September 1969

There. Finally. The assignment for music theory was done. I tore it from my spiral notebook of manuscript paper. Oops. Almost forgot to put my name on it. That would’ve been a silly ten points to lose. With a flourish, I scribbled my name in the upper right-hand corner,  then walked to the front and put the assignment in the wire basket on Mr. Gilbert’s desk. He glanced up, brows arched over his black plastic glasses. Small wonder, since there were still twenty minutes before the bell. Everyone else still hunched over their desks, pencils dancing.

“Thank you, Iris,” Mr. Gilbert said. “Just find something else to work on until the end of class.”

With pleasure. Trying not to smile, I practically skipped back to my spot, then flung myself into my seat, and turned in my notebook to the thing I really cared about. The piece that had invaded two days ago and taken me over body, mind, and soul. The melody God sent had filled my heart, my head, almost to the point of making it impossible to finish that theory assignment.

But I’d finally finished, and I had twenty minutes— twenty precious minutes— to devote to my own music. Thank you, God. My pencil scratched across the page. My hand trembled, frantic to keep up with the stream of notes in my heart. Composing was sometimes like this for me. The music seemed to exist outside space. Outside time. It was like God had held it there, fully formed, and chose me to bring it into the world. I’d feel him watching me, beaming as I scribbled notes onto the paper, bringing the music to life. I’d feel his joy as I composed. Writing music was an honor.

But if I was being brutally honest, sometimes the pressure of the melody, the urgency to get it out of me . . . sometimes it felt like a bit of a curse too.

The phrase ended, and the melody was kind enough to pause so I could sketch out a few harmonies. Just to remind myself what I heard. Bare bones now, but I could fill them in later. Harmony was far more patient with me, but Melody stood there, arms crossed, foot tapping, eager to share more with me.

One second, Melody. Harmony needs my attention for a bit. Just need to fill in these— 

“I thought we weren’t supposed to use parallel fifths.”

A voice interrupted the music. A shadow fell across my desk. The chords in my head shattered, almost audibly. My neck grew hot, and my heart leaped into my throat.

Victor stood at my desk, his gaze fastened on my paper. My notes. My melody. My harmony.

I flung my arm across the composition. Had the lunch bell already rung? It must have, since the other students were gathering their things and heading toward the door.

How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen?

“That’s some incredible voice leading, though.” He seemed undaunted. He slid into the desk next to mine, his eyes fixed on the spot my arm hadn’t covered. He kept his volume low. “I love what you’re doing in the alto line. That E- flat major chord . . . it’s beautiful.” “Oh, it’s just . . . this is . . . it’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.” Victor reached over and touched my paper. 

Touched it.

My grip tightened. “Please don’t touch that.”

Victor’s long, slender fingers slid off my paper and I could breathe again, but he didn’t angle away. He was so close I could feel the warmth of his body. Smell whatever aftershave he used. It was strong— all scents were— but not unpleasant.

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Until next time, may your reading bring both light and encouragement.

Happy reading!
~ Danielle.