photo by Tadas Mikuckis www.unsplash.com
The following story by alum Joshua Martin ’16 won Honorable Mention for Fiction in Rider University’s annual national High School Writing Contest, and is under consideration for publication in the Ride literary magazine, Venture.
Clair de Lune
If there were only one word to describe Shemar Prospect, people might say “genius,” “a natural” or—after his father, the late James Prospect—“prodigy.” But to me, one word wasn’t enough. Even when the world hated him for his sudden disappearance from the music scene, he remained my friend.
On his 17th birthday, I expected to go to his house to celebrate, but the buzz of my cellphone told me otherwise. “MEET ME AT MY FATHER’S OLD CONCERT HALL IN 1O MINS. GO TO THE BACK. –SHEMAR.”
Struck with curiosity and tempted by the hues of the autumn leaves in the evening sun, I started walking. Halfway to Prospect Hall, it dawned on me that Shemar had asked to meet in a place he’d been avoiding, a place I hadn’t seen for years. Memories filled my head and the strange warmth they carried turned my steady pace into a jog and then a full out run. I wanted to see if he’d finally returned.
Breathless, I reached the back door, welcomed by the pleasant sound of the piano. Emotion brought heat to my skin. “He’s back,” I whispered to myself before opening the door. I expected the vibrant Shemar to greet me with that childish smile he always used to wear.
He was on the polished wooden stage, playing the classic black piano as if for an audience, though the greyish-blue sea of chairs was empty. I watched as his long fingers flew towards the next keys in the melody, attacking it with soft precision. The music was beautiful, so why did it sound like a cry of torment?
I wanted to go closer, but the melody left me staring at those overcast eyes, so downcast no light shone through. The grayish bags under his eyelids suggested lack of sleep and his thin frame gave the impression he wasn’t eating well either.
“Claire, you made it,” he said, and stopped playing. He placarded on a smile.
Lost for words, I muttered, “Yeah.”
He chuckled. “You look surprised.”
“Of course I’m surprised. I haven’t seen you come here since like, forever.” I walked towards him.
“Yeah, it’s been awhile,” he said nonchalantly.
“A long while,” I said. “But I see you haven’t lost your touch. What’s that song you were playing?”
He stood up as if to stretch, but changed his mind. “Clair De Lune. My father played it as a lullaby when I was kid.”
Those words pierced me. I choked back the thought of him even mentioning his father.
“I’ve decided something, Claire.”
I waited.
“I’m making it official. I’m not going back to piano.” His distant gaze matched mine. The heartache on his face made my insides throb. I wanted the real Shemar back, the one who clowned around just to see people smile, who had to be scolded for spending all night tapping away at the piano, the one who was able to take my gray moments and turn them into something colorful.
“That’s ridiculous. You just need time.” The words felt heavy.
“No, I can’t go back.”
“But you were just—”
“That didn’t count.”
“You’re a genius. You can’t stop.”
“Don’t give me that—”
“Play it again,” I said without sympathy.
“You don’t get it. I can’t hear the notes anymore.” He shrank down to the piano bench, hot tears streaming down his face. “No matter how I try. Ever since—”
My mind raced but no words came. I listened to his hushed sobs.
He wiped his face. “I just want to disappear, forget about all this.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s how I feel.”
“What about me? How do you think I’ll feel if you disappear?”
“Claire, I—”
“You love the piano. That’s why you came here. You can’t quit. Don’t let what happened bring you down.” Tension thickened the air. It wasn’t like us to be so serious with each other.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “You hungry?”
“I guess I could eat something,” I replied. I grabbed my stuff and headed towards the back entrance, waiting by the door for Shemar to turn off the lights and lock up behind us.
The gentle glow of the moon hung over our heads as we walked towards the diner.
“It’s almost winter,” he said as he rubbed his hands together. He seemed more like himself now.
“Shemar, you know you’re not responsible for the accident, right?”
His long pause was broken by a sigh.
“Sometimes kids feel like everything’s their fault, but that doesn’t mean—”
“He died while I was performing.”
“Exactly. How could you have prevented—”
“Originally he told me he couldn’t make it to see me play, and I remember being so sad. He taught me piano, you know. I wanted to be as good as him. But on the day of the recital, he called and said he’d gotten off work early and was heading over. I was so happy.” He choked on his words. “I told him to hurry up.”
“Shemar, that doesn’t mean—”
“Ever since that night when I try to play, I just can’t hear it anymore.” The look on his face suggested he wanted to cry, but he fought it back. “Do you know what Clair de Lune means?”
“You’d think I would, but no.”
His soft smile made the air around us a little warmer, defrosting the sorrow that clung to our hearts.
“It means grayish-blue or green but usually blue, like the dusk right now.” We both looked towards the sky. The moon’s glow shone pale blue, partly covered by dark grey clouds.
“That’s how I feel now when I play: greyish-blue, a sky caught between day and night, me, caught between. I don’t want to stop playing, but when I feel like this—”
“So let your feelings help you, Shemar. The keys can convey things you can’t say.”
“Maybe,” he said, and looked up at the moon.
We neared the diner. The aroma of food made my stomach rumble. “I almost forgot,” I said. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks,” he said with the familiar childish smile I’d missed seeing. “Let’s eat.”