4th Period Pen Pals

The bell rings, and my heart jumps. I typically enjoy 4th period Orchestra and the break from academics and sitting at a desk that it brings. I appreciate how the vibrations of the music hide the vibrations of my stomach growling in anticipation of lunch period, and how I know most everyone in the class, as the roster only slightly changes semester to semester.

Today, however, my nerves subdue any other visceral response in my body, and all I can feel is dread. I start to pack my backpack and make the walk to the orchestra hall, taking my time as my heart beats through my chest. Today, our chair assignments were to be posted, and the entire philharmonic will see my name, next to my chair test grade and seat assignment. Today decides my final seat for the final concert of my high school career.

—

Being first chair isn’t all it seems. Sure, it’s a coveted position, and certainly a friend to the ego. In reality, you play the same music as everyone else, with more responsibility and expectations to meet. The conductor’s baton floats right in front of your nose to dictate the sound, and if you fall behind or rush, she stops the class to reprimand you - the leader, the one in front, the first chair. Also, you’re on the outside of the half-circle, so if you relax your posture even slightly, you throw the whole image off. There have been many days I didn’t want to rehearse, only wanted to lay my head down on a desk and sleep, like I was able to do in other classes. But being first chair, you have to be alert.

So it’s not all that it seems.

Sure, sometimes, I would get assigned a solo, and beam with pride as I over-exaggerate my vibrato and body movements, swaying with the sound I am producing, a stark contrast against the peers sitting still, counting the rests. And sure, during concerts, it is me who would walk across the stage after the rest of the full orchestra was seated, to stand at the conductor’s music stand and play a resounding A4 note to initiate tuning. And sure, my name in programs would be accompanied by a photo, which could only be said for a few of the musicians in the orchestra.

Ok, honestly speaking, I liked being first chair. I liked the attention, knowing I’m better than the other 7 people in First Violin, and I liked learning more complex repertoire with the solo opportunities. It made me feel accomplished, and smart. I guess you never know a good thing until it’s gone.

So when, during the last chair test, I made a silly mistake, and was demoted to not 2nd but 2nd to last chair, I was devastated. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Unsure of who I was.

That may seem dramatic, but violin is the only thing I have going for me. I’m not that pretty, and my social skills are subpar. My academics are poor too, though I do put in effort, I swear!

But the violin has been with me since I was small. I can’t remember a day of my life where I didn’t open its case, peel back the satin cover protecting the wooden instrument from dust, slowly tighten the hair on the bow, resin it until my fingers were sticky, adjust the shoulder rest, and pull the bow across the strings, my fingers naturally falling where they were needed to sing the notes printed on the page.

Up until that point, the people I spent the most time with were various private teachers, piano accompanists, my competition from other high schools, and other students in group violin classes. So when I was seated 2nd to last chair, amongst a peer group of violinists - if I can call them that - who could barely play Richard Meyer’s Appalachian Hymn just a few years ago, I felt out of place.

Sitting next to Noah for the first time, I felt immediately bogged down by his incompetence. He was constantly sharp, and played half notes when eighth notes were written, then stumbled to slow himself down, his fingers tripping over the notes, head bobbing as if this would help.

I glanced up at the top row of the section, where Liam was now sitting first chair - my seat. He turned the pages slowly and methodically, picking up the pencil to make notes as the conductor spoke.

Back here, Noah flailed about, dropping the pencil a few times after attempting to spin in between his knuckles, missing Mrs. Parkinson’s instruction as he daydreamed, his knee frantically bobbing up and down.

“Hey,” I snapped, in a sharp whisper. “Can you like, stop?”

His knee stopped bouncing, only his eyes moving to meet mine. “What’s up.” It wasn’t a question, and I rolled my eyes.

“You’re being distracting.” my voice was louder this time, and a few kids glanced our way. 

Mrs. Parkinson tapped her music stand with the baton. “Excuse me, Noah and Clara, is there something you want to share?”

“No ma’am.” I responded, sitting up straight, bow standing vertically resting on my knee in perfect resting position. How embarrassing!

