored, too skinny, and tired. In this dim lighting the shadows beneath his eyes looked like bruises.

“Later,” Joe said to me, and, “I’ll have green tea and she’ll have the chai tea, please,” to the cashier.

“How is it that you were granted with the knowledge of my choice of tea?” I asked with a smile.

“I happen to have a large brain and an infinite knowledge that allows me to see what it is that you will choose-ith,” he answered sarcastically and with a slight jab at the way I speak as he quickly browsed the baked goods.

“Blasphemy!” I joked with a fake shocked yelp.

Joe reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and said to the cashier, “And I’ll also get a lemon bar,” and paid for his order when the cashier said in a lazy voice what it cost. He asked for the name, gave Joe his receipt, and Joe stood aside. I was about to order for myself when my brain put two and two together, looked at a smirking Joe, and looked back at the cashier, a single, studded eyebrow raised. I smiled awkwardly at him with pursed lips and wandering eyes, he grinned back, and I turned around to mosey to the table. Joe followed at my heels with a chuckle.

“Snake child,” I said when I stopped and put my hand on the chair on upon which I would sit. Our eyes met: my brown-hazel eyes said hello to his warm, melting chocolate brown eyes.

“Thanks,” said I.

He replied with, “No problem,” just before something flickered in his eyes, something beautiful and sweet and meaningful – but it came and went so quickly, like the quick crackle of a flame, that I questioned what I saw; I questioned whether I imagined the beautifully sweet thing into his eyes or if it was really there.

The piano was still free when I sat down, waiting for my tea; no one sat upon its bench because it was waiting for no one else but me. My fingers drummed against my legs, pretending they were piano keys, and my eyes could not look away from the glossy black surface of the piano for more than a couple seconds. The moment I felt I was going to get up and satisfy my hunger to play my nerves set it. Playing in front of a few people was only dull annoyance to my nerves, but for a crowd of strangers, like the one I faced during my audition, was overwhelming for my poor nerves. I already played in front of a crowd similar to the one in the coffee shop today – could I handle it again?

“Go play already,” Nick ordered. “What are you waiting for?”

I sprang up out of my chair like a jack-in-the-box out of his prison-like box and said, “If thou insist so upon my playing. . . .”

It appears as though I could handle the nerves yet again.

My exhales dragged on slowly, my every muscle fiber relaxing yet feeling alive all at once. I ran my slim fingers softly across the silky black edge of the piano as one would glide one’s fingertips across the surface of a pond at night beneath the stars. The atmosphere of the coffee shop wavered slightly as a few people left the shop, but not because I sat down on the piano bench. Only my atmosphere changed as the familiarity of the piano bench beneath me, my feet resting on the gold peddles, and my fingers gently caressing the black and white keys came over my body like the wave of an ocean. That same wave that rushed through me crashed onto the shore in a great roar, the sound resonating in my brain, as I began to play one of the pieces I played earlier for my audition: Liz on Top of the World from Pride & Prejudice.

I closed my eyes, for I knew this song by heart, and as to better allow the music to vibrate straight through to my core. As the music intensified, the babble of voices became a dull ringing in the back of my mind along with any nervousness that had bubbled to the surface. I felt my body sway slightly with the music; my fingers swam through the notes with ease, for all this was like dancing was for Cassandra, singing for the Jonas brothers, and breathing for me: all too natural.

My sweet, soft symphony
Still has rough melody
And my body is swaying
Oh so rhythmically



Those bass notes
Like my heart’s quotes
Of his deep, sad song
Over keys my fingers float



The ending came as suddenly as the beginning; the second wave crashed as the song ended, and I sighed contently. I opened my eyes half-expecting to be at the top of a cliff with the setting sun warming my skin and a breeze blowing my hair out of my face as to better see the lush, green English countryside expanding before me. Sadly, the breeze I felt was only Joe walking past me to get in my line of vision, and he was no English countryside – a beautiful sight, still, but not what I had imagined.

A bashful smile formed at my lips and I avoided Joe’s eyes.

“That was beautiful,” said he softly.

“Hey, good job, kid,” a man said behind him. He was older and probably my daddy’s age and, unlike my dad, was balding.

“Thank you both,” I said in a small voice.

“Cornelius Tucker,” he introduced as he pointed as his name tag. “You got some talent there.”

“I’ll say!” Joe agreed cheerily.

“Yeah, good one,” complimented the man who first played the piano before he turned back around to face his friends.

“I’m the manager,” Cornelius Tucker revealed, “and we’re running low on staff. The staff we do have don’t have the time to play because they’re too busy (so they say); the ones that had the time to play and actually liked to were either pregnant, decided to move, or got fired for misbehavior. You don’t look like that kind of girl.”

“No, sir, she is not,” Joe replied for me.

“Are you lookin’ for a job, uh . . . ” He leaned forward with a single raised brow.

I cleared my throat and said, “Loraine.”

“Loraine,” he repeated.

“Yes, I am looking for a job, actually. Part-time would be ideal, for I am currently in school.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart; that is not a problem. Just bring your transcripts and all that jazz this weekend and I can get you started next week. Sound good?” He stuck out his hand, expecting a handshake.

I glanced at Joe for a brief second and found him displaying my inward excitement outwardly: he was nodding so furiously I could comically imagine his brain bouncing around in his skull and he presented a bright smile that flooded the whole room with light. I looked back at my new employer and shook his hand. “Sounds excellent.”

(Dear God, you are so freaking good! Thank you, thank you, thank you - and amen!)