“Did you see a mattress being delivered yet for the room?” I ask since he’s not leaving me alone.
There’s a pause in his answer and a tilt to his head that screams guilty before he answers no. But it’s the inflection at the end, like he’s asking a question that tips me off.
“Really? Because the Dean said that one had been sent over yesterday. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
I can see his carefully constructed demeanor flaking from the corner of my eye. “I don’t know what you mean.” His hands are stuffed in his pockets and his head is down to brace against the harsh wind that whips through the campus.
I whirl on him and stand with my hands poised on the top of my luggage handle. “Listen. You don’t like me, I get it. But I’m here and you’ll just have to suck it up and deal with it. So, stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?”
He eyes me warily, and I swallow hard underneath his scrutinizing gaze.Why does his undivided attention make my stomach want to do somersaults?“Fine,” he says after a beat.
“Good.” I turn back to the building on a mission to find myself some food. Dealing with this pain in my ass can wait for another time.
5
CHASE
Iwalk into my Music Theory class and there she is, talking to Rhonda Chen, a brilliant violinist that can give me a run for my money. She’s in the back row, several steps up from where I take my usual seat.
Melody is all bright pink hair and bouncy attitude, popping a bubble of gum between her plump rose-colored lips. My new nightmare and ever-present leech, here to taunt me some more. As if living with her wasn’t enough, now I have a whole ass class with her. And not just any class. This one is taught by the world-renowned composer, Lief Van Gogel. A man in his early seventies that’s preformed at every prestigious orchestra there is. He’s had several documentaries made about him and holds an award for most original composition. A feat that I hope to one day achieve.
My spine straightens as I hear Melody’s lilting laughter echoing off the ceiling. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck, and I do everything to ignore it. Staring ahead like there’s nothing interesting at all happening behind me that could be getting that kind of reaction out of her. Curiosity wins out, and I find myself craning my neck to see what could be making her giggle.
Rhonda is showing her something on her phone that I can’t make out from here, but whatever it is has Melody in stitches, wiping away a tear from those ocean blue eyes. I frown at her, and she catches me staring. Her entire demeanor changes in an instant and her expression goes from one of joy to a scowl. Good, she hates me. That might make this easier for me, knowing she loathes me already.
“Good afternoon, class.” My head swivels back to the front, where Maestro Van Gogel ambles in slowly. His arrival quiets the classroom as we all settle in to hear what he has to say. He’s wearing his favorite tweed ensemble complete with suede elbow patches and brown loafers my own grandfather is fond of wearing as well. The man in question still has a youthful spirit about him, despite dressing like a stereotypical old man. His round glasses frame his wrinkled face and his age spotted hand pushes them up on his crooked nose as he surveys the classroom. “I see we have a new student with us today. And just in time for us to be assigning our most important grade of the year. Miss Milford, since you’ve missed so much of the school year, this grade will determine whether you pass or not.”
“It’s Wessex, actually. Melody Wessex.” She corrects.
“Yes, well—” He coughs uncomfortably, waving her off. I doubt he cares what her last name is, but hearing my last name tacked onto hers made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “The project will be worth half of your grade, so be sure to give it your all. I’ll be pairing you up at the end of class to create your own original composition. Any musical genre will do, but it has to speak to you. Vocals are allowed as well as any instrument you see fit to produce your music.”
I fucking hate working on group projects. These teachers are always trying to get us to work with others, but I do my best alone. Having to rely on someone else to pull their weight is nearly impossible. So many of my peers are incompetent, entitled twits that have as much talent in their entire body as I have in my pinkie toe. Harsh, but nonetheless true. I’ve had to sit here for the last two years and listen to the drivel they’ve produced, and only a handful are actually good.
Maestro Van Gogel dives into a lecture about the art of composing, getting a far off look on his face like he’s remembering all the moments he’s been privy to such a task.
“The process of creating music is like making love,” he says with a hint of an European accent. “You don’t want to rush it. Savor it. Tease the audience, but then make it count. Make them quiver with excitement.” I can’t tell if he’s talking more about how to fuck or how to compose, but either way it works. “Make them want to come back, and always leave them wanting more.”
A few of my fellow classmates snicker at his words, but I don’t. What all my years of creating have taught me is that he’s not wrong. You have to love what you’re working on. Treat it as if it’s special, otherwise it’s just not worth your time. And no one else will want to give their time to you either. Too many want to rush the process and get it over with. But to create is to immerse yourself in that creation. It’s a baring of your soul to the elements. It’s a death by a thousand paper cuts, spilling out your inner most being for the world to see and criticize. Creating is for the brave.
“Yes, Miss Milford?”
My head turns to look at her, wondering what she has to ask.
“Wessex,” she says curtly correcting him again. “How do you propose we do that if we’ve never had someone to make love to. I mean fucking is a totally different story, but make love? We’re barely in our twenties.”
I have a visceral reaction to her words, how easily she tosses that out there without a hint of embarrassment. Her words turn in my head and my cock swells. Jealousy takes a front seat, wondering what lucky fucker got to experience her in that way.
“Good point.” He scans the room. “That’s the problem with today’s youth. Everyone wants to have aSex and the Citykind of experience. A what do you call it? Fuck and dump?”
The classroom giggles. The Maestro has always been laid back in the way he teaches us. Talking to us like we’re his peers and not a room full of inexperienced children like so many others do. He doesn’t shy away from using profanity, he tells it like it is. I respect that about him, even though I’m sure the headmistress would rather he fall in line and act what she considers more appropriate.
The rest of the class passes uneventfully, falling into a familiar rhythm as he playsDies Iraeby Giuseppee Verdi to demonstrate his point.
“See how full of passion it is. The swell of the music, then the soft delicate hush that makes you strain to hear a single note. And then he hits you with the strings, surprising you with a deviation that still fits the tone of the piece.”
The music shifts and suddenly Queen’s,We Will Rock You,starts to play. “It doesn’t matter the genre of the piece you pick, but the effectiveness of the passion you create. Make me feel something other than boredom, students. That is your task at hand.”
While the Maestro talks, my mind wanders, thinking of the girl with pink hair almost the same color of spun sugar. She’d dismissed me earlier, leaving me in a cloud of confusion and irritation. Most girls come easy to me. Always vying for my attention. Not Melody. She looks at me as if I’m nothing more than an annoyance. Someone she’s forced to interact with but would otherwise never stoop to entertain. It feels like a challenge. Maybe my plans of running her out can wait now that I’ve seen how easily I can get a rise out of her. It’ll be fun to have someone to play with, I think.
