MY BOW SCRATCHES out several dissonant notes, and I relish in the harsh noise. It matches my mood. I remove my violin from beneath my chin before I'm tempted to smash it, and I stare at the sheet music before me on its stand. My sheet music, handwritten and everything. These are the notes that flowed out from the very recesses of my soul in the hopes they'll land me that scholarship. It's a piece of myself.

    And it sucks.

    Why wouldn't it? I'm never good enough. Good, sure. But there's always someone better who outshines me and leaves me with the scraps. After dropping my instrument into its velvet-lined case, I grab the sheet music. My hands shake, ready to crumple up the mess of notes and anger. I'll burn it and the worthless sound I wasted all my time and energy on. It'll feel good to watch it go up in flames, just like my career. My life in general.

    But my music teacher, Miss Varner, snags the sheet from my hands before I can mutilate it. She folds her arms and looks up at me, her short, brown hair swaying around with each shake of her head. "Wendell, calm down. It's not perfect, but no composition ever will be."

    "Not perfect? It's not even passable, and I need it to be superb, as close to perfection as it can possibly be." I run my hand through my hair and my fingers get caught in the knots. Who has time to comb?

    My back crashes into one of the plastic chairs lined up in a half-circle around the large, white-washed classroom, left that way for our group sessions. The other seats and sheet music stands before them are all empty, as this is my private time with my teacher. I'm wasting it. But I'm not sure I care, anymore. Music used to be my escape. Now it's become nothing more than a chore.

     While I catch my breath, I ditch my coat and undo my top buttons to cool off. Why do they have the heat set so high in here? Or is it just me? Miss Varner doesn't seem to be uncomfortable, so it must be. It's always me.

    In the corner of my eye, red leaves flutter past the large window facing the ever inspiring parking lot. People think fall is beautiful. I think it's sad. The trees turn to corpses, the dying leaves briefly bright until they finally flutter to their demise. That's how I feel. I'm falling to my end, and I can't do anything to stop it. Just like I couldn't do anything to stop my parents from moving me to this awful place. The only thing I have left is my music. Spent my entire life to learn it, and then I'm not even good at it. My entire youth wasted on a dream I'll never achieve.

    Miss Varner spins a chair around to face mine and I look back at her. She sits down and crosses her legs, her knees peeking out from her dress. For an old thirty-something, she has nice legs. "I know it's stressful, but the more you force this, the harder you make it. Music isn't something you can force."

    "But how do I find what's missing?" I stand to be next to the baby grand piano, and I press my hand to the window, the glass cold to the touch. Another leaf blows past. It's red, like the tip of a flame. A career going down in flames. "Something in that piece just won't come together, so it's all left disjointed."

    Her foot tapping on the wood floors echoes from behind. She only does that when she's frustrated. I've frustrated my teacher; that's just great. "It's your piece, so you need to find what's missing."

    "I doubt I ever will." Another of those stupid leaves flies past. Would they stop? I don't need to be taunted.

    "This is something only you can work out. But if I had any advice," says Miss Varner, "I'd say that it's lacking a modern flare. There's nothing to mark it as something written by a seventeen-year-old."

    A modern flare? Why would it need to feel like a teenager's music? Teenagers have little experience. I need to rise above the pack and show my skill and maturity. Right?

    She stands next to me and leans on the windowsill. "What kind of music have you been listening to?"

    "Bach, Beethoven." What else would I listen to?

    Her eyebrows shoot up. "Nothing with a beat? Some pop, maybe . . . I don't know, hip-hop?"

    Is she crazy? I stifle a laugh and shake my head.

    "Hey, don't laugh. That's your whole problem." Miss Varner folds her arms. "You wanna make your music unique? Give it that missing piece of the puzzle? You need to mix it up. Just 'cause you're classically trained doesn't mean you need to only play classical. Experiment and find another genre that speaks to you."

    It's a stupid idea, but I don't say anything because another leaf taunts me. What do I have to lose?

    "I might have just the thing." She rushes away, her heels clacking on the floor.

    I turn. She has her purse up on her wooden desk, and she digs through her wallet. Her navy dress stands out against the white board behind her. She stands in such a way that the notes messily written on it halo around her, and it makes it look like she's part of the short etude written out for the less advanced students. What her song sound like? Maybe something discordant, like her scattered thought process during class. Maybe I should try writing that.

    "What do you have?" I try to sound enthused, but my pessimism shines brightly. What else is new?

    "There's this band in town. Some of the members went to high school here, and I know one of them personally. He and my father were good friends." She pulls out a sheet of coupons and tosses them aside. "When he was younger, he kind of looked like you, now that I think about it, the black hair and skinny build—he wasn't half as high strung, though."

    Is this story going anywhere? I lean against the windowsill and try not to look bored. That would be rude, like calling someone high strung is. Even if it is true.

    "Anyway," she continues, "he sent me tickets to their concert here in town, tonight. I can't go, but you can have the tickets. Maybe you can get some girl you like or a friend to go with you." Miss Varner rips two tickets from an inner pocket and holds them up like she just found the sword in the stone. She waves them under my nose. "Yours if you want them."

    I hold out my hand, and once the tickets are in my palm, I stare at them. The Jaded Bottles, in bold at the top. It's a name unknown to me, and it's doubtful I'll like their music. But these are for the front row, and that's something I'd never be able to afford, otherwise. My allowance right now is a whopping zilch after my car insurance is paid for. Why not go and see what happens? I'll do anything to get over this block, and Dad keeps pestering me to get out of the house more. Too bad there isn't anyone to go with me. He and Mom and will both be at work. Dani would love it, but I have my doubts that she could fly in by this evening.

    "Thank you." I put them into my own wallet. "I think I'll go."

    Alone.

***

Hey, thanks for reading! Hopefully you liked it enough to keep reading. ;) Be sure to click that little star if you liked it. And I'd love to hear what you thought of Wendell and this story in general.

This is a multimedia story. Don't worry, there aren't pictures everywhere or in place of descriptions, but there are photos to complement the text where appropriate (all inline media is CC0 licensed or created using Canva). There are also carefully picked out songs linked with many chapters since this is a book about music. I highly recommend checking them out.