Earbuds and a Notebook

Every family has a quirk or tradition that holds them together. Some make big breakfasts every Sunday. Some run family business. Some run marathons on Thanksgiving. That kind of thing. My family is musical. Every family member is part of a band, orchestra, or music class. Well, that is everyone except for me.

My parents say I’m tone deaf. My sister says I’m stupid, but that’s beside the point. Over the years I’ve gotten used to being the family disappointment, or the “unique” one as my mom puts it. She’s always told me ever since I was a kid that I would find my talent, my niche. 

According to the ninety-two year old woman who tried and failed to teach me piano by both sheet music and ear, I’m hopeless. I’m starting to agree with her.  

~ 

I can hear Mrs. Reed’s muffled voice through my earbuds, but I’m too focused on my sketch pad to listen to the lesson. Her voice grows closer just as I’m starting to shade my drawing’s face. My left earbud is ripped out, interrupting Cello Suite No. 1 in G Minor with, “Mr. Hale!” I look sheepishly up into the face of my furious English teacher.

“Yes ma’am?”

 “If you do not see fit to pay attention in my class, then I suggest you go sit in the hall.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

The floor of the language arts hallway is not the most comfortable place to sit, but it is quiet. Quiet, except for the black canvas high tops attempting to sneak around the corner. The kid wearing them nearly jumps out of them as he sees me. 

 “Oh, Mason,” he gasps, clutching his chest. 

 “Hey James. Cutting class?”

 “Me? Course not. I see Reed threw you out again. You gonna get through one full class this year?” he asks, sliding down the row of lockers to sit next to me. 

 I shrug. “Just can’t focus, ya know?”

 James nods, stealing one of my earbuds. I switch to an indie guitar playlist and start a new sketch.   

 ~

 A few minutes after the last bell I walk into the school band room, dodging a pack of trumpet players that bolt down the hallway. My dad looks up from his podium, a stern but worried look on his face. 

“Mrs. Reed told me she had to put you in the hallway today.” I nod, eyes glued to the floor. “And Mr. Miller says you draw more than you solve equations. I hope this means you’re doing well in art class, if nothing else.” Luckily his office phone rings, saving me from whatever, “Son, you need to do better,” speech he was about to give me. He gives me another look instead and tosses his car keys.  

~

The car ride home is silent except for the rock music coursing through my headphones. I tap it out on the side of my thigh: drums, guitar, vocals. Everything. I could never focus on one part of the song long enough to learn just a single aspect. It all has to be together in my mind. I guess that’s part of what messes me up. I just can’t focus.  

My dad ruffles my hair as we walk in the door, his usual silent sign of affection. My feet take me down the entry hall, in step with the beat of my song. I pass the childhood photographs and the wall decor reading, “Music is our family’s heartbeat.” My older siblings’ musical achievements and college acceptance letters hang beneath the family mantra, next to my bleak line of school photos. And it all leads up to my blank, tone deaf, and musically (or just generally) talentless bedroom door. I shut myself in until dinner, writing poetry in a sketchbook I keep very well hidden. I shove it under my pillow when someone knocks on the door. 

 “Wanna help me with dinner?” my mom asks. 

“Yah, I’ll be there in a sec,” I holler, securing my poetry book in a better hiding spot. I would turn those poems into song lyrics if I was creative enough to come up with a tune. Maybe then I wouldn’t be the family oddball.  

My mom hands me a potato peeler as soon as I set foot in the kitchen.  

“I like homemade mashed potatoes, but I don’t like making them,” I grumble with a sleepy smile.

 “Peel away!” Mom grins. She hums quietly as we work, swaying to a beat only she can hear. 

 ~

 A symphony of clinking silverware disrupts the otherwise quiet dinner.

 “So, Mason, how was school?” Mom asks between forkfuls of potato.

 I glance at Dad, expecting him to rat me out for getting kicked out of English. He keeps eating, so I say, “Same ole.”

