British soil for about three days … so I had to have my catch-up call with Megan. You’ll have her in class next year, Mr. Wei. You’ll have many arguments with her, and you’ll lose more than half of them. Also, fair warning, Megan’s already started researching every education law to see if she can get out of doing this project over the summer while you’re not technically her teacher. You probably know this by now, but no teacher makes it through the school year unscathed. I’ll try to be extra calm this year to make up for it.
We have a balancing effect on people. Which is why I needed this phone call.
“Got any glitter on you?” she asked me immediately upon answering the phone. “Here’s what you should do.”
She went on to tell me, in detail, how I should sneak out to the London Pride parade, decked out in glitter and rainbows, and, while that sounds nice, the issue with family trips is that while on them, you can never actually escape your family. Even if Shane and I could get out of here, I’d never be brave enough to do something like that.
I tried to get an update on her own family trip, but shockingly, I didn’t get much. I know it’s been hard since it became just her and her mom, staying on the same beach they all went to year after year when she was growing up.
I know this, even though she’s never said it. It’s hard to have a real conversation with her sometimes. Can you really be so close to someone, know everything about them, and still … not know them?
She’s my very, very best friend. But just between you and me, Mr. Wei, I don’t think she knows me either. And that makes me feel lonely.
THIRTEEN
The cork part of my reed makes a squeaking sound as I ease it into my oboe. I close my eyes as I do it, inching it closer and closer to the base until it’s in the right spot. Too far in and the tone will be sharp, too far out and it’ll be flat. Of course, I won’t fully know if it’s the right spot until I play, but after you do it fifty thousand times, you have a pretty good idea of where it should go.
It’s a ritual.
My breathing’s slowed a bit, and I can feel the tension easing throughout my body. I’m shut in this soundproof box, and I couldn’t be more thankful that the practice rooms on the Knightsbridge campus look, sound, and feel the same as the ones back home. This even smells the same—kind of sterile, lightly perfumed by the wood oboe in my hands and the reed near my face.
I place the reed between my lips, and force air through it. A warm sound fills the space, and my fingers pad the keys without my mind expressly giving the order. I’m transported back to my hometown bedroom, practicing runs until my cheeks go numb. I slow down, though, and pull air into my diaphragm.
Though I mock it from time to time, I really do love this instrument. There’s nothing like it. Clarinets don’t have the character; flutes can’t pierce through you in the same way.
As I practice, my mind keeps nudging me back to the cross necklace that’s stuffed into my bag, for some reason. For so long, music was how I escaped religion, escaped feelings of inadequacy and shame, and just got to be myself.
But my oboe playing isn’t too different from a religion of my own: the steady rituals, the inpouring of emotion, the full belief in something more than you. In that way, it’s almost filled that god-shaped void in my heart. I was always there for my religion, but my religion was never there for me.
And I guess I’m still not over it.
But I manage to feel full and find peace here, in these moments, connecting with music. Finding god in my own rituals.
I think back to my duet with Sang, or the jam session in the park. A smile tugs at my lips, breaking my embouchure and pulling my tone sharp. That’s a kind of organized religion too.
A knock at the door shakes my already broken focus, and I jump when I look through the soundproof window.
Dr. Baverstock walks in, and my mind goes flying.
I’m not supposed to be here.
He witnessed the absolute flop of an audition I had last year.
By the caution in his expression,