Brooks Performing Arts

Hara Bae has to take three whole breaths, letting each one out easily through her nose, before the charter bus doors glide open with a creak, the engine hisses, and she takes her first careful steps out into the outdoors.

It’s spring, and England smells of flowers and promise, both carried in the fresh, open air. Hara steps aside for the other passengers to get off with her floral-themed carrier bags in hand, tilting her head backwards and soaking herself in the basking warmth of a sun overhead, eyes fluttering closed and chest filling with too much excitement to contain.

Hara just can’t believe she’s here: at the Brooks Performing Arts school in London, England. England. The entire ground is made of cobblestone, the campus seems to have been built right in the middle of a forest of sorts, and everyone’s been so nice to her so far — during the long, tiring trip and beyond! So, to sum it up, Hara’s been having the time of her life after having to share a good cry with her grandmother about being admitted here and leaving her at their beachside home alone.

“I’ll be back bigger and better than ever,” Hara had told her grandmother, smiling with tears brimming her gaze. “I’ll make you super proud of me.”

Hara has no clue what she’s been so afraid of. As a staff member hands her her luggage, confirming it’s her name that’s taped to them before handing it off, Hara feels important. Wanted. Not alone. And that’s all she’s ever really wanted: to have her existence noticed and her talent discovered; Brooks Performing Arts can and will fulfill it those both, she’s sure.

“Welcome to BPA, or Brooks Performing Arts here in London, England,” a well-dressed man in his mid thirties says as the group clings to their belongings and remains, cluttered, on the cobblestone circular driveway between the huge stone fountain and admittance office. He tries to look everyone in the eye as he speaks. “We’re so pleased to have so much new talent here, on campus, as official students, and I hope you all are pleased as well.”

The crowd does a few hollers and hoots, and Hara joins in with her own little squeal of barely-contained adrenaline.

“Here,” he says, “you’ll learn all about what it’s like to survive in show business, and also how to improve your own talents with our professional staff and facilities. You few twenty five students have made it through round one, so congratulations.” He claps, and everyone else joins in — even the bus driver. “But to attend BPA means to show us your full potential; if you’re not able to prove to us that you want this, that you’re prepared for this, that you can achieve success, then you’ll be removed from campus.”

Okay. A bit of a mood-killer. But Hara won’t let that discourage her; she’s worked way too hard to get here to let it all crumble now. The past few years since she’s heard of BPA and her chance to be admitted there, she hasn’t let down her guard or faltered one bit. Sunny afternoons and gleaming, early mornings, she’d sit at her baby piano and play her own written music, singing along with her vocal accompaniment.

There’s always been this halo of orange-silver sunlight that fluttered in through the living room blinds as she played, a makeshift spotlight of sorts that made her skin tingle with warmth and her heart flutter. Its been like a spiritual encouragement to perform, to not stop, to reach for what she’s been dreaming of all along. And she took the sign, holding it close and tucking it under her covers for the most hopeless of moments.

Then there’s the praying every night with her grandmother, kneeled down in the darkness of her room, at her bedside, with the palms of her hands together and her head bowed low. A relentless glow of the moon would slip into her bedroom, playing on every piece of furniture, unmasking the dance of dust in the air. Everything would glimmer, natural light playing across her white face, and it’d tell her that dreams weren’t just for sleep; that, sometimes, they were reality, too.

Hara’s school back at home in bitter cold Michigan didn’t provide much artistic opportunities that she’d been hoping for. It was so small and unfunded that there wasn’t a band, wasn’t a chorus room, just a tiny little room with a single electronic piano, tucked back in the shortest hallway. There wasn’t a teacher to help her improve upon her skills with singing or the piano; Hara’s instructor has always been her grandmother.

She lives in a one-story home in the country part of the state with only her grandmother. Since they didn’t have much entertainment there, Hara picked up the piano with the aid of her grandmother; they’d play and play and play before and after classes, humming little tunes and sharing dreams under that promising halo of light. Hara felt like a princess.

