Excited and giddy chatter bounced off the walls of the aged bus as the world passed by in a blur. Portia observed as the vivid green of the trees and the dull gray of the highway whizzed by erratically. In a daze, she covered her palm with her jacket’s sleeve before wiping away some condensation that was born from the disparity between the chilled outside and the cordial inside.
Many of the others attempted to juggle their instruments and school-issued band folders where they decided to haphazardly toss their music that was copied the night before. Of course, the tubas and basses reserved their own seats in the back of the bus, which, as per usual, housed the most rowdy of passengers. Portia briefly considered the potential danger of raucous passengers and unattended instruments, but the looming and imposing size of their massive cases quelled any concern. A sudden depression on the smooth road caused the bus to jolt and the foggy windows to rattle, and she remembered the small size of her own instrument that was nestled in her tote by her feet: precarious indeed. Portia dipped down to rescue her helpless companion from the faded and tattered confines of her familiar tote bag and tucked an end of it underneath her chin.
She quickly stifled the ridiculous need to check it for any potential scratches and dents.
The night before, Portia had closed herself in her basement, making sure the keys didn’t stick and the pads didn’t leak. But most importantly, she had to ascertain that there were absolutely no fingerprints on the fine silver that her instrument was composed of. She absolutely could not, under any circumstances, have any sign of her whatsoever on something so beautiful. It would ruin it. Portia, with her lanky arms and legs, would ruin it. Portia, with her pale skin pulled tautly over the sharp planes of her bones, would defile it. Portia, with her deep, croaky voice would deface it.
Her mother had come downstairs at one point, commenting on the dimmed lights and lack of heat coming from the registers that lined the floor. She hadn’t even realized the sun had set behind the thick trees that separated her family’s single story fixer-upper from the rest of the world.
An amiable nudge coaxed her from her speculation and Portia found herself turning her head to see her friend, violin tucked under her arm, telling her that it was time to go. Her eyes narrowed in concern when she made no effort to respond, confused by the utter blankness she saw there. But Portia recognized this complete absence of feeling all too well: numbness now, panic later.
The vitality of the other students made the bus hum in anticipation as everyone stood up, eager to disembark like passengers of a twelve hour flight. They shuffled by eagerly, and some clod gracelessly, whacking Portia with their violin case in their haste. They didn’t apologize. She slipped her instrument back into her ratty tote bag and swung it over her shoulder, the weight of it causing her to briefly stumble as she hastily shuffled off of the bus.
Students from the host school led the eager crowd into the warm up room, which was, like always, the school’s auditorium. Although it was more of a last minute- please-don’t-play-that-one-section-wrong-again-we’ve-gone-over-it-like-fifteen- times-practice room. A set of bells was carelessly placed before the stage in the front of the room and several percussionists stood by awkwardly, as no one was willing to play on the instrument and consequently prevent anyone else from using it. Everyone else, however, was busy trying to get that last octave of their chromatic scale just right, and making sure that they remembered to do that crescendo in the piece, and that they accented this downbeat and not that one, and that that phrase lasted until measure 224 and not 118 because that would just be silly.
Portia’s breathing started to pick up and she tightened her grasp on the worn straps of her bag. Her hands didn’t begin to shake until after she began to twist the last piece of her instrument together. Portia hadn’t even noticed that her friend and her violin had vanished, as the strings always went to a different part of the school to carry out the whole process.
Portia’s dark eyes bored into the sheet music before her. When did that get there? She briefly considered that it must have belonged to someone else, but she quickly recognized her familiar markings all over each page: places to breathe denoted by little check marks in between phrases and little reminders here and there to drop her jaw or adjust her embouchure so the pitch didn’t go crazy.
Portia tried to guess what section they would ask for. Although it was required to learn the whole piece, normally 5-7 pages of agonizingly difficult passages, they usually only asked for about 4 lines, or 10%, of it. They usually go for the development section of the piece. She grimaced with the realization that she would just have to lift her instrument to her face and start in the middle where the key modulated into something ominous and the rhythms and phrases got far more sinister, and instead of being a variation for the sake of complexity, the passage became unhallowed and evil. She felt her boney legs quivering.
Portia barely noticed as a student informed the rowdy group that all musicians from her school were requested in the hallway, where she knew a few guides waited to march everyone to their assigned rooms. Her lip trembled.
For the first time, Portia noted that this school was an older one. The paint that clung to the walls looked like it used to be white, but the years stacked on layers of dust and grime, altering random patches of it into fluctuating shades of yellow. The square tiles were various gradients of blue and white distributed completely sporadically. In more than a few places, there were a few cracks in the slabs, revealing years of dirt dragged in from various sneakers every Monday-through-Friday. But the doors, Portia noticed, were all painted bold navy, free from any imperfection or inconsistency. They all had one rectangular window that all looked upon the same exact desk, with the same exact chalkboard, and the same exact arrangement of desks.
Portia was yanked back to reality by a frantic clanking sound. She realized her legs were shaking again and the zipper of her boot was making contact with a buckle. She hated those boots. They were hand-me-downs from her sister. People chattered in the hallway, but their voices seemed to be swallowed by the agitation that clogged the space. She thought she heard a door open. Someone told her to enter. She complied.
