Deandra
Throughout my childhood and into my adult years, the only thing that ever made sense to me, was music. There was a structure to it, a rhythm, and a universal understanding of how it could be made, but no rules on how it should be done. In school I never understood math, history, science, or any of those basic subjects every kid is supposed to know. The only thing I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, was music.
My parents thought there was something wrong with me. They tried to homeschool me, tried sending me to doctors, but no one could explain what was wrong with me. Perhaps they couldn’t because there was nothing wrong in the first place. I had a gift, I could read notes before I could read books.
I was playing tunes on the piano long before I learned how to ride a bike. When it came to music, I was a genius, but everything else was simply lost on me. Eventually, my parents gave up and homeschooled me until I finished high school, which took much longer than anyone expected. They tried to nurture my talents, and they took pride in calling me a musical prodigy, but I always knew they looked at me different.
My younger brother, Michael, was the favorite. He wasn’t like me at all. He was smart, athletic, and charismatic. They showered him with attention and affection. He was two years younger than me. When it came time for me to apply to college, I wanted to apply to all kinds of music programs, but my parents told me we couldn’t afford the tuition.
When it was Michael’s turn, they promised him any college he wanted. They helped him move out, paid for his tuition, and sent him money whenever he asked. It was sickening to watch, and it made me feel like I had done something wrong.
Eventually, I just got used to it, I lived at home writing music and working in a dead-end job at the grocery store. I used my paychecks to buy used instruments that I could pick up and learn. I had what felt like half an orchestra in my bedroom closet. Clarinet, flute, French horn, trumpet, trombone, violin, you named it, I could play it and write music for it.
My parents had a piano downstairs. It was one of the first instruments I learned to play. When Michael graduated from college, they invited everyone they knew and all of the family they could muster. I was told to play the piano in the background so people would have music to listen to. As usual, I was put in a corner while they showered Michael with their love.
I did as I was told, starting with sheets of music on crinkly and yellowed paper before finally moving on to my own work. Some of it was written down, but most of it was etched into my soul. I didn’t need any guidance to remember how the notes fit together. I didn’t name my songs either, I usually recalled them based on the way I felt when I created them.
The one I was currently playing was composed the night after my parents refused to help me go to a music program in college. They went out that night and left me alone as the house. I sat at the piano and cried for hours. The keys were wet with my tears when the song came to me. As I sat there playing it for Michael’s graduation party, I had to fight back the tears that were forming in my eyes. I could hear his voice carrying across the living room. I heard the satisfaction in his words and I could picture the smug expression on his face.
He was so proud of himself and my parents were so proud of him. I closed my eyes and kept on playing.
“Hey, what’s that song you’re playing?”
My eyes shot open and the song ceased as I bumped a wrong note. The eager conversations that filled the house weren’t affected by the sudden stop. They probably weren’t listening in the first place. I looked over and saw my brother’s best friend, Devin Jackson. He was a star quarterback throughout high school and now he was playing for a college team with plans to get signed by the NFL one day.
He and Michael had been friends for almost ten years. Michael brought him around all the time, but Devin never spoke a word to me. I had a crush on him for years, dreaming of that classic sports romance with the star quarterback, but one look at him would make any young girl blush. From the moment he entered high school, his body started to fill out faster than any other guy. Within a few years, he was sporting chiseled biceps and a rugged chest.
He walked with this bravado that went beyond arrogance and instead simply made him look powerful. It was easy to assume he was full of himself, but I always thought he had a softer side. Whenever he would come over to the house to visit Michael, I always felt safe. Those feelings faded with time, but they never truly went away.
After all these years, today, Devin Jackson was talking to me. I looked over and saw him standing head and shoulders above me as I sat on the bench of the piano. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit with a crimson colored tie. His charcoal skin blended perfectly with his deep brown eyes. He always kept his hair short, shaved right down to the scalp. It helped his striking features stand out.
“It’s uh, it’s not something you’ve ever heard of,” I said.
He chuckled as he sat down on the edge of the piano bench.
“Try me,” he said.
I felt myself blushing as I turned back to the piano.
“It’s a song I wrote, actually.”
I looked over at him briefly and saw his eyebrows shoot up.
“You wrote that? It’s beautiful! What do you call it?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t have a name.”
Devin nodded. He seemed genuinely interested in my music. It was a sudden and striking change. I hadn’t seen him in years, though. Maybe college changed him and Michael in a way high school never could. I wouldn’t have known since I spent my college years in my room, learning new instruments and writing new music.
“Play some more of it, maybe we can think of a name, together.” he said.
I looked back to the piano and to him again.
“Right now?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s getting a little quiet. This party needs some of your musical touch.”
I placed my fingers on the ivory keys and felt my hands shaking as Devin watched me. I took a deep, long breath, and started playing. I fell into a kind of trace as the notes started pouring out of me. It was as if my heart was singing and this was the only voice it had.
Several measures went by and I felt Devin’s eyes watching my hands as they danced across the keys. Just as I was reaching the end of the song, Michael’s voice cut through the soft tones.
“Devin, can I speak to you?” he asked.
I continued playing, but the notes didn’t have the same impact. I didn’t want Michael to know I was listening.
“Can it wait, man? I’m listening to the song Dee wrote.”
“Her name’s Deandra, only her family calls her Dee. And no, it can’t wait.”
Devin let loose a long sigh and stood up. My fingers kept on repeating their same dance as I watched him walk away. I looked down to the piano and started the song over from the beginning.