A girl should be like a butterfly.
Pretty to see.
But hard to catch.
It’s a quote my father used to say. I shouldn’t just be someone’s girlfriend; I should be someone they had to fight really hard to get. It’s a quote I had often taken for granted during high school. I always assumed I would have to date and never be single during high school. It would be the memories years later when thinking back to high school. Cheerleader dating Jock. Though, I was never a cheerleader. I was the girl in Music class. Any music class they offered, I took. But I didn’t want to be in band. I wanted to be the girl that just followed her passion of playing the violin. That was enough for me. But I needed the boyfriend. The boy that would be there in between classes. The couple kissing against the lockers kinda girl I wanted to be. So, against my father’s quote, I just enjoyed the high school experience with boys. I wasn’t a slut. I never had sex with them. But I enjoyed their company.
However, now I’m in my mid-twenties. Living on my own. Deeply believing in my father’s quote. I no longer date. I hadn’t in years. I’ve focused solely on my career to make it as a violinist. It’s my passion. My free spirited best friend Isabelle, my blonde sidekick, because every brunette needs a blonde best friend, says I’m too focused on my violin. I should marry it. Don’t think the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
Every night, after a days’ worth of practicing, I post a new video on YouTube. It’s only a hobby of mine knowing damn well you can’t make ends meet off the Internet. It did turn out to be one of my best decisions – starting a YouTube account – because I was discovered.
Attending Juilliard was always my dream. My father helped me with this dream. “Money can go far, but it’s your talent that will determine the outcome.” My father is always full of wisdom. He is the most positive man I’ve ever met. He’s my role model actually. He was a single father, but you couldn’t tell because he powered through it with so much determination. He worked. Daily. But I never came short. I would join him after school and during summer breaks. He was a music director, composed lots of music for movies. He’s even featured me in movies playing the violin once I’ve gotten good enough. At the age of fifteen, I never thought I was good enough, but my father proved me wrong when he introduced me into the world of movies and showed me the ropes. I didn’t mind hearing myself featured in a movie filled with moronic drama. “There’s a tune for every emotion.” (His words) He certainly believed in my talent.
Softly I draw the bow across the strings, a smooth, slow, and gentle sound. Quietly I ease into the song, humming along as I play one note after the other. It’s my own creation, my own sound that can’t be copied. It’s this tale in my head I follow – a girl running the fields on top of the green mountain. She’s smiling – the music becomes harder and faster – she sees him running towards her, she’s trying to catch up to him – the music fades back to quiet – he’s turning around and walks away, leaving her behind – and the sound slowly fades away. It’s the same story I see over and over again when I play this tune, each time in a different way.
Maybe it’s the story I see of my parents, envisioning my own mother. The mother I’ve never gotten the chance to meet. She passed away giving birth to me. It was hard on my father, but he talked about her daily, still does. She was the love of his life, the love maybe someday I could have. He knew, once he laid eyes on her, she was going to be the one, and he would fight for her if he had to. She was the one he wanted to be with and only she. That’s the kind of love people only dream of. My father lived it. But had to let it go when I was born. He promises I’m just like her. Fearless. Hopeful. A dreamer. I, just like my mother, have shown I make my dreams reality.
Living ina small apartment in New York city might not be ideal with the high rent prices and only living off my father’s paycheck and the small amount of money I make waitressing. It’s not much, but it’s a contribution, after all I don’t intend on living off my father’s money forever. I guess it’s in my favor I’m an only child. Why did he never remarry? Have more children? My mother was his everything, he never could and would replace her, she was the one for him, losing her meant he’d never love again. To a certain extent, I understand, but I couldn’t imagine living life without sharing my bed with someone. He must’ve been lonely?
Work was, as usual, exhausting. The number of tourists that fill New York City is crazy. So many languages flood the restaurant I waitress at. I have a hard time understanding some customers as I take their order, but I think I’ve mastered the freakishly fraudulent smile. Somehow, they still manage to get exactly what they’ve ordered, so I must be fluent in various languages.
Arriving at my tiny New York apartment I’ve managed to make home with my own unique style, I hang my purse on the coat hanger by the door, made entirely out of pallets. Every DIY video of existence has been executed in one way in my apartment. Every piece of furniture is custom made by me. I have this uncanny relationship with the hammer. My father makes fun of me because every weekend, when I’m not working, I’m at his house, in the garage, building something new for my apartment.
“Alexa, turn on music,” I speak into the room as I raid my refrigerator for some Chinese leftovers and listen to my favorite jazz station which usually inspires me. My daily routine is after I get home from my shift at work, to drive my neighbor’s crazy with the sound of the violin. We have a new tenant across the hall from my apartment and he’s not a big fan of it, that’s for sure. I’ve complained about this man since the day he moved in because he’ll bang like a maniac on my door, I answer, he calls me all sorts of names in the book, and then cranks his heavy metal music trying to prove a point I don’t get. He’s lived there about two months now and that’s two months too long for me. I’ve been in this building for two years and no one has ever complained, on the contrary, most of them say they turn their televisions off just to listen to me play. This new guy must be a special kind of stupid for being so rude.
While eating my fancy left over sweet and sour chicken with fried rice, I take out all the hair clips I had pinned into my curly dark brown hair, just to keep it from being a nuisance at the restaurant. Thirteen hairclips get tossed onto my table as I sit and overlook the city lights of my beautiful New York. The twinkle of the lights always gets me and then I try to look past the lights. Who lives there? What are they doing? What is their lifestyle like? Millions of questions distract me more than any television show could. As I’m dreaming away my phone rings.
Excited I answer.
But the caller didn’t sound good.
“Hey, Melody, it’s Rosa, I need you to come over as soon as possible,” a frantic call from my father’s housekeeper has me running towards the door before she even finishes her next sentence, “I don’t know if he’s breathing,” she cries.
“Call 911 Rosa,” I demand as I slam the door to my apartment behind me and jump into the next available taxi heading straight out of the city.