Then illness struck Hara when she was climbing towards her teenage years, leaving her bedridden in a hospital, and her hopes of a performing future flickered just before her very eyes; then, within two difficult years, she came back completely recovered and more determined than ever. She won’t let anyone get in her way this time; not even her own immune system.

This time, Hara knows, she’ll reach higher than ever before.

“Shall we get our new performing arts students inside and officially admitted?” the man asks the group with a gentle smile, and Hara’s the loudest when she cheers, “Of course!”

♫♫

Hara’s no stranger to hard work. Her mother has always been fleeting, even with her own daughter, and when Hara used to live with her it left Hara to fend on her own. Hara’s more often than not come home to their grand, three-story home with no one there, a quiet glow of sun filling in all the empty spaces that Hara couldn’t fill no matter how hard she tried.

Hara began trying to perfect this loneliness by cleaning everything in sight. Maybe if she cleaned hard enough, left nothing unfixed, her mother’d come home and maybe stay for more than two or three days and have more than a thirty-second conversation with her. Maybe Hara could make her dinner, ask her how her trip was, make her promise to come home earlier. These were just wishful thoughts, of course, and Hara would clean until her knuckles ached and knees throbbed, nostrils full of nauseous toxins and hair matted to a sweaty face, but she’d wake up the next morning to the same barren home — couch cushions and china dishes and master bedroom bed sheets just as she left it the day before.

Then day fifteen of no mother and Hara was running out of food and stocked up money, running out of sanity. She first countered these newly-brought hardships by going to stay by a friends house, maybe mooch off of them for free breakfast, lunch, dinner. But that got old quick, and Hara had to return home to the same emptiness, the same glow of sunlight dancing in the foyer, bitter warmth clinging.

Her mother never came back. Hara, nine years old, was suddenly picked up and taken to her grandmother’s house in the countryside. No explanations, no apologies, nothing. The answers to her questions were just as barren as that two-story home, probably untouched, forever. Hara never brought it up.

Hara’s decided to not see it as some tragic, sappy story. If she does, she knows she’d have a complete break down. Instead, she stores it somewhere in her mind that she just needs to work twice as hard to prevent the loneliness from ever happening again; she needs to build thicker skin, create happier memories, and forget all about that spotlighted home filling with dust and quiet. Hara refuses to let that follow her; she refuses to drown in negativity.

“This is my home for now,” Hara says to her dormitory. It’s a nice sized room with two little beds on opposite sides, barren walls, two empty closets, and a bedside dresser between the beds, against the north wall. She drops her luggage onto her bed, looks around the room curiously.

It’s not too bad, honestly. She expected something stuffy, dirty, and uncomfortable, but so far BPA has exceeded all her expectations. So far. Hara will take it; she kneels by her belongings and immediately starts unpacking, snagging the nicer looking mattress and closet before her potential roommate arrives.

Hara gets done unpacking ten minutes before a mandatory induction meeting that her group advisor told the newcomers about. Unable to dress into something less ‘comfortable’ and more ‘fitting’ (considering how prestigious the campus looks!), Hara just snags a polka-dotted sundress and forces it on, matching it with plain white sandals. Then she ties her hair up in a ponytail, retrieves her a map of the school campus from her introductory BPA folder — given to her from her group advisor — and is out the door, locking it behind her.

She freezes, still facing her dormitory door, and takes a couple deep breaths, calming herself. You’re too excited, she thinks, eyebrows furrowing. You have to act a little more cool. Collected. You belong now. The last sentence didn’t help to prevent the excitement, but Hara likes to think that, anyway. She belongs. Belongs. And she wants to scream about it with somebody, but she knows no one, and everyone at home, aside from her grandmother, doesn’t really care either way.

So she decides to get one last mental scream out of the way, performs a few more breathing exercises, closes her eyes for a few seconds, and then opens them again. Okay — now she’s prepared. Prepared for anything. The world, really.

“Um,” a voice says from behind her. “Are you just gonna stand there and block the way? I’m kinda in a rush.”

Startled, Hara spins around and slaps a palm to her chest, heart skipping a beat. Not prepared for this, it seems.