 Mom smiles sadly. “It’ll get better, sweetie. You’ve only got one more year.” I nod. The silence returns for a moment. “Hey watch this!” Mom dips her finger in her wine glass and swirls it around the rim, creating a high pitched whining noise. “I saw someone do this at a fair once. Isn’t it cool?!” I smile meekly, barely looking up from my half-finished meal. 

~

The end of the school year and another boring summer pass me by like a race car. Before I know it, I’m sitting in the high school auditorium, waiting for senior year orientation to start. James grabs a seat next to me and hands me a schedule form. 

“Hey man, what all classes you taking this year?” he asks while flipping through a course catalogue. “Your sister’s?” James jabs me in the side a couple times with his elbow.

 I roll my eyes. “Absolutely not.” My parents cannot stop fawning over how my sister started teaching a choir class here. I can’t take one more second of it at home, let alone take her class. After penciling in my core classes I fill up my electives with as many art classes as I can. Anything to escape regular academia and music. 

 ~

 Days blur and weeks fly by. Pretty soon I’m sitting in the senior counselor’s office. 

 “So, Mr. Hale, have you thought any more about what colleges or careers to look at?” Mrs. Stewart looks quizzically at me over the tops of her red framed glasses. 

 I shrug and purse my lips, studying the row of floral and geometric print binders behind the desk. “I’m not really good at anything and I don’t know what to go into. I’ll probably just get my basics at community college and, I don’t know, get some job somewhere.”

 “Some job somewhere,” Mrs. Stewart echoes me. “You know, your art teachers tell me you do very well in their classes. And your other teachers tell me you draw all over your assignments,” she chuckles. I shrug again. “Since you show skill and some interest in art, why don’t you look into these programs,” she says. The counselor hands me a stack of brochures.

I thumb through them to find info about architecture, CAD, graphic design, animation, studio art, and art history studies. There’s even an info graphic about a prosthetics development class.

Mrs. Stewart looks at my puzzled face and says, “If you look into what you’re adept at, you might find something you enjoy.”

 I thank her for the food for thought and head to the band room, more confused than before. James bumps into me before I can even turn the corner. 

“Hey man, you coming to lunch or what? What are those?” He leans over to look at my pamphlets.

 “Uh, just some programs the counselor gave me. College and jobs and whatnot.”

 “Art, huh? Bro, can you custom my sneakers? I’m thinking something silver, maybe like some Aztec designs!” James gives me an excited grin. 

 “Sure dude. Hand ‘em over and I’ll start right on that.”  

“Whatever man. How about for my birthday?” 

 I give him a thumbs up and head down the hall. 

~

“Kiddo, I’ve seen your artwork. It’s really good! I understand why she pushed you toward an art career,” Dad says after I tell him what the counselor told me. He places his hand on my shoulder. “I know you’ve always felt out of place career-wise in the family. Heck, we’ve had musicians on both my side and your mom’s for generations!” 

 I sigh. “How is this supposed to help me?”

 “If you’d let me finish, I was going to say that we have enough music to go around. Don’t feel like you have to follow in our footsteps.” 

 I bite my lip. “Hm. I guess not becoming a high school band director would be a good idea. Maybe I’ll still have all my hair by the time I’m your age,” I jab. 

 “Go back to the cafeteria,” Dad chuckles, setting his lunch bag on his desk. 

~

The house is surprisingly quiet as I sit on my bed, flipping through my art journals. I can’t decide if I truly am a good artist or not. There’s just something about all the pages that seems off, but I can’t put my finger on it. My train of thought is interrupted as I hear my sister’s voice enter the house. I hop out of bed and follow her sing-song voice into the kitchen where I find her chatting with Mom. Their voices harmonize as they discuss their students — my mom with her orchestra students and my sister with her choir kids. 

 “Hey, Meagan,” I chime in as Mom ducks out. 

“‘Sup, Squirt?”  

I roll my eyes at the nickname but can’t think of a retort. I’m too busy trying to figure out why my brain is translating a certain piano song into a sketch. My fingers begin to tap out the melody on my leg and even though I know I won’t be able to play it I stride over to the piano.  

