Emily

I look out the window at the streets flying by, my violin case resting on my lap. Rain pours down the glass, distorting lights that flash from cars and buildings. I love the rain.

In the reflection, I can faintly see my own face. I push my light bangs out of my eyes and turn my attention back to my violin case. I run my hands over the smooth leather.

Someone sitting across the aisle is staring at me. The city bus isn't too full yet, so luckily, there's no one squished in the seat beside me.

"Is that a violin?" 

I glance up at the stranger. It's an older woman, wearing a crazy assortment of mismatched clothes. Her hair is white and frizzy around her face, and wrinkles curl on her skin as she smiles at me.

"Yes," I answer. 

"I love the violin! Are you any good at it?"

I try to smile. "I'm alright."

"I have a granddaughter who plays the violin. She's only six, so she's not too great at it right now."

I laugh politely. The bus hisses to a stop at a red light and I glance down at my rain boots, picking at chipped nail polish on my fingers. I wonder if the conversation is over.

"Where are you going?"

Guess not. I look back up. The old woman is leaning comfortably against the window.

"The library on 26th street," I say. "That's where I practice, usually."

"That's wonderful." The woman nods like she approves. "My ex-husband, he worked at a library. Libraries are just wonderful. Aren't they?"

I wonder if the woman really believes all things are wonderful, or if it's just a useful word. Then I wonder why I'm wondering things like that. "Yes, they are."

"What's your name?"

I hesitate, scrape nail polish off my fingernails. I know, I know, don't give out information to strangers. But what could a first name do? Besides, this old lady looks harmless enough.

"Emily."

"Emily! What a wonderful name. I'm Beatrice."

I smile and curl my fingers around the edges of my black rain jacket. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Have you always lived in the city, Emily?"

Well, I guess we're getting personal now. I glance briefly out the window behind the woman. The library is only a couple minutes away from where we are now. "Yeah. I was born here. Um, what about you?"

"I suppose I've lived here for nearly twenty years. I think I'd like to retire and live on a beach, though. Somewhere on the Atlantic. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"Yes, it would be."

I can't imagine my dad retiring on the beach. I can't imagine my dad retiring at all. He's going to work until he dies, right at his desk, probably. He's never away from the office. Most days, the apartment building is empty. Not that I mind that. But the walls are too thin to play there.

Beatrice leans forward like she's about to tell me a secret, even though we're multiple feet apart. "Good luck practicing, Emily."

The bus squeaks to a stop in front of the library and I stand up, holding onto my case tightly. "Thank you, Beatrice," I say, and smile. Why is it that old people like me so much, but I can hardly talk to anyone at school? 

I step down from the bus into a puddle, pulling my violin close to my chest as I squint into the rain. Cars honk and pedestrians walk quickly around me, and I hurry up the library steps to escape the cold, wet rain.

Inside, it's warm. And smells like vanilla. 

Mrs. Summers approaches me. Her plump, flushed face is smiling widely, and she's wearing her sunflower brooch on her pink sweater. I don't think I've ever seen her without her crystal sunflower brooch.

"Hi, Emily!" she says sweetly. It's an odd thought, but I've decided that Mrs. Summers would be the best person to bake Christmas cookies with. My dad doesn't bake. Or cook. 

"Hi, Mrs. Summers. Is study room two open?"

"Yes, it is!" 

Study room two is my favorite. The rest are okay, but number two is tucked in the back right corner, hidden by rows of audiobooks that no one checks out. 

I hurry up the stairs, brushing wet raindrops off my jacket, passing a few people who look just as tired as I do. Most of the people in here are probably university students, studying at the tables and checking out confusing books. 

I love the library when it's dark outside, because cozy yellow lighting washes over the building. Even though it's only early evening now, the storm outside makes it seem later. 

My rain boots sink in the soft maroon carpet, and then I'm inside practice room two. It's quiet and small, just a bare desk in the corner and a violin stand that's usually left for me. I unlock my case.

My violin might be my favorite thing in the entire world. It was a gift from my dad two years ago - before that, I was using a rented one from my school. It's smooth and sleek, dark wood that smells like sawdust and shine, a perfect fit in my arms and under my chin. I tune it, warm up with scales and easier songs.

I don't play for my dad very often. But when I do, he makes me play happier songs. "Your music is too sad, Emily. Why won't you lighten things up, for God's sake." That's what he says.

I like playing cheerful songs. I do. But my violin is a way to express how I'm feeling. And I don't feel cheerful all the time. 

After I've played a few songs, I pull out sheet music from the case and set it up on the violin stand. My penciled marks are scribbly and messy, but I can read them easily enough. Besides, whenever I write my own music, the notes are automatically memorized in my brain anyway.

I play the first note. Then the second. Things seem to wash away, and my eyes slide shut. The world fades away - the desk in the corner, my damp jeans that press against my skin and my second-hand rain jacket that's too big on me, the thunder, the rows and rows of books that are on the other side of the door - they blur in the background of my mind. 

I love my violin. I really do. It's like another limb. It's like magic. I don't know. 

When I wrote this song, I was sad. A little angry, I guess. But mostly sad. How can it be that sadness creates something good? 

I don't feel like myself anymore, when I play. I'm not a teenage girl. I'm something much better. Like the stars. Or rain. It's like a high. A tragic, beautiful high. 

When I pull out the last note, elongated and slow and shaky, my hands are trembling slightly. I open my eyes, suck in oxygen. Realize I was swaying on my feet and steady myself. My settings come crashing around me. 

My arm swings down to my side and I crack my knuckles. Not bad. Not bad. But not good enough.

That's when I see someone standing outside the study room, through the small glass window in the door. Their back is to me, and they're wearing an army green rain jacket.

My heartbeat spikes. Did I want people to listen to me? Obviously not, or I wouldn't have freaking chosen an independent study room in the back corner of the library. 

I kneel down and gently lock my violin and bow string back in the case, and collect my sheet music. When I glance back up, the person isn't standing outside the door anymore. Thank God. 

I take a deep breath and swing open the door. I'm not sure how much time has passed. Maybe half an hour? Forty minutes? My dad doesn't want me home too late tonight, anyways. It's still raining, maybe even harder than before, and I turn down the row of bookshelves.

Green rain jacket, who I now see is a girl, is standing in front of the audiobooks, running her hand over the tapes. She starts to turn towards me and I freeze. I open my mouth to say something, but shut it. And I notice a few things at once.

One, she's very pretty. 

Two, she has a white cane in her hand.

Three, there's something different about her eyes. They're a deep green color, but that's not it... they're milky, unmoving, but not unnerving. They don't track me. It's like they're looking into a separate world.

Four, she's very, very pretty. Her skin is a warm, rich honey color, and her hair is a dark and wavy brown that's tucked behind her ears. Freckles are splattered across her face. 

Again, I open my mouth but say nothing. She twists her lips in concentration, runs her fingers over a row of audiobooks, and pulls one at random. Then she walks in the opposite direction with ease. It's obvious she knows where she's going. Even if she can't see.

I wonder if I should have said something. I wonder if she liked my music. I should've just said, "Hello." Or is that stupid? I wonder if she even knew I was standing there.

I try to forget about it. I have a bus to catch.