A writing snippet

 Well, I knew it wouldn't take long for me to miss a Writing Wednesday, but here is a scene in the novella I am working on. 

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Nana didn’t like it, she thought it was trash, although it made me want to sit down at the aging upright and practice. It wasn’t proper classical music—to which they had trained me until my behavior caused enough problems that she finally let my instructor off the hook.

I wasn’t supposed to have it, Nana threw away my copy, but luckily, Montreal has a thriving music scene, a hidden gem of a store keeps records, instruments, sheet music. I found a battered copy of the score’s sheet music just like the one I’d had and bought it for fifty cents. Now, the copy was protected inside my backpack. The one place Nana would never go through, though it surprised me I didn’t. Maybe that was her limit or that one day she really hoped she would find something she wouldn’t like and therefore, she could punish me.

No one had to make fun of me for it because—well, it wasn’t something I showed off in front of people. After band practice, I had a small amount of free time to myself. I’d stay in the music room. I chose the trombone because it looked like the hardest instrument to learn and because no one else wanted to play trombone, so it was a win/win.

I would continue to practice until everyone one left—they would all go outside when the weather was nice or study hall, but I don’t think anyone did a lot of studying there. They talked in hushed whispers or zoned out in their headphones until their time was up. Shutting off their brain until it was time to turn it back on again.

Putting my trombone away in its case, I had fifteen minutes left between practice and my last class of the day before I got to go home, lugging the trombone case with me. It also served as a pretty suitable weapon if people were bothering me, I could get enough leverage up to swing it and I might, by chance, hit them in the shin or I could always drop it on their foot.

Setting down in front of the piano, it was much nicer than the one we have at home. Pushing the fallboard back, I took the sheet music out of my backpack and sat it up in front of me. Cracking my knuckles, I concentrated on the notes, finding the proper keys to match. I hated playing the piano, but if that was true, I wouldn’t be sitting here composing the notes of Bella’s Lullaby. No, what I hated was the force behind the practice. Nana wanted everything perfect. She wanted me to play for the church, do something useful, make an example of me—and the arduous work she put into fixing the fractured child she and my grandpa adopted. Her efforts were vain. Therefore, I made it as difficult as possible for her to look so pristine in front of her friends.

I made things harder than they needed to be for myself, but there were tiny moments of pleasure that I could get out of this lifetime, moments that I didn’t need anyone else to see or praise me for.

“Is there anything you aren’t capable of Miss Jackson?” Ms. Cote’s voice, as familiar to me in a sea of a hundred people pulled a sharp intake a breath into my lungs and on the exhale, I felt all of the anxiety and fear ripple through my lips, making them tremble slightly.

“Oh,” I began, searching for something to say but anything pleasant or witty failed me. I liked her, liking me, “lots of stuff.” I frowned. I liked her too much and being the focal point of her encouragement was difficult. More so than I ever thought someone being proud of me would be. I told Mrs. Philips I was having conflicting feelings about a female, how I felt about said female, I just… didn’t say who that female was.

What I felt, was more akin to what a boy, as I’d been told all my life, should feel for a girl. Not the way a girl should feel about another female.

A sin.

An afront to God’s good will.

Against His Plan. Whatever that plan was.

Ms. Cote had on low modest burgundy heels today and she wore a black dress with daisies all over it and a sweater that matched her shoes. The color really brought out the rich chocolate tones in her hair and the sparkle of her brown eyes. Ms. Cote didn’t always dress so… I guess I’d call this fancy. It was Friday and the parent teacher conference was tonight. I guess maybe she wanted to look nice in front of the parents. I couldn’t tell her, and shattered all of her hopes, that nothing she wore was going to impress my Nana – she would turn her nose up at Ms. Cote just because of the subject that she taught.

“I don’t think you give yourself much credit, Nina.” Ms. Cote sighed, letting the door close behind her but, as I hoped, she hadn’t left me.

