Only 3 more classes left to go. I just need to survive 3 more classes, and I won’t be the “new girl” anymore. Someone else will be the subject of the stares and the whispers tomorrow. Just 3 more classes.
Everyone watches as I sink into my seat in the front of the classroom, directly under the whistling AC unit. The teacher, Mr. Stone, I think, is talking to the entire class about his daughter, who apparently is some sort of genius, got some sort of scholarship from her SAT score. No one is listening, whispering or playing on their phones instead. I swear us high-schoolers are sometimes too cliche for our own good.
At least this guy didn’t have me introduce myself to the class, he just told me to find a seat. My accent would cause questions, ones I didn’t feel like answering.
Mr. Stone kept talking and, just as he told us to take out our notebooks to start notes on Conics, the bell rang and stampede storms past me and out the door before I even have my chair pushed in. My carefully memorized schedule from last night said that I had orchestra next, and then choir. I guess whichever computer set up my classes thought that my only 84 minutes of joy a day should be compacted together. I wander down the halls and find my way to the orchestra classroom, only moments after the bell marking the end of the passing period rings.
The classroom has higher ceilings than normal classrooms, with instrument lockers lining 3 of the four white walls. I find the teacher in a small office off the room, filled with cardboard boxes marked with different song titles. “Hello?” I ask, “I’m the new student, where should I be sitting? I play bass, and the guy in the office said I could use a school one during class.”
The teacher, a short lady with frizzy blond hair that looked like it would explode out of its bun any moment, jumped. “Oh yes, yes! I’ll get you a locker combo in a second, and music.... oh and a schedule with all of our upcoming performances. Then I’ll have to introduce you to the boys, the two other bassists I mean”
She seemed to flutter around the room, backtracking and humming and getting distracted. “Actually, it’s Natasha. Natasha Evans.”
The teacher, I still haven’t a clue as to her name, nodded as she continued to bustle around, taking sheet music from different boxes and building quite a pile in her arms. “And what’s that accent, dear? British?”
She handed the music to me, as well as a plain black binder, and began walking into the main room, “Interesting. Follow me, sweetie.” She sudden rose her voice “Dean, Spencer, some help over here please!”
Two guys who were playing bass in the back of the room placed their instruments down on their side and came over to where the teacher had stopped, in front of a slightly more organized shelf next to a desktop computer. One had a broad build, like a football player, short dark brown hair, toffee coloured skin, with chocolate eyes which sparkled from beneath black eyelashes, and a smirk painted on to his face as though it never would leave. The other had a swimmers build, but was inconceivably tall, a good head and a half taller than my 5′10″. He was lightly tanned with long brown hair, the top layer which looked to be lightened by the sun, light blue eyes that bordered on grey, and a lopsided grin.
The tall one stopped in mock salute, “Ready to assist Mrs. Jackson, Ma’am”
The shorter one chuckled and crossed his arms, leaning against the white board. The teacher, Mrs. Jackson, rolled her eyes before speaking, “At ease, Spencer. This is our new bassist, Natasha, I need you two to get her set up with the bass from locker 7 and show her any changes that we already have in the music. And one of you should point her in the right direction for her next class. I’ll be helping the violinists, or maybe the cellists.... well, go on!”
Both guys started walking and I followed, shorter guy started talking “So I’m Dean and the less attractive one is Spencer. You will be spending about 20 percent more time with us than you’ll really want to, especially considering the European tour we’re going on during the first few weeks of the summer.” European tour? I’ll need to ask Jackson about that. “Your locker is the big one with a 7 on it, combo is 1-2-4, because Jackson thought 1-2-3 would have been too obvious. We have, like 20 minutes left so don’t worry about getting out your bass, we will just get your music set up.”
“What do you have next?” Spencer chimed in, “And what year are you? I haven’t seen you in any classes”
“I’m an in year eleven... I mean I’m a junior. And choir.”
“Wait a second, girlie, what’t that accent? We are not just going to skip over that!” Dean announced.
“Welsh? I just moved here last week.”
“Cool! We officially have a friend who sounds like a spy, think of the excuses!” Spencer was almost bouncing.
“Did,” I started over, a little louder, “Did someone give him too much coffee?”
“Nope, just my natural high, Miss Bond”
“Wrong Country” I am not normally this talkative with strangers. Hell, not even with some of my "friends" back home. What has gotten into me?
“It’s best not to argue with him,” Dean interjected, ” he will spout a bunch of information until you say he won just to shut him up.”
“He is right, ya know. You should just give up now.” Spencer smirked and snatched the music out of my hands. “We have some friends in choir. I’ll text them so that the know how awesome and accent-tastic you are.”
He grabbed my wrist to pull me along and I pulled away without thinking. Shit! Spencer raised an eyebrow to which I responded “Sorry! Just don’t like touching, freaks me out, ya know?”
Both boys looked suspicious but I guess they decided to believe me. Dean extracted his phone from his pocket and handed it to me, “Well, add your number”
“If I must,” I reply, glad that they didn’t ask any more questions. “I need to ask.... Are these choir friends of yours as special as you two?”
“No one is as special as us.” They respond in sync before fist bumping each other. We spend the remaining 5 minutes of the period going through the abundant music and marking bowing changes or added dynamic changes until the bell rang. The boys then showed me to the choir room, where they introduced me to Jazz, who has thick black hair, brown eyes, and a wicked sense of humour, and her girlfriend Amanda, with tan skin and auburn hair, before taking off to god knows where.
The girls left me to fiend for myself as I sought out the choir director, Mr. Smith, who demanded I do a solo, at least 30 seconds, for the class as that is what every student did the first day of the school. He said I could do any song, as long as I told him the key first, so I walked up to the front of the room and quietly said “Shadow by Birdy in E minor”
I closed my eyes for a moment before I began singing, letting the notes ring in the air, not opening my eyes until the end of the first chorus, where I stopped singing. The class politely applauded as I found a seat in the soprano section by Jazz, who said that I did great. Mr. Smith handed me a pile of music, much more organized than that from Mrs. Jackson. And, as I slid the music into my bag at the end of the class, my phone vibrated with a text "Come home. You're called out of 9th. Need to talk ASAP."