“Thinking about learning to play?” Meagan asks. “Maybe you should try again. You know the dog could always play better than you, and he’s deaf.”  

It’s true. While he couldn’t press individual keys with his big paws and he had no idea what his playing sounded like, Maverick could always play and howl along better than me. “Nah, just can’t get a song out of my head,” I lie. I can’t explain how my brain seems to mix up sounds and images. 

 “Mark should be here in a little while,” Meagan announces.  

“What’s the occasion?” Our oldest sibling rarely comes home anymore. He’s constantly on tour with his indie rock band.  

Meagan stares at me, dumbfounded. “Uh, Mom’s birthday is this weekend genius. Let me guess, you haven’t gotten her anything.” I shake my head, eyes wide. I’ve been so caught up with school that I forgot all about it. “I’ve already gotten her something, so if you want to give me some cash, I’ll say it’s from both of us,” she offers. 

 “I’ll think of something.” 

 “Better think quick. You’ve got two days.”

 I head back to my room, my mind clouded with gift ideas and piano music. 

~

I can’t think of anything to get Mom. Meagan won’t tell me what she got her. Probably a new metronome or something. Mark told me after dinner that he wrote her a song. Show off. I slump in my desk chair, trying to think around the never ending piano music. It’s been playing nonstop in the back of my mind since this afternoon. I still can’t figure out why I keep seeing a drawing with this music. Searching for an answer I flip through my sketchbook again, hoping to find it. As soon as I land on the right page the song comes in clearer. I realize that the song is the one I was listening to as I drew this page. Eyes widening, I flip through all the pages, seeing every song I listened to translated into a sketch. I race down the hall and burst into my brother’s room. “Mark!”  

“Gah! Privacy, man!” Mark pulls an old band tee on. “What the heck do you want?” 

“Let me listen to the song you wrote for Mom.” My chest rises and falls with each heavy breath.

“No way. Mom is going to be the first to hear it. Now get out of my room, twerp.” Mark moves to shove me out the door, but I block him. “Why do you want to hear it so bad?”  

“Let me show you.” 

~

 Mark’s song flows through my earbuds and it sounds amazing. The perfect mixture of rock and orchestra. I know Mom will love it, and I’m hoping she’ll love the new drawing that goes along with it. I let the music guide my hand, creating on the page what the song looks like. Mark watches over my shoulder, despite my protests. 

 “Amazing,” he whispers, barely audible above the electric violins in my ears. “Kid, you’ve got talent!” 

 ~

By the time Mark’s song ends during the birthday dinner Mom is in tears. I fidget nervously, waiting to present my present. I question whether I should have just given Meagan money for the vintage radio she bought Mom. What if the drawing is too much? What if it’s not enough?  

“Last but not least,” Mark begins, “we have an accompaniment to go with the song. Mason, care to introduce your piece?” He gestures to Mom, who is busy wiping her mascara.  

I stand, legs, hands, and voice shaky. “So, to kind of explain what this is, I...” My voice falters. Mark gives me a supportive nod. “I can kinda… draw songs? Like, I see things when I listen to certain songs, and this is what I saw when I listened to that one.” I bite my lip at the end of my ungraceful delivery and hand the wrapped drawing to Mom. She tears it open so fast I have to make sure she didn’t tear the page.  

“Oh my!” She clamps a hand over her mouth. Dad and Meagan leap to see what it is. “Honey, I-“ Before she can continue, I rush to hug her. “It’s perfect.” 

~

“Yah, right there. That’ll be perfect,” I hear through my bedroom door. I poke my head into the hall. My parents are standing in front of the decorated wall, hanging something up.

“Whatcha up to?” I stride over to them. “Putting up the latest masterpieces,” Mom says. She kisses my forehead and steps into the next room. 

 “Masterpieces?” I ask the empty hallway. My eyes flit up to the latest additions to the family wall: the sheet music to Mark’s song and right next to it, my drawing. I stare into my mom’s pencil shaded eyes and smile.                                                                     ~