4
Valentina
Getting ready for a new semester is something I’m good at. Something I can control.
Setting up my schedule to accommodate all my tests and assignments, getting ahead on projects worth a lot of points, and scheduling meetings with my advisors is something I almost look forward to. It’s something I can focus on to forget about everything else around me.
Including what happened at the Senior Party a few weeks ago.
I honestly don’t know why I even agreed to sleep with some random guy.
That’s not me.
That’s not me at all.
I prefer structure and stability. Having a plan so things can’t fall out of place.
But things have felt different since the party. Like something is right around the corner and it’s going to change everything. I don’t know how to explain it, and all I want is to ignore it.
Which is why, on top of my schedule, I always make time for some extracurricular activities. Well, one extracurricular activity that is.
So with my classes done for the day, I head over to Lewis Hall—the music department.
I know. I’m surprised too.
I never thought I would continue going to Lewis Hall after that one class Freshman year, but after playing again for the first time in almost 3 years, I never wanted to stop.
Now, every semester, I find myself going back to the same place, to the same classroom, and to the same professor to clear my head.
I knock softly on the door and peek my head in to check for a class. When I’m greeted with silence, I make my way into the room.
The auditorium-like seating blocks off most of the room, so I don’t see Professor Owen until I round the corner. He smiles, pushing the wrinkles around his eyes, offering only a tiny glimpse of his age. My guess is upper 50s, but I’ve never asked.
“And here I thought you’d be too busy this year,” he says warmly.
“That just means I’ll be in here even more.” I point out.
He nods. “Very true.”
A guitar is set up in the front of the class that I gravitate towards. My fingers gently pluck a few strings, letting the sounds vibrate around the room.
“You ever going to learn how to play that?” Professor Owen asks behind me.
I pluck another string. “I want to.” I look over my shoulder at him. “But I’ve seen you teach students how to play an instrument before.”
“I’d dumb it down for you.” I raise an eyebrow at him, and he shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t. You’d be better off getting a real teacher.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I head over to the piano and plop down on the seat. My fingers start moving over the keys on their own, playing something by memory so I don’t have to think too much about it.
Professor Owen walks closer to the piano as I play. “I’m surprised you came in so early.”
I shrug, my fingers still moving. “I wanted to start the year off good. Feel more calm and relaxed before things get too hectic.”
He nods, and we both go quiet, listening to the gentle melody.
I used to not be able to play something on the fly like this. Back before I stopped playing at 15, I always had to have some sort of sheet music in front of me to play a song. Maybe a few notes I could do without, but if I wanted to play the whole song, I needed guidance.
After I started playing again three years ago, every song I play is from memory. Sometimes it’s even songs that I’ve never played before. I don’t know how my mind remembers all the songs I’ve played or how I can play songs I’ve only ever heard, but it’s something I won’t take for granted.
“When are you going to start playing what you’ve written?”
I freeze, the last note I hit still ringing in the air. Professor Owen’s words hang between us, pressing into my chest with an uncomfortable weight I hate talking about.
“Don’t think I haven’t seen you scribbling in a notebook for the past four years,” he adds. “And since you aren’t an English major trying to write the next great novel, I assume you’re writing your own songs.”
My eyes fall on the keys again as I gently trace over them. “Morgan’s the songwriter,” I say in a soft voice. “Not me.”
I remember nights I would hear her singing softly in her room. Sometimes I even caught her leaving out her bedroom window with a guitar, but I never heard those songs. And she was gone before I ever got the chance to ask about them.
“Well then, when are you going to start singing in front of me?”
I shake my head. “You weren’t even supposed to hear me then.”
“Valentina,” he says softly. “From what I’ve heard, you have an incredible voice. You could really do something with it—”
“I don’t want to do something with it,” I snap.
He raises an eyebrow at my outburst, something I don’t do often.
I slump into my seat. “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I just don’t think I could ever be that person.”
He nods. “Well. That really is a shame.” He gives me a small smile before he heads for the door. “Lock up when you leave.”
I wait for the door to close before I let out a deep breath. My elbows rest on the top of the piano, letting my hands thread through my hair.
One of the reasons I took the music class Freshman year was to see what it would be like to major in music. The other, and more predominant reason, was Morgan.
When I showed up to this classroom Sophomore year, after having no reason other than to play for myself, Professor Owen admitted to knowing Morgan.
He didn’t know much about her, just that she wanted to learn about music and he saw potential in her.
That didn’t surprise me.
Morgan was great at whatever she put her mind to.
I always knew she loved music and was writing her own songs, but she kept that part of herself hidden from everyone. Or at least, she hid it from our family.
She told me she was taking a music class in college, and that she even thought about pursuing music in some way, but I don’t think she ever thought she would be a famous singer. Maybe she would have been a songwriter or worked in the production aspect of it all.
But that’s where our parents come in.
Their disapproval is hard to handle, which is why, in the end, she chose a degree that included both science and art—an art therapist. But she never finished her degree.
I pull my hands from my hair and lay them back on the keys, trying to play something, anything that will make me forget.
I really thought that, after all these years, I would have accepted Morgan being gone, especially when I started playing again Freshman year. I thought I was healing. But it’s been six years, and I don’t see this pain ever fading.
My fingers hover, but they don’t move. I try to force myself to play a few notes, but my mind can’t focus anymore.
I grab my bag and head out of the room, locking the door and leaving with an even cloudier head than when I arrived.