pink in the night

sept. 4 2003 san francisco, ca

I met Jane Keo at the tender age of 5.

Scratch that, I was made acutely aware of her existence since I was 5, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I knew her. Wherever she was, I was a whisper away, watching her from afar. Same classes from preschool to 3rd grade. Same violin tutoring program. Even our parents were best friends. Still, I had only spoken to her once--a simple hello when our parents introduced us to each other. We were two parallel lines--close, but never close enough.

At age 8 years old, I was very different from your average 3rd grader. Standing at an impressive 4′5" and weighing in at approximately 70 pounds, I was statistically significantly smaller. Although I’m aware that the p value might’ve been small and the bell curve skewed positively, I couldn’t help but feel like logically speaking, I was different, and not in a good way.

I told my mother this, as she eagerly pushed me down the busy streets of downtown, urging to stay within the sidewalk. The city skyline, a mismatch of geometric buildings standing in sequential order, was visible between a blanket of thick puffy clouds. At the very edge of the pavement, vendors selling handmade jewelry smile from behind their booths. A bell chimes, and a cable car rushes past us shortly after, groups of high schoolers hanging onto the poles, some with a cup of coffee in hand. Nearby, a street performer dressed as the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz seems to have gathered quite a crowd. With a rap song blaring loudly from the speakers, the performer spun on one heel and slid into a split. The audience erupted into applause, the sound of their clapping were sparks exploding in my eardrum.

Suddenly, my mom stopped me in front of Westfield mall, where Christmas wreaths are decorated at the entrance, hung next to fairy lights. My attention zeros in on the fake snow dusted on the balcony ledge.

“We need to put some sunscreen on you,” she muttered, squirting some of the cream from the bottle onto her hand and working it between her fingers to warm it, “you’ve been getting too dark lately.”

Flinching as she massages the goo onto my nose bridge, I can’t help but wonder why that matters. Mom always said something about paleness being a symbol of wealth and status, but I don’t know who she was trying to fool, since we were obviously very middle class.

“Mom, we’re gonna be late,” I managed to say as I frantically turned my head right to left.

“Nonsense,” she insisted, pursing her lips, “I’m almost done.”

I didn’t bother to push her. Truthfully, it was her idea for me to audition for first chair violinist. I wanted nothing to do with it. In my opinion, I was lucky enough to even be considered as a part of the Youth Orchestra. Besides, I really didn’t like being in the spotlight. Performing at all was a huge step out of my comfort zone.

Grabbing my hand once she’s satisfied, my mother rushes us into the building, where a couple of adults were loitering in front of a grand golden elevator. The entire interior was decked out with various fancy embellishments--the velvety red carpet, the fake orchid flowers in glass vases, and the shimmering lace opened to reveal an elaborate entryway to the stage. The ceiling slopes negatively--pointing to a statue of a bear.

From my peripheral, I spotted Jane standing with her mom, dressed in a simple white spaghetti strap dress. The light from the chandelier accentuated the highlight on her cheekbones and jawline--two complementary angles. For a fraction of a second, our gazes connected and I’m reminded of the invisible asymptote between us that neither of us tried to approach. It wasn’t like we hated each other--because we didn’t (or at least, I don’t think we did)--it’s just that we were supposed to be rivals. Her and I were auditioning for the same position. There was no way we could’ve been friends. Then, her mom pulled her away, and we are diverging again before we could even consider converging.

Searching the room for something else to focus on, I noticed a boy off to the side that seemed to have been observing me closely. Holding my mom’s arm tighter, together, we make our way down the dimly lit hallway. Somewhere along the way, we separated, and she entertained herself by talking to other adults.

I was left alone, and holy fuck was that nerve wracking. My heart rate accelerated, the beating periodically increasing and decreasing in even increments, like a sinusoidal function.

Not wasting anytime at all, the boy I saw earlier shifts on his feet, pushing off the wall to greet me. The first thing that stood out to me about him was the singular lock of hair curled above his eyebrow, framing two mischievous black eyes.

“You look nervous,” he told me, grinning ear to ear as he nodded to my instrument case in my hand, “violin?”

“Y--yeah,” I replied, shyly.

“Cool, I’m cello,” he informed me, pointing to his very own case someone who I assumed was his dad was holding. “My name’s Tanner, by the way.”