It was wrong for me to hope that she would stay, that she might listen to me play and like it, she was a teacher, a fair deal older than me, and if I were… gay… I had no way of knowing if she was too. If she did like me back, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference because her league and mine were so far apart that they were spheres that didn’t touch.

“Debatable.” I shrugged, shifting into Chopin’s Nocturne No. 19 in E Minor. The tune was a little closer to how I felt while she came and sat down beside me and her fingers… found the following keys to the melody.

… how did she? Well, of course.

She was an art teacher, music would fall under the arts, and she must appreciate anything that fell within the category.

“You weren’t interested in going to study hall with the rest of your friends?” She asked me, off handed interest as she took up the right side of the keys.

“I prefer to study with my grandpa… he’s… patient.” I replied, inhaling slowly. She wore a sweet-smelling perfume, like some sort of sweet spice that I didn’t recognize.

“I see.” Ms. Cote nodded. “You know, Nina, what your grandparents and teachers see as a lack of interest on your part is something very common.” Ms. Cote explained, and how would she know? Her class was one of the few that I did well in, but it was at a cost, art concepts came directly after my lunch period and I’d gotten some sugar into my system, caffeine sometimes seemed to help me gain a little more focus but not always enough. It led to some interesting disasters on my part. “Teachers talk, you make careless mistakes, a lack of attention to details, it seems like you aren’t listening when you’re being spoken directly to… you drift no matter how hard you are trying not to. Mr. Demer says you constantly interrupt his class by tapping your foot or fidgeting in your seat. You cannot follow through with instructions, maybe even your chores at home, you start something and get distracted and start another chore before finishing the first, you lose things easily. Am I hitting any nerves here?”

“So, I’m lazy and stupid, what’s the point?” I asked, fidgeting even while she spoke, taking my hands from the keys and shoving them under my arms.

“Nina, no. No. Never say that about yourself. You aren’t lazy and you aren’t stupid by any means. What you have is a common neurodevelopmental disorder.”

“So… I’m defective?” I already knew this, but no one ever took the time to spell it out in so many big words before. She saw me just like everyone else, so wrecked beyond repair I can’t even finish the simplest of tasks.

Ms. Cote shook her head. “It feels that way sometimes, but you aren’t. Your brain simply works on a different weave length than those around you, so it is ten times more difficult for you to focus than it is for them. It’s called ADHD. Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. I think you may fall in the side of inattention more so than the hyperactivity, though you exhibit some traits. I know because I have ADHD too, and I had a tremendously tough time in school myself—plus life.”

“So, you’re like me?” I asked, tentatively.

She wasn’t judging me; she was… sharing a part of herself with me she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I’m like you. Now, I need to impress on you how… inappropriate this is, for me, being your teacher and not a parent.” Ms. Cote sighed, as if she were deciding about some weighty decision before she took a small red capsule from the pocket of her sweater. “It’s nothing illegal, it’s called Adderall, it could help you focus on school—but my giving it to you could be deemed inappropriate. The dosage could be all wrong for you, it causes liver damage if it’s abused but… for one day, Monday morning when you come to class, I want you to take it before school and just… give it a trial run. If it works, I can talk to Mrs. Philips about perhaps speaking with your grandparents. There’s no reason you shouldn’t seek help when there is help there for you that could change everything. I’ve seen so many bright, incredible kids like you not be able to reach their full potential because of something holding them back. Maybe this could give you the help you need.”

I couldn’t help laughing a little. “You’re giving me drugs?” The irony of the school’s anti-drug campaign was staring me in the face as I looked at the pill and just outside the music classroom there was a poster that said, Crack is Wack.

“Just this once,” She smiled at me. “The first one is always free.” Ms. Cote laughed, letting the pill drop into my offered palm before I stick it in my jeans pocket. My time with her was up. If I didn’t leave now, I would be late for my last class, not that I needed gym.

“Go on, I know your schedule, Nina.” Ms. Cote smiled, helping me pack up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder, heavy as it was, sometimes it felt like I was going to collapse under the weight.

“Ms. Cote… thanks.”