Suddenly, Portia noticed the hideous fingerprints that now marred her instrument and seemed to corrode the fine silver. When she attempted to breathe out everything she had practiced, Portia once again managed to mangle something lovely.
Many of the others attempted to juggle their instruments and school-issued band folders where they decided to haphazardly toss their music that was copied the night before. Of course, the tubas and basses reserved their own seats in the back of the bus, which, as per usual, housed the most rowdy of passengers. Portia briefly considered the potential danger of raucous passengers and unattended instruments, but the looming and imposing size of their massive cases quelled any concern. A sudden depression on the smooth road caused the bus to jolt and the foggy windows to rattle, and she remembered the small size of her own instrument that was nestled in her tote by her feet: precarious indeed. Portia dipped down to rescue her helpless companion from the faded and tattered confines of her familiar tote bag and tucked an end of it underneath her chin.
She quickly stifled the ridiculous need to check it for any potential scratches and dents.
The night before, Portia had closed herself in her basement, making sure the keys didn’t stick and the pads didn’t leak. But most importantly, she had to ascertain that there were absolutely no fingerprints on the fine silver that her instrument was composed of. She absolutely could not, under any circumstances, have any sign of her whatsoever on something so beautiful. It would ruin it. Portia, with her lanky arms and legs, would ruin it. Portia, with her pale skin pulled tautly over the sharp planes of her bones, would defile it. Portia, with her deep, croaky voice would deface it.
Her mother had come downstairs at one point, commenting on the dimmed lights and lack of heat coming from the registers that lined the floor. She hadn’t even realized the sun had set behind the thick trees that separated her family’s single story fixer-upper from the rest of the world.
An amiable nudge coaxed her from her speculation and Portia found herself turning her head to see her friend, violin tucked under her arm, telling her that it was time to go. Her eyes narrowed in concern when she made no effort to respond, confused by the utter blankness she saw there. But Portia recognized this complete absence of feeling all too well: numbness now, panic later.
The vitality of the other students made the bus hum in anticipation as everyone stood up, eager to disembark like passengers of a twelve hour flight. They shuffled by eagerly, and some clod gracelessly, whacking Portia with their violin case in their haste. They didn’t apologize. She slipped her instrument back into her ratty tote bag and swung it over her shoulder, the weight of it causing her to briefly stumble as she hastily shuffled off of the bus.
Students from the host school led the eager crowd into the warm up room, which was, like always, the school’s auditorium. Although it was more of a last minute- please-don’t-play-that-one-section-wrong-again-we’ve-gone-over-it-like-fifteen- times-practice room. A set of bells was carelessly placed before the stage in the front of the room and several percussionists stood by awkwardly, as no one was willing to play on the instrument and consequently prevent anyone else from using it. Everyone else, however, was busy trying to get that last octave of their chromatic scale just right, and making sure that they remembered to do that crescendo in the piece, and that they accented this downbeat and not that one, and that that phrase lasted until measure 224 and not 118 because that would just be silly.
Portia’s breathing started to pick up and she tightened her grasp on the worn straps of her bag. Her hands didn’t begin to shake until after she began to twist the last piece of her instrument together. Portia hadn’t even noticed that her friend and her violin had vanished, as the strings always went to a different part of the school to carry out the whole process.
Portia’s dark eyes bored into the sheet music before her. When did that get there? She briefly considered that it must have belonged to someone else, but she quickly recognized her familiar markings all over each page: places to breathe denoted by little check marks in between phrases and little reminders here and there to drop her jaw or adjust her embouchure so the pitch didn’t go crazy.
Portia tried to guess what section they would ask for. Although it was required to learn the whole piece, normally 5-7 pages of agonizingly difficult passages, they usually only asked for about 4 lines, or 10%, of it. They usually go for the development section of the piece. She grimaced with the realization that she would just have to lift her instrument to her face and start in the middle where the key modulated into something ominous and the rhythms and phrases got far more sinister, and instead of being a variation for the sake of complexity, the passage became unhallowed and evil. She felt her boney legs quivering.
Portia barely noticed as a student informed the rowdy group that all musicians from her school were requested in the hallway, where she knew a few guides waited to march everyone to their assigned rooms. Her lip trembled.
For the first time, Portia noted that this school was an older one. The paint that clung to the walls looked like it used to be white, but the years stacked on layers of dust and grime, altering random patches of it into fluctuating shades of yellow. The square tiles were various gradients of blue and white distributed completely sporadically. In more than a few places, there were a few cracks in the slabs, revealing years of dirt dragged in from various sneakers every Monday-through-Friday. But the doors, Portia noticed, were all painted bold navy, free from any imperfection or inconsistency. They all had one rectangular window that all looked upon the same exact desk, with the same exact chalkboard, and the same exact arrangement of desks.
Portia was yanked back to reality by a frantic clanking sound. She realized her legs were shaking again and the zipper of her boot was making contact with a buckle. She hated those boots. They were hand-me-downs from her sister. People chattered in the hallway, but their voices seemed to be swallowed by the agitation that clogged the space. She thought she heard a door open. Someone told her to enter. She complied.
Suddenly, Portia noticed the hideous fingerprints that now marred her instrument and seemed to corrode the fine silver. When she attempted to breathe out everything she had practiced, Portia once again managed to mangle something lovely.