The girl standing there has wavy chestnut hair, sunglasses resting on top of her head, and huge dark brown suitcases in her hands. She’s also dressed pretty fashionably in a pencil skirt and a white blouse tucked inside. She blinks slowly at Hara, eyeshadow glimmering under the fluorescent lighting. “Hello?”

“Sorry,” Hara blurts, stepping aside. “I didn’t mean — I was just,” she takes a deep breath, lets it out, then smiles wide at the girl. “Let’s start over. I’m Hara Bae. If you’re coming to this room then I ‘spose you’re my dormmate?”

The girls nods slowly, still a little bewildered. “This is my room, alright.” She lets go of one of the suitcase handles and extends a hand. “Eleanor Calder.” Hara shakes it, greets her wholeheartedly. “And as much as I’d love to chat with the girl I’ll be staying with for the rest of the year, I really have to get my things in there and head down to that induction meeting. I’m already late.”

Hara watches her hurriedly pull her keys out and unlock the door. “You’re new, too?” She doesn’t remember seeing her in the only charter bus to pull up to the campus.

“No,” Eleanor says as she turns the handle and pushes the door open. She grabs her luggage and rushes in, followed close by her dormmate. “This is my third year. But I have to help out with inducting the newbies and I’ve been so behind schedule lately.” She tosses her things onto the free bed after scrutinizing Hara’s own mattress and chosen closet space, then turns to face a nervous Hara. “You’re new, then?”

Hara nods. “Yeah. This place is really amazing.”

Eleanor smiles warmly now. “Innit? Really challenging, but amazing nonetheless.” She walks back to the door and tosses it open, steps out. “Come on, then. You especially don’t want to be late for the induction. It shows irresponsibility and the staff loathes that here.”

“Okay,” Hara rushes out after Eleanor. “Thanks so much, Eleanor.”

“Call me El,” Eleanor says, closing and locking the door behind them. “Let’s go.” She walks down the thinly-carpeted hallway with purpose, one foot stepping confidently in front of the other. Hara can’t help but watch for a couple of seconds, wishing that within the year or so she’d be just as sure of herself as Eleanor is. She hopes she’ll even last that long.

“Okay,” Hara says again, but softer, and then she’s following Eleanor down the hallway and towards the elevator — and towards her very own fairy tale beginning.

♫♫

The auditorium can be described in basically one word: huge. The roof is extremely high, the wide, tall walls seems to have sheet music of a famous piece painted onto them, and the rows and rows of cushioned seats lead down to a grand, oak and deep red-curtained stage. The twenty-five new students are already occupying the two front rows while staff members with nametags maneuver the stage, fixing microphones and a single podium.

“Have fun,” Eleanor whispers to Hara before ducking off and speed-walking towards a standoffish door that Hara would’ve never noticed if not for Eleanor opening it and slipping inside.

Hara takes one step at a time between the rows, raising her gaze and practically gaping just how grand everything is. The spotlights are all dimmed, voices and otherwise noises carrying out in the vast space of the auditorium, and Hara feels significantly tiny here, where so much has passed and so much is about to happen.

She’s a little past halfway to the row where all the other newcomers are when a voice snaps, from on stage, “Hey — can you get a move on and find your seat? We’re trying to get this whole thing started.”

Face flaming, Hara’s head jerks upwards, catches all eyes suddenly on her. But the source of the voice’s stare is stronger, much more overwhelming, and its nametag says in bold letters, Harry Styles. Hara quickly ducks her head, does a jerky nod, and shouts, “Sorry!” before stumbling her way to a random seat.

But the flight of stairs is longer than she thought, and for a whole ten to fifteen seconds everyone’s just watching her make her way down to her group. It’s dead quiet as Hara does this, and if she hasn’t been mortified before, she is now. Not the best way to start her first day here: being scolded, and all. And it certainly doesn’t help that the person who scolded her brought attention to her from the entire first year class.

God, Hara wants to drop dead.

She finds a seat next to a girl with a shaved head instead.

