Brooks Performing Arts

Hara’s next class of the day is a free period; there are over fifty practice rooms, all supplied with pianos and stands, in the Star Builders! building. When Hara enters, she’s thrown into a lobby room of sorts, a receptionist desk against a wall, between two flights of stairs. Hara looks around carefully at the sparkling, tiled floors, chandelier coming down from the dome-like roof, and then, eventually, at the half-circle desk stacked with papers and a computer.

She approaches warily, peeking over the desk and finding a deep-skinned boy there, lazing in the chair and shuffling through some sheet music. “Um,” she starts weakly, and suddenly the guy jerks in his seat, chair rolling quickly backwards, slamming against the wall, and flinging him out of his seat and onto the floor all too quickly for Hara to react.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, leaning far over the desk to inspect the damage. She sees a plaid shirt, a mess of black hair, and then — yeah, he’s definitely groaning down there. “Oh my god,” Hara repeats. “I’m so sorry!”

Hara manages to get around the desk and into the half-circle by the time the guy gets a hand on the table and is hauling himself up. She crouches helplessly by his side, watching with wide, concerned eyes as he jumps to his feet, wipes himself off with a frown, and looks around for the sheet music he tossed everywhere before the accident. Hara catches on and leaps to snatch up the papers for him.

“It’s really okay,” he says in a low voice, accent thick. “You don’t have to —” He stares, stunned, as she gets on all fours and reaches for the paper that somehow managed to get underneath the desk. “No, no, no; for the love of God you’re in a skirt. Let me get it!” He drops to his knees next and snatches it up just as her fingertips graze the edge.

“Sorry,” Hara stammers, shooting back up so fast that she doesn’t realize she’s still under the desk until she collides head-on with it. “Ow — !” she squeals, instantly inspecting the damage with her hand.

“Holy shit,” the guy says, wincing. He blindly places the sheet music on the desk and grips her by the side of her arms, guiding her back onto her feet. “Are you alright, love?”

“I just,” Hara starts, but groans when her head starts to throb. She feels like a complete, pathetic mess. “Sorry,” she croaks one more time.

“Love, love,” he cooes. “Stop apologizing. Just get sat down.” He lowers her down into the office chair as gently as possible. “Now let’s see how it looks, yeah? Just move your hands and I can check it out for you.”

Hara, biting her bottom lip to somehow combat the pulsing pain, lets the guy slide her hands off of her head. He places them carefully on her lap before brushing some straight, dark brown hair aside and eyeing the spot of impact. “I ...” he mutters. “I’m not seeing anything yet.” A group of girls wordlessly approach the desk, check themselves in, and walk off towards the stairs. Hara wonders if this kind of thing happens so often that it isn’t unusual.

“Am I bleeding?” she asks.

“No,” comes the lad’s distracted voice. “I think you’ll be alright. Just don’t mess with it.” He backs up, releasing her. “And be careful with where you’re going next time, love. It’s a dangerous world out there.”

“Yeah,” Hara scoffs. “Wild desks out to bash your head in, right?”

The guy’s laugh is deep. “Anything’s possible, I ‘spose.”

Hara slowly looks up from the guy’s loose blue jeans, red and white plaid shirt, and straight into his scruffy, sharp face. His honey amber eyes are warm, glowing from laughter, thick eyebrows raised. Hara has to look for a few seconds too long, because, wow, he’s gorgeous. Is the performing arts for modeling, too?

After a short moment of silence and curious observing, Zayn leans back against the desk, says, “Might s’well tell me your name while you’re here, love. I’ll need it to check you into a room, anyway.”

Hara smiles, jerking out of her trance. “Oh. I’m Hara Bae.” She stands up from the office chair and smooths her skirt down. “You?”

“Zayn Malik.” He extends a hand. “Nice t’meet you, clumsy Hara Bae.”

Hara takes his hand, feels how big and warm it is around hers while shaking. “Not clumsy,” she clarifies. “Just ... sometimes uncoordinated.”