“Charm,” I answered quietly, unsure of what else to say.

“Charm as in Charmander, like the Pokemon?” he joked, chuckling, and I simply nodded in response. “That’s quite a name.”

Unable to think of a witty reply, I nodded again.

“Well, Charm,” he began, flattening his palm against my shoulder blade and nudging me toward the backstage area, “I think it’s almost your turn. See? The harpists just went, and I’m pretty sure the violinists are next.”

“I can’t go by myself, I need my mom,” I told him, panicking slightly.

Somehow, lost in the crowd, my mom found us. “It’s okay, honey, you can go with the Saelim boy. Go now, I think you’re up first.”

Before I could fire back, Tanner was already ushering me through to where the rest of the kids who were auditioning were seated. Out of nowhere, he halted, furrowing his brow.

“You walk kinda funny,” he pointed out, in what appeared to be disgust.

Trying my best not to cry, I laugh off his casually cruel comment. When I was 6 or so, my dad and I had gotten into a pretty severe accident. While he passed away, I was left with an awful knee injury that took 5 surgeries and many screws to fix. Ever since, I’d walk with a slight limp that I thought wasn’t noticeable. There was something sharp in his voice that made me reconsider.

But Tanner’s intentions weren’t malicious, were they? He was just curious. No one else noticed, right?

Right?

“Charm?” the conductor called, turning over a page on his clipboard. “You ready?”

Deciding that I didn’t have much of a choice, I hummed in agreement. Slowly, I maneuver my way onto stage. A panel of judges, most of them unfamiliar faces, sitting tangentially, stare back at me. Underneath the mess of stage lights, I was immediately cloaked in a vortex of technicolor, the beams perpendicular to the top of my head, shooting at me like a vector. From my position on stage, there seems to be an infinite amount of crimson auditorium chairs, all leading up a pathway.

Clearing my throat, I rested the violin against my shoulder, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. Only, I froze the second I got a look at the crowd. There, the judges watched me, looking at me in a way that almost made my knees buckle. It was as if I were a math problem that they were trying to solve, and if they divided me into pieces, somehow they’d be able to figure me out.

Immobilized, I stood there, wide eyed and palms clammy, realizing that they were trying to measure my worth like a ruler--that they were going to assign a number that would quantify if I mattered or not.

The diameter of my lungs constricted at the thought.

Time stood still, like a constant in a linear equation, except I couldn’t find it in me to actually perform. Paralyzed in place, I listened as the ringing in my ears intensified. Something was sitting on my chest, making it difficult to breathe, and I wasn’t able to handle the pressure. By the second, it seemed like the amount of people watching me multiplied, and I wasn’t able to count how many there were anymore.

“Charm?” someone called my name, but I couldn’t make out the source of the voice. All I could focus on was how hypervisible I became, and I wanted nothing more than to hide behind my baggy clothes.

Why--why wasn’t I able to play? I spent countless hours at home perfecting my craft, yet for some reason I couldn’t remember how to start. The seeds of doubt Tanner had planted in my mind had sprouted, and they were growing exponentially by the second.

Instinctively, my brain automatically began to calculate the probability of winning, and the possibilities were looking real bleak. I wasn’t in control anymore. I was in a simulation, and someone was in charge of my actions and they were forcing me to watch.

At that moment, I wanted to derive myself out of existence.

Unable to withstand the weight of their stares, I dropped the instrument, and stormed downstage, mortified. Adjacent to the stairway, I heard a bunch of adults whispering in hushed voices, all while stealing glances in my direction. In a way, it was worse than being on stage for everyone to observe and judge me.

God, I was such a disappointment.

Averting eye contact with my mother, who I was sure was not too impressed with my lackluster demonstration, I focused on finding a seat next to the remainder of the kids that were planning on auditioning. To my surprise, all of them were taken up, except for one, next to Jane.

Hesitantly, I climbed onto the chair, ignoring the way my arm accidentally brushed against hers in the process. Startled, she looks at me, bubblegum peeking through the gap between her teeth.

Leaning over, she whispered, “you were really bad.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“I--you--I’m sorry,” I stammered, fiddling with a loose thread on my shirt.

Instead of replying, she spits her gum into her hand and sticks it into my hair.

What a paradox it was, for two parallel lines to intersect.

a/n

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