The boy with the Harry Styles nametag looks for a few more seconds — she keeps her head ducked and eyes low, trained on her bare knees — before he fixes his mic and addresses the entire group with a booming, static-y, “Welcome to Brooks Performing Arts, fresh meat!” The other staffers on the stage laugh while working to get some cords straightened out and curtains smoothed back. “My name is Harry Styles, and this is my fourth year attending this beautiful school. It’s been quite the ride, I may add.”

Hara finally gives herself the okay to look back up, blinking through her fringe at him. She notices that, angle or not, this Harry Styles lad is extremely tall; his body’s long, broad upper half protected in a white sweater and legs squeezed in some very tight, form fitting jeans. He’s standing with his shoulders squared off, chin tipped up confidently, emerald eyes gliding easily from nervous/constipated face to nervous/constipated face. She exerts so much self-assurance that Hara can’t help but feel a little intimidated. He’s nothing like Eleanor.

“Let me tell you lot something about BPA,” he says, taking the mic from its holding place and working the length of the wide stage. “You can remain here as a student for a maximum of six years. After that, you’re forcibly kicked out and you have to return to regular schooling like the rest of the normals.” He snorts and receives a few snorts from the staff behind him. “See — graduation is being signed to a management. A record deal. A business. Whichever fits your talent best. At the end of the year Brooks Performing Arts holds a humungous auditioning type of party, in which we students perform and scouters watch. If they like us, they scout us. If they don’t, we’re left here for another year. That’s how it works here.”

So here it comes, full force and unexpected: the anxiety. Hara’s chest tightens, palms break in sweat, and now she can’t help but worry about being good enough to be scouted. What if she remains here the whole six years and has to be removed from the program because she didn’t have enough talent? What if she has to return to her grandmother in the countryside empty-handed and dreamless? Hara can’t deal with all of this sudden pressure. But the reality is relentless: she just may not be good enough.

All the other newcomers must feel the same, because all the whispers, all the shifting, all the light in their eyes fade off, and they’re left solid still, staring at Harry Styles up on stage without blinking. And Harry’s solemn face doesn’t help the matter much.

“Not what you were expecting, huh?” he says, turning and walking the opposite length slowly, heel-toe heel-toe. “That’s why you have to work hard; harder than you ever have in your entire little lives. We all have something to work towards, and we can’t do it procrastinating, faltering, or hesitating. That’s not why you were admitted here. You were admitted to achieve. Now achieve.”

Hara raises her hand without thinking twice about it.

Harry looks at her. His eyebrows furrow. “Yes?”

“Don’t you feel like giving up?” She says, then realizes a millisecond after that it sounds kind of negative. “I mean — you’ve been here four years, and ...” She doesn’t finish that thought.

Harry’s face drops slightly, but he picks it back up immediately after, smiles wryly, and tells her, “I’ve already given up. That’s why it’s year four.” He looks at everyone else’s solemn, worried faces. “But don’t let this discourage you. Some of the students here were scouted on year one. It just goes to show that the true talent is discovered and the rest is ... well, you know.”

Hara can’t get his words out of her head for the rest of the induction. Even when Eleanor comes up and speaks to them, gets them to come up on stage, and hands them their official, specially-made schedules, she’s fretting. Her obsidian eyes glide over to Harry, who’s standing just off the stage, by the curtains, and their eyes meet.

Smiling encouragingly, Hara tells him just as she passes, “I think this year may be it for you.”

Harry looks carefully at her, but gives away nothing. “Yeah?”

Hara looks over her shoulder at him as she steps down from the stage and to her seat. “I can just feel it.” She raises a free hand, crosses the middle finger over her index, and does an exaggerated nod and an equally exaggerated determined face. “Promise.”

Harry watches her. Then his face crumbles into a short laugh, his head lolls forwards, and he says, “It’s a promise, then,” behind his floppy fringe.

Hara returns to her seat, settles down. She hasn’t looked at her schedule yet, but she feels the hope and promise, slowly but surely, coming back.

(Especially since it’s confirmed that Harry doesn’t hate her for their rocky beginning; that was most certainly a chuckle!)