“Clumsy.” Zayn raises an eyebrow at her, smirking.

“Then that makes you clumsy, too,” Hara says. “‘Cause you almost died falling out of that seat.” She points to it for effect, smiling victoriously when his cheeky smirk crumbles.

“What?” he says. Kicking the chair, Zayn explains, “this thing is a death trap, I tell you. Only Lord knows how many times I’ve fallen out of it. Rubbish.”

Hara walks back around the receptionist desk, picks up the signup sheet and a pen. “Right, right,” she glances at him occasionally as she writes. “Just an excuse to cover up all that clumsy.”

Zayn looks like he has more fight in him, but he seems to decide against it and says, “Fine. I’ll let you win this one.” He leans on the desk right across from her, watches as she swirls her name in the designated box. “But we’re fair now, ‘cause I fell out of my chair, and you bumped your pretty little head.”

Hara sets the pen back down on the desk, smiles at him. She can smell his aftershave and faint cologne from such close proximity. And the light specks in his eyes are amazing. Hara feels like she’s being hypnotized — and this Zayn bastard seems to know this by the way he’s looking at her with that face of his. “Right. We’re fair now.”

The two gaze at one another for a few more seconds before Hara breaks the stare, starts walking off. “See you later, Clumsy Zayn!” she calls out to him, waving with the wiggle of her fingers.

Zayn’s laugh booms. “See you later, Clumsy Hara.” He waves the exact same way she does, makes her laugh next.

♫♫

When Hara Bae was a child, her grandmother’s spotlighted piano seemed magical. When she slid across the seat in her afternoon wear, her entire face lit up and then, she knew, she had become a princess. She’d perform for anybody who’d bother to listen: her grandmother, the birds chirping out on the fields, the stray cat that came by whenever it wanted something to eat, and even the mailman. The living rooms wall were thin, large, square windows making way for all this sun; Hara was certainly a princess. She just had to be.

Now, standing in the hallways, surrounded by millions of huge, windowed rooms with equally huge pianos, Hara was a princess again. She took one careful step in front of the other, gaze roaming across maroon walls and how little sunshiney spots spill across bits and pieces of it. She pauses in front of one room where the light is particularly strong, and stands where she can see the dust dancing and the lone piano resting by a few rows of windows on the north wall. How beautiful, she says quietly, voice barely a mutter. This is perfect.

She reaches a hand out to the silver handle, fingertips just grazing across the smooth metal when someone comes up from behind the piano in the room, making her automatically freeze, mid-grab. Hara jerks her hand back as if touching fire, tilts her head, and blinks curiously through the window as the guy gets to his feet and stretches, arms high above his head and clasped.

He’s wearing a grey beanie, dark brown fringe poking out from underneath. His matching grey sweatshirt crawls up his torso, revealing a little tummy and the tops of his burgundy boxers. From her angle, the sun pouring in from the open windows make him and the spot around him glow brighter than she’s ever seen; his jaw is sharp and angled, cheeks slightly sunken in to give way to protruding cheekbones, and those crystal blue eyes are piercing in the light.

Then he’s turning towards the door, blinks at her while she blinks back. It takes Hara a couple of seconds to realize that he’s looking at her. Embarrassed, she calls out to him through the door, “Sorry!” and backs up from the door, quickly looks off, down the hall.

The guy, face giving away nothing, walks up to the door and pumps the handle, pushes it open. It slides heavily across the thin carpet, and he pokes himself out, some, glancing both ways down the hall before looking straight at her. “Do you need this room?” he asks, his voice lighter than expected.

“No, no,” Hara stammers, fumbling with her crop top. “I was only looking for a room to practice, and then I saw you, but then you saw me, so ...”

His smile spreads across his entire face, so bright that Hara can’t help but think that he’s a very beautiful boy. “No problem. I’m actually not supposed to practice my dancing in here, so I’ll give you the room if you want.”

