Just the Way You Are

It was a hot, sunny day when I picked up my daughter from school and drove down the scorched road with the air conditioner on full blast. The national public radio was booming about the outcome of the recent gubernatorial election. Overly excited that for once, the open-minded candidate I had supported actually won, I bumped the knob in the wrong direction, setting it to some jazz channel. Annoyed by the sensitive dial in my 1987 Mercedes clunker, I readied my thumb and forefinger to try and adjust the tuner when I heard the opening notes of a familiar song. As I pulled in the driveway, my daughter went sprinting inside to gobble down the celery and peanut butter snacks Andy always had out for her, and I waited, door open, one leg out, eyes closed, letting the song rinse over me.
***
It was seven in the morning when I awoke to my mom screaming the living hell out of our new house, “It’s your first day of middle school, and are planning on being late?” I jumped out of bed, shins knocking against the half-open moving boxes spewing my belongings across the room, and rummaged for my favorite orange polo shirt. After pulling my arm through the sleeve as I skidded down the stairs, I hastily poured myself a bowl of honey nut cheerios and slurped it down just as the bus pulled up. On the ride, I pondered all that had happened over the past two weeks. We had moved from a tiny fixer-upper in Armonk, New York to a two-story mansion in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. My eyes were still swollen from crying over all the people I had left behind, the sound of the train huffing in to the station, the summer afternoons spent fishing at Wampus Lake. My two best friends, Lindsay and Emily, had promised to write to me. I sat alone, caught up in my reverie as I stared out the window at the manicured lawns.
My heart was thumping as I entered the classroom. The kids looked not only unfamiliar, but also mean, the type of kids who probably wouldn’t let me sit at their lunch tables in a few hours. Just as I tried to seek refuge in the back, the teacher tugged me by the sleeve and escorted me to the front with her hand on my shoulder.
“Good morning class. There has been a welcome addition to our school. His name is Sebastian Angus and he just moved here from New York. Please give a warm round of applause.” She patted me on the upper back and puffed her cheeks into a smile. I can’t even count the number of times I went through that same ordeal over the course of the day.
By the time I got to my 6th period music class, held in a small room with a few pianos and organs, I expected the big, burly teacher that looked like Santa Claus to force my introduction to the dozen or so kids filing into their seats. After writing “Mr. Burton,” on the easel chalkboard in slanted capital letters, the teacher instead suggested that I perform a welcoming tune for the class. Having played the piano for almost eight years, I eagerly stood up, slid onto the bench and erupted in the opening notes of my all-time favorite, Billy Joel’s “Just the Way you Are.” Most giggled and frowned at the old, melancholic tune, except for the tall, sandy-blonde boy in the front row next to my empty seat.
As I slinked back with much less confidence than I’d had only moments before, I lowered my head to avoid eye contact. Leaning close to my ear, the boy whispered, “That song is fantastic. Are you a fan of Joel?”
I replied, “Are you kidding? I’ve collected every single one of his albums since 3rd grade.”
After class, Mr. Burton called me over to his desk. “Sebastian, I am seriously impressed by your musical talent. The boy that sat on your right, John Williams, is another excellent pianist. For our upcoming music festival, how do you feel about playing a duet? It would be a great opportunity for you to meet new people.”
“Um… I co-could tr-tr-try, Mr. Burton…”
“All right, I expect good results from the two of you. Why don’t you touch base with him to figure out your song selection.”
From that day onward, John and I met after school to practice Billy Joel’s “Just the Way you Are.” Never having played duets, we frequently ended in pure frustration.
“This is a C Minor Scale! What on earth are you…”
“No you dumbass, it’s D Minor. You know how to count flats, right?”
“By the way, your chord’s out of pitch.”
“It’s supposed to sound like that.”
As our notes finally started to harmonize, so, too, did our personalities. Accusations finally gave way to friendly conversation.
“Is your family Jewish? Mine is.”
“No, we go to church.”
“Why did you come to Wisconsin? This place is a slum compared to the grandeur of New York!”
“Well, it was not my choice, but my father’s job…”
Sometimes we got into pretty heated discussions on politics and economics.
“Our president’s a conservative moron. He undoes universal healthcare, removes gas guzzling taxes…”
“People who worked hard should receive what they deserve and restrictions shouldn’t be imposed…”
“You’re from New York. How are you not more liberal?”
I laughed. He had a point.
He became the first friend I had made since I came to Wisconsin. We practiced and talked from afternoon to evening, and afterwards, John taught me how to play first-person-shooter games on the playstation 3 in his dingy basement.
It was pretty unexpected when things started going in the wrong direction just three days before the music festival. We were practicing in the music room, playing the piece for a final time when John’s hand touched mine for an instant while he was trying to hit the high notes. I could feel my heart pounding like a machine gun and my