I stood outside the daunting, perfectly symmetrical structure of a home in an affluent neighborhood. I tugged down the bottom of my itchy plaid uniform skirt and adjusted my collared shirt before moving my hand to gently knock on the door BUT then…
My phone vibrated and I jumped, “shit I thought I turned you off.”
I put down my viola case slowly, so it wouldn’t crack against the cold granite door mat, and looked around the stark front yard. I pulled the phone to my ear.
“Did the payment go through?” I said. “Dad said it did, so just go on in and if he says anything tell him to call me,” my mother responded with a shaky voice. I sighed and took a deep breath.
“Sweetheart, there’s nothing to worry about. Have a great lesson and call me after. I love you.”
“Okay, I love you,” I muffled and hung up.
I collected myself and knocked on the door.
The door opens and Mr. Fields was standing there. His austere disposition never failed to put me on edge. I gulped down on my anxiety and when he turned, implying I follow him in, I nudged my jittery left leg with hopes he wouldn’t notice.
His voice was deep paired with an intoxicating slow cadence. “Come in Miss King,” he said.
I trailed behind him into the foyer, and an assortment of pristine string instruments stood on display, carrying my viola case. I had done this walk into my lessons countless times before, “why doesn’t it get any less jarring?” I thought to myself as we turned into his “music room” also known as the study. Mr. Fields had this jerky breathing, the tick that plays in my nightmares.
The sound of someone pushing air through gritted teeth…add it to the list of oddities under his belt. Everything about him was daunting but who am I, or anyone for that matter, to question the genius…
In the study, a gold sheet music stand sits in between two brown leather, facing, sofas. A grandiose fireplace creates a musk. A small layer of sweat above my lip is forming.
I set down my viola case on one of the sofas. It falls over, thudding onto the beautiful mahogany floors…
Frantically, I pick it up and apologize profusely, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry.”
“Your leg, stop moving it,” he said intently.
My nervous quivering only increased, “I just want to be better than last time sir.”
“You will be better. Let’s get to it,” he said while making himself comfortable on the opposing sofa.
As usual, I pulled my viola to my shoulder and rested my chin. I began to play and shut my eyes.
“Posture…Miss King” he said. I opened my eyes to shift my shoulders back and saw
Mr. Fields, tightened his grip, moving up and down the armrest of the sofa.
I continued to play, seemingly perfect when a drop of sweat fell from my chin and onto my white blouse.
When I’m playing, locked in on the music, I feel at ease. My leg stopped shaking but abruptly, Mr. Fields and his jerky breathing interrupted, “STOP!” he said. “WHY must you continue to mess that note up…”
My jaw clenched, “I’m trying Sir, I’m trying so hard.”
Mr. Fields said with eery monotone, “you may be able to lie to yourself Miss King, but not to me.”
He stands up and grabs a long remote, the massive television above the fireplace turns on and he points to it.
A VHS, home video type movie begins to play. Mr. Fields records all of his lessons, understandably so, it comes with the lesson package. So we can watch ourselves back, but sometimes I feel like he is almost aroused when he plays back “the ones” as I refer to them. The “ones” are the young prodigies who have gone on to ultimate success. A part of me gets it. I also get this tingly feeling of desire pumping through my body. One day…I may get there. Playing for hundreds, thousands of people who appreciate the music. Plus the hopes to repair the financial pit I’ve put my parents into being Mr. Fields’ next star pupil. At least that’s what I told myself.
I watched politely until I realized this was a video that wasn’t one of the “ones” I had seen time and time again….The young woman looked like me…she must have gone to Saint Anthony’s as well…judging by her long plaid skirt and white collared blouse. She had a real spunk to her, pink hair, and a treble clef tattoo with a small heart next to it above her hip. The bottom of the blouse was tied into a crop top of sorts…Mr. Fields had strict rules, thus, I was shocked and somewhat appalled by her appearance. I spent a pretty penny on a certain hair gel he recommended to keep my hair knot tight. Being polished was a part of becoming “your highest self” he always said.
She was exquisite, she played flawlessly, and Mr. Fields sat back down, leaning back, orgasmically gazing at the young girl on the screen. She was the antithesis of everything I was, calm, collected, and confident playing her viola.
“That is how you hit that note. Do you see? Do you feel it? You must feel it” he finally opened his eyes. I nodded, “Yes, Sir.” I took a deep breath before another torturous attempt.