Painted in Pitch

“That was flat Ary!”

I turned the knob. Then I did it again, and again as she continued to bark at me from behind.

It'd been an hour since I actually moved onto the next note in the song and I couldn't understand why this was supposed to be helpful. Ever since mom hired Abby as my private tutorer all i've been getting from violin practice was sore fingers and lowered self esteem.

 My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a loud boom that generated from the next room. Great, I thought, just when I thought I could finally get some peace and quiet in this house.

I headed down stairs to show Abby out of the house as Bowie began his 6:00 snare lessons. I'm not even sure how him and I are siblings, we're the complete opposite; he’s always been a sap for the loud ear splitting kind of music one would generally hear in rock consort while I’ve mostly preferred the soft and smoothly flowing rhythm of classical orchestra. Ever since we were young mama and papa have always made it clear to me and Bowie that they wanted us to be astounding musicians. I guess it's only natural though, since they themselves are professionals and were first introduced through their instrumental ambitions. It’s hardly simple to imagine my life without music. Every day I spend hours on end perfecting the dynamics and intonation that goes along with my piece and in some cases I can go weeks without ever moving on with a song. Keeping up with my passion for music can be very tedious at times, like with the abnormal amount of hours I spend with Abby on a weekly basis.

We were near the entrance to the house now. I quickly gave Abby the payment for the days lesson and watched with an enlightened heart as her blue sedan pulled out of the driveway and disappeared into the open road. Once I could no longer see the distant silhouette of her car I went to the kitchen in the mood for one of my signature snacks: avocado toast. It wasn't anything fancy, just a few slices of avocado on some whole wheat toast sprinkled with some Cajun seasoning, but there was something about the creaminess of the avocado in my mouth that left me with a feeling of mild satisfaction. As I reached for the Cajun seasoning I heard the sudden sing-song melody of the doorbell. It was barely audible under the exploding sound of the snare drum upstairs but I could just about make out its routine reverberation. I went to see who it was and saw the mundane figure of the mailman standing on the porch. I waited until he was gone before I opened the door to find a bundle of letters fastened by a rubber band laying on top of the dirt-ridden welcome mat.

I sorted through the mail as usual, picking out the ones I would give to mama and papa who always found it quite a bore to do it themselves. What I hadn't expected, however, was to see a letter addressed to me, Ary Hanswiddle. It had been months since I'd gotten a single letter, and most of them were just invitations to parties that I never went to or report cards that came from the latest school semester. Never did I get a letter quite like this one. It was a fancy off-white bordered envelope painted in pitch with my name and address encrusted in gold lettering on the back. It had been sealed tightly with a clear layer of vinyl and I almost didn’t want to open it, as if to not disturb it’s intricate design. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed another address on the envelope, probably were it originated. I was immediately shocked to see that it came from the Peabody Institute of the John Hopkins University, a prestigious college for orchestral schooling in Baltimore, Maryland. Intrigued, I carefully unfastened the flap of the envelope and pulled out a paper, neatly folded and creased with the fresh scent of newly printed parchment.

I opened it to find a letter that I then read over in attentiveness. It was an invitation to the April auditions that the university was holding for the year’s freshman class. I was completely shocked. As a beginning senior at my high school I’d been getting multiple invitations from different colleges who found my musical talents prodigious, but I hadn’t expected to get one from somewhere like the John Hopkins Institute.

I guess my parents felt the same way because when I informed them of the letter their eyes welled up with tears. 

“Oh Ary this is amazing news!” Mama exclaimed “I always knew one day your potential would be recognized. My baby bird has finally spread her wings.”

I flushed with embarrassment. Mama has always had a habit of expressing random poetic nonsense when she got emotional.

“We’re so proud of you starlight.” Said papa, finally finished with rereading the letter “ All that hard work really paid off.”

I gave him a carefree smile, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. After much more congratulations and “im so proud of you!”s from my parents I bade them goodnight and headed upstairs. Once I got to my room I heaved myself against the door. I sighed wearily, letting all the anxiety that I had been building up since talking with my parents escape into the empty space around me. I glanced at the letter clasped tightly around my fingers. It’s contents opened up so many new doors and possibilities for the future, ones that could form the very fabric of my career. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a heavy burden weighing on my shoulders. It’s as if my whole life has already been pre-planned for me since the day I entered this world; I was born into music, I grew up in music, and I would eventually die in music. 

The truth is, I didn’t want any of that. Sure I love music and think of it as an enjoyable hobby, but as a job, well I wasn't overly ecstatic about it. That thought has been nagging me for a while now and I just can’t bring myself to confess to my parents. There has always been something else that I wanted to pursue, a secret love I only discovered during my sophomore year. It was something completely separate from the path of music, something my parents would probably not be overly fond of. I look back once again at the envelope. If I take this audition mama and papa will be super proud and I’d be following in their footsteps to becoming an incredible musician, I thought. I knew it was the logical thing to do, which is why it made me feel so much more worse about what I was going to do. 

I sat there for a while, organizing and rethinking my thoughts and trying to establish my mental grounds. It hadn't dawned on me that it was midnight until my brother began incessantly rapping on the door and telling me to turn off the lights, not even bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. 

I lay in bed now, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. I had an unusual look of broad determination on my face. Mama’s earlier statement rings in my ears. “My baby bird has finally spread her wings”. 

I smiled to myself, yes I have mama, yes I have.

I fall asleep listening to the sound of the leaves rustling softly in the wind outside the window.

The letter lies crumpled up in depths of the garbage bin.