Mrs. Parkinson turned to rehearse a section with the cello section, her voice bellowing over their deep, romantic sounds. I wondered what it would be like to be a cellist; it was something I had never considered in my entire life.

Noah turned over the sheet music, and picked up his pencil, drawing an upside down smiley face on the back of the score. My eyes rolled, and I turned my body slightly outward, looking blankly at the white board. How would I survive the next 6 weeks?

—

Noah’s back-of-the-sheet-music drawings continued, which were really just random doodles. I ignored him each time, and aggressively flipped the page over when it came time to play, expressing my disapproval.

Bubble-lettered versions of random words, Pocket God characters that were surprisingly true to their likeness, random sketches I couldn’t make out - none of it was very profound.

I didn’t take the last row as an opportunity to slack off, not like Noah. I still played the same, listening intently to instruction, putting as much emotion into my notes as I could. The difference was apparent. Next to me was someone who struggled, who I felt I was overpowering, overshowing, and I missed the challenge of being next to someone who also cared.

“You did that wrong again,” I whispered, pointing to a measure. “This one is legato.”

“Right,” Noah responded, thinking hard, staring at the page.

With my help, Noah did start to improve, but still didn’t seem to take things seriously enough. His doodles distracted him, and frankly distracted me too.

One day, he drew a cat, with large pointed ears, and a short stubby tail. This one I was drawn to for some reason, watching and waiting as he drew the cat’s smile and whiskers.

He must have noticed because next to it he wrote, “You like cats?” in scribbled handwriting.

I looked over to my left, and he was staring at me, his eyes surprisingly dark yet clear and round. I took the pencil from his hand, writing back (in only marginally better handwriting) “I have 2.”

I saw him smile, and he slipped the pencil back out of my hand.

“So do I! What are their names?”

"Winston and James"

"Those are people names"

"They are more than pets"

"My cats are Pepper and Garlic"

"Are they black and orange?"

"No, they're both white"

I gave Noah a questioning look, and he shrugged.

So this is how we became 4th Period Pen Pals. I wrote him notes about the music, circling important cues or writing in big letters “REST!” on parts he would bulldoze over the rhythm, no respect to timing. He drew silly drawings, and wrote silly notes in the music, and asked me about my cats. And I hoped our copy was never found by Mrs. Parkinson.

—

We never talked, outside of Orchestra class through these little notes to one another, and in the hallway on the way to Orchestra class, where somehow, in the sea of teenagers, he found me, saying the most random thing in the most natural way. It always caught me off guard; his brain seemed to work very differently from my own. 

My thoughts were consumed with the here and now - who will I sit by at lunch? Will I need to walk home from school today, or will mom remember? Will I fail the make-up Algebra test or can I pass this time? His thoughts were seemingly far off in another world. Do you ever dream about your teeth falling out? Do you think Mrs. Parkinson wanted to be a teacher when she grew up? Does the mind live in the brain, or does it exist even if we go brain dead?

“So how you liking last chair?” he said one day.

“I’m not last chair, you are,” I replied, and he rolled his eyes in a teasing way, unbothered.

We reached the orchestra room, and he rested his hand on my shoulder as he whispered “for now,” with a joking laugh as we shuffled into the room. I felt my face go hot, and I veered right to my seat.

—

I’m not sure when it happened, but I started to feel comfortable in the back. I felt invisible, in a new way, and I started to wonder what little notes would be exchanged next.

The music felt the same, but less serious, less critical. It felt like something I did, but not who I was. I started to wonder what else made me smile, what else I liked to do. I also felt like I had made a new friend, and started to look forward to Orchestra class not for the music, but for Noah.

At the same time, I was constantly worried about the impact to my overall growth as a violinist. I saw Liam sitting in my chair, getting more face time with Mrs. Parkinson being seated so physically close to her.

Was this all it took? One bad chair test, to be forgotten in the back? Would I ever be first chair again? Now that he’s gotten a taste, will Liam be motivated to practice more than I am, and show me up again? As these thoughts spiraled, Noah would start a game of tic-tac-toe on the back of our music, and without word, I’d respond, winning and losing, losing track of my thoughts.

— 

“Are you worried about the chair test?” Noah wrote, same scribbled handwriting.