“That’s really okay,” she says, tucks some hair behind her ear and smiles shyly. “There are plenty of other rooms.”

He looks down both ends of the hallway one more time, licks a bottom lip, and then looks back at her, devious glint in his eye. “You’re interested in this room, and I’m interested in this room. So how about this: we can share the room.”

Hara’s eyebrows furrow. “No, really, I can —”

“You play the piano, right?”

“Well, yeah —”

The boy smiles big, all straight teeth and pointed cheekbones. “Then play something for me while I dance. Having an accompaniment is always a nice perk.” He opens the door wider for her, presses his back against it and extends an open palm inside as if summoning a princess. “You’ll allow me that privilege, yeah?” He exerts all this charm; almost like a prince.

Hara’s face flushes hot, right underneath her cheeks. He hadn’t said anything for her to react as such, but she feels like she’s being won over so easily that she can’t even insist she’ll take a room a few doors down before she’s taking careful steps into the room, heels clacking on the glossed wood. She looks out the windows for a moment — at all the trees and vast, green campus grounds — before whipping her head to look back at Prince Guy.

“I don’t know,” Hara whispers. Her voice carries out in the open space.

Prince Guy lets the door slide back closed, clicking shut loudly, before stretching his hands back above his head and giving her a strained smile of encouragement. “It’s really alright. Just play a classic. Do you know any from Chopin?”

Hara hesitates before she nods, obsidian eyes following him as his feet raise to the toes, perfectly arched and lower belly poking out. He glides across the floor in his specially-made socks, does an experimental pirouette that’s so excellently executed that Hara freezes, mouth stuck open for a couple of seconds before she says, softly, “I do.”

“Good,” Prince Dancer Guy breathes, stops instantly on a pointed right foot, other stretched out behind him and turned, barely, to the right. Then he returns to a normal standing position, gives her his attention, and tells her, “Go on, then. Anything from Chopin is fine.”

Hara nods. She gets to the piano, slides a hand over the cover before lifting it up and pushing it back. The keys are a shiny, pearly white, black keys deep. She starts to sit down, but suddenly she stops, looks curiously over at Prince Dancer Guy. “I didn’t get your name yet.”

The guy begins to stretch again, folding his upper body against his legs and wrapping two small, slender hands around his ankles. “Louis Tomlinson. Louis or Lou is fine.” He lets his head hang, fringe playing in his eyelashes and beanie threatening to fall off.

“Nice to meet you, Louis,” says Hara. “My name’s H —”

“ — Not yet,” Louis interrupts, raising back up to look at her, tucks his fringe out of his face. “I don’t want to ruin the magic yet.”

Hara pauses, hand raised towards the piano keys. “Magic?”

“Yeah,” Louis explains. “If I get your name too soon I’m afraid it’ll ruin the magic. Tell me your name with Chopin.”

That’s . . . different. Hara wants to ask for clarification, but something tells her there’s nothing to explain. Louis has his reasons, and she won’t intrude any further; instead, she nods like she understands, settles on the bench after shifting it proper, and raises her curled fingers into their position. She’s already decided on a song that she’s sure will get Louis to feel this so-called ‘magic’ even more than in this moment. She’ll be sure to take his breath away.

“Ready whenever you are,” Hara says.

Louis gets into first position in the middle of the floor, squares off his shoulders and raises his chin. “Begin whenever, babe.”

Hara looks from Louis to her fingers. The sunlight is playing across the entire piano, filling the room with a halo of light orange and silver. Taking a deep breath of the new, freshly-cleaned smell, she lets her eyes close, her body relax, and then she’s playing the first memorized measure, beginning with a playful sort of feel.

When she opens her eyes at measure two, she catches Louis moving leisurely across the room, spinning and dipping just in time with what she’s playing, like he knows the song by heart. He moves with so much purpose, with passion pouring out and filling every limb on his body.

