Melodies

4th block was conflicting. Mr. Simpson let Kell and me use a practice room instead of playing with class. Kell took control once we'd tuned, shifting straight into his super hardcore focus. He kept us restarting over and over, telling me how I should shift instead of switching strings, how I missed a note, how I was flat, how I needed to mark my bow movements in the music so I wouldn't get lost. I wanted to pull the control freak out of his head and punch it.

At the same time, though, he just seemed tired and cranky and...sick. I felt a strong urge to take his instrument from him and take him home so he could sleep.

I got distracted by how cute he looked when he really concentrated on his shift into third position, and I played a sharp instead of a natural. I tried to just continue and pretend like it hadn't happened, but Kell stopped me. "That was F natural. Mark it in. Highlight it or something."

I sighed, but I circled the note anyway. He counted us off and started us a few measures before the note I'd just missed.

We stopped again, but this time it was because Kell missed his shift. He overshot it and almost shifted all the way to fourth.

I couldn't help but feel satisfied because the little perfectionist had messed us up for once. I guess it showed on my face, because Kell seemed to get even more pissy as he ran through the shift again and again on his own until he had it. As soon as he had it, he played it again, and missed it.

I noticed his cheeks and eyes were beginning to look red. He was biting his lip, trying to get the shift right, but it wasn't working for some reason. Maybe his left hand was too tense, or he was distracted, or he still wasn't used to his new viola. For whatever reason, though, it was upsetting him greatly.

I reached over the two stands between us and held onto his right hand, stopping him from trying to run through the shift again. I couldn't take seeing him get so worked up.

"Jesus Christ, Kell. What's wrong?"

He rested his instrument on his lap, still holding onto his bow after I'd taken my hand away. He stared straight ahead at his music, his eyes shining. "Nothing." He sounded rough. "I just can't get this stupid shift."

"Bullshit." He looked up from his music, staring at me. "Is it Jamie? Is is school stuff? Is it me? Are you tired? What?"

He wiped at his eyes, looking away from me again. "I don't know. It's Jamie. It's school. It's this stupid duet that I never wanted to do in the first place. It's everything."

I lowered our stands, reaching over and brushing his hair from his face and wiping away what few tears did manage to run down his cheeks as I spoke to him. "Tell me about it. We can stop practicing for a little bit, it won't hurt anything."

He took a shaky breath. "I don't know. Jamie's stupid friend keeps encouraging him and he looks awful and I can't make him stop. And he won't stop, but he's tired and irritated and sick and cold all the time. And I can't focus on anything because I can't stop thinking about it, so my grades are dropping and I'm really behind in everything. But I can't catch up because I have to practice this stupid song, and the solos Mr. Turner's having me do. And I keep practicing, but I still sound horrible. It's just a waste of time and it's ridiculous how bad I sound."

I pressed my lips together and leaned across a little more, pressing the back of my hand to his cheek, and then my palm to his forehead.

I leaned back again, just a tiny bit amused by his questioning expression.

"Sweetheart, I think you're sick."