I watched him set the pencil down on the stand, then pretended not to see as I processed the question. Eventually, we’re playing music again, and the sheet music hid the question as the page flipped over.

Of course I was worried. I couldn’t believe my time as 2nd to last chair was almost up, and started to feel anxious about the upcoming evaluation. I felt I needed to prove myself, but here I was passing notes in class.

He seemed to notice my dodge, and started a game of tic-tac-toe, watching me out of the corner of his eye as I half-heartedly entertained his game.

— 

One day out from the final chair test, Noah and I practiced for the chair test together, which felt strange as I was so much more prepared than him. I coached, but he didn’t seem to improve, and I found myself feeling frustrated.

Mrs. Parkinson had given us a “free day” to rehearse with our classmates however we saw fit, and while typically, I’d grab the first practice room I could find and go at it alone, I fought the urge to get up, and the urge to stay, for too long, and they were all taken.

Noah put his violin down and pulled out a comic book from his bag.

“What are you doing,” I asked, and he shrugged.

“Listen, we all know you’re going to ace this, and I’m not. I’m just slowing you down. Let me listen to your beautiful playing, and I’ll do what I’m good at.”

I felt saddened by this. I wanted him to care more, but I also needed to practice and solidify my spot. So I played on, and from time to time, I noticed Noah’s book lower, his face staring.

— 

I play, confidently, practiced, and well. My nerves had built up, then seem to dissipate at once as the bow touched the strings, and now immediately return as I sit back down, my heart racing.

Noah smiles at me, patting my shoulder. I turn to look at him, and he gives a thumbs up.

I smile at this, thinking it's over. My final chair test. Nothing more I can do now. I listen as the rest of the class plays, and no one else sounds as good, and I’m proud, feeling good. I'll finally be back in my chair, where I am supposed to be.

“That’s got to be at least 2nd - better than 2nd to last” he writes.

I grin, and write back “One more game of tic-tac-toe? ;)”

— 

Today, I walk slowly to the orchestra hall, clutching my books in my hand. Noah comes up behind me out of nowhere, which I’ve grown accustomed to, his footsteps loud and frantic, then slow as he matches my pace.

“Hey.” His voice sounds different today, less enthusiastic.

“Hey,” I say, my voice shallow.

“Think we’re stand partners again?” he chuckles, nervously.

I nod, as if it is funny, as if it is possible at all. “Maybe,” I respond, then tighten my lips straight.

We are quiet, walking amongst the chaos that is high school halls, not saying a word but hyper-aware of each other’s presence. Finally, we reach the orchestra room, and look at each other, eyes searching each other’s but not revealing any truth.

I turn my head to the floor and quicken my step, heading straight for the locker room, where I unlock my violin from its case. I walk it over to the 2nd to last seat, unclick the lock, and carefully pull back the satin sheet covering my wooden instrument.

I look up, and watch as person after person looks for their name on the seating chart, running to grab their instrument and find their new seat. Slowly, I get up, and place my violin in the 2nd to last chair, noticing Noah at the board, his face neutral, but continuing to stare. Our eyes meet, and he turns away from the board to take out his violin.

I swallow, and walk up to the board. It is hard to miss - my name, printed easily on the seating chart, next to my home, my comfort - first chair.

I walk back to my violin, pick it up, along with my sheet music and my case, and promptly drop my binder, pages flowing everywhere. Embarrassed, I shuffle to the first chair to set my violin down and then runback to pick up my mess, noticing the upside down smiley face on the back of one of the pages.

I feel strange and off-put by this. It doesn’t feel right to say good-bye, but it feels wrong to leave it like this. I’m not sure if what me and Noah have is enough to maintain it without the rituals, the seating chart, the tic-tac-toe. But I also don't want to lose it, and suddenly feel like things are going to change, and our friendship will dissolve, and I'll just be another classmate to him, our drawings and notes forgotten.

I sit down, and Mrs. Parkinson smiles at me. “Well done,” she says, and I smile weakly, fighting the urge to turn around and look back at the last chair. You never know a good thing until it's gone, and it pains me to let go.