Sometimes his eyes would open, face soft but stern in concentration, and shadows would play on his body, hauntingly beautiful. Hara speeds up by the time she reaches page two, but she can’t stop watching Louis and how gracefully he works his body. The assurance is addicting, enticing. This must be the magic he wants to keep; this must be the magic he doesn’t want to ruin. Hara understands now.

Hara finishes very gently, with the chord light and fleeting. Louis ends in first position, eyes open and a fluttering smile on his lips.

“Brilliant,” Louis says seconds later, when the room is basked in complete silence again. He relaxes into a normal, standing position and fixes the beanie proper on his head, leaving his fringe out. “Very brilliant.”

Hara removes her hands from the piano, folds it on her lap. “You were brilliant, Louis. Your dance ... it’s inspiring, really.”

Louis looks from out the windows to her. And this time he’s really looking at her; at how the orange-silver light makes her dark brown hair glow; how her straight-cut fringe dances in her eyelashes; how her eyes are bright and her pink-lipped smile is plush and genuine. He inhales sharply, lets it out inaudibly through his nose.

“Your name, then,” breathes Louis. “I have to know now.”

Hara gets to her feet, closes the hood of the piano and tucks the bench underneath it. Turning to smile playfully at Louis, she tells him, “And what if I haven’t felt the magic yet? What if I’m not ready to tell you?”

He laughs short, blue eyes still examining each brightened crevice of her face. “You’re right. You’ve told me your name with Chopin, anyway.” He takes a half-step towards her, close enough for her to smell his dry sweat and interlocking cologne. “Which was very beautiful — just so you know.”

Hara’s cheeks heat up again; she ducks her head, hair cascading, and says, “Thank you. Really.” Then she peeks up at him through her fringe, bashful as she says, “My grandmother taught me that song.”

“Your grandmum has great taste, then. I can feel your talent.”

He really is too much of a flatterer; it’s making her tremble in a way that she can’t really explain. “I can feel yours, too.”

Louis can’t help but watch her stammer, finally say, “I’ll be going now. Good luck with your practicing!”and walk off, slip out of the room with one last smile, an encouraging nod, and then she’s off, down the hall and eyes bright. Louis stands there and makes sure she’s completely out of his sight before he nods to himself, turns to look at the piano she left behind.

He needs to get her name.

♫♫

Hara’s final classes of the day — Advanced Choreography and Vocal Lessons — has left her both mentally and physically exhausted. She’s had to make up choreography with her instructor for a whole hour and thirty minutes, and her Vocal Lessons instructor tore her apart with little tidbits of how to improve her sound and tone. Hara can’t believe how difficult it’s been, and when she returns to the dormitory to find Eleanor lounging on the bed there, chewing carrot slices with vegetable dip, Hara has to complain.

“El, oh my gosh,” cries Hara, dragging herself over to her own bed and slumping down on the mattress. “It’s only official day one and I already want to cry! I can’t imagine the rest of the year.”

“Yeah?” Eleanor flips through a magazine, hair piled up on her head messily and makeup visibly wiped off. She’s dressed in sleepwear, smelling like coconut soap and floral shampoo. “Welcome to Brooks Performing Hell. You’re gonna have to power through it, dear.”

Hara buries her head in her pillow, wraps her arms around her face. “I know, I know. Tough love and all,” her muffled voice groans. “But it’s just ... so much more than I thought.”

Eleanor hums, flips another page. Chewing on two carrot slices at once, she gets five pages in before she looks at Hara’s still form on the mattress from across the room. The blinds are letting in a deeper orange, world turning a milky grey as day folds into night; Hara’s deep brown hair shines beneath a blanket of it. “You’re pretty popular already, though.”

Hara stays in her position a few seconds longer before a deep eye peeks out from the pillow, blinks at Eleanor. “Huh?”

“Harry kept mentioning you during our Vocal Lessons class. About your tardiness and how you act kinda like a ditz.”

Hara deflates. “So that makes me popular? Last time I checked, that’s not positive.”

Eleanor shrugs, looks back at her magazine. “But in a Harry way. Whenever he has to mention somebody more than once, he’s interested. Nice interested, not mean interested.” She pops another carrot in her mouth, talks around it. “Harry’s that kind of bloke.”

Hara rests her cheek on the pillow now, looking absently at how Eleanor’s glitter nail polish shines in the light while thinking it over. She doesn’t really understand why Harry’s still talking about her, much less how his critical opinions of her means he’s ‘nice interested’. Which, interested? What does ‘interested’ even mean? There’s ‘I’d like to be your friend’ interested, ‘You’re a pretty interesting person’ interested, and then plain old ‘I’m physically/mentally attracted to you’ interested. And Eleanor’s vague ‘nice interested’ gives nothing away to what it can mean.

Hara’s honestly a little afraid to ask. It’s best to leave it just at ‘nice interested’. But, then that doesn’t explain: “How does Harry talking about me more than once mean I’m getting popular?”

“Well,” Eleanor begins, flipping another page and scrutinizing the articles of clothing on the photoshopped model. “Harry’s sorta a big deal around here, for one. Y’know,” she looks over at Hara, smooths some loose strands of hair out of her face. “he’s that charming, fit kind of bloke. You have eyes.”

Hara doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“And besides,” says Eleanor. “in time your name will fly across campus because of him, and you’ll be ‘Harry’s girl’ by the end of the week. Happens to every girl he mentions.”

Now she’s making a face, shooting up on her mattress and gaping at Eleanor. “Harry’s girl? What am I — property? I barely even know him!”

Eleanor just shrugs like it’s completely out of her control. Which, it is, kinda, but Hara wishes Eleanor will just put up more of a fight to free her of Harry’s looming shadow. She finds no allure in being labeled as some stranger’s ‘girl’, nor will she ever discover the allure of it; if anything, she’s her own girl.

“What — will Harry start calling me that, too? Gosh, I knew he came off a little overwhelming, but I never knew it’d be to this extent.” Hara jumps up from her bed, pads to her closet, and throws it open angrily, rustles through her hangers to find some sleepwear.

“It’s not his fault, y’know,” Eleanor calls out to her, twisting her head so she can get a better view of Hara’s back. “People around here just do it whether he likes it or not; Harry’s Des Styles’s son, so this kind of image is expected of him.”

“Des Styles?”

“Right; you don’t know him ‘cause you’re from the states.” Eleanor shifts upwards into a sitting position, slender legs folded. Closing her magazine and sliding it away, she explains, “Des Styles was a famous singer back when he was young; ‘had sexual relations with a bunch of mingers and was known as the lady’s man. Handsome, cheeky, charming, y’know. Who even knows if Harry’s mum is actually his mum.”

Hara freezes mid-grab, turns to look at Eleanor. “What?”

Hara doesn’t know how Eleanor can smile while saying this, but she does. “Des has shagged so many women; who knows if Des is telling him the truth about who his mum was.”

Hara’s face falls. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “That’s horrible.”

If Eleanor is feeling sympathy, too, she gives nothing away; flopping back onto her bed and rolling onto her side, Eleanor says, “So if you want to get away from being Harry’s girl I suggest you don’t hang around him alone too much. Keep somewhat of a distance, yeah?”

She feels absolutely terrible having to do that. Especially since she’s been told such delicate information from a second-hand source, like Harry’s feelings about his personal life being spread around is of no concern to Eleanor. Or anybody, it seems. But Hara cares, despite barely knowing Harry at all, and Hara can’t live the rest of her campus life avoiding him just because of something he can’t even control. She can’t imagine treating him like some kind of plague.

“I need to go wash up,” Hara finally says after some troubled, confused silence, eyes burning. “See you in a bit.”

“Okay.”

Hara gathers her things and slips out of the room, heading down to the showers with her chest unusually tight. She doesn’t know if she can just let this slip by, like Harry’s life is just some funny tale so easily told one moment, and then forgotten the next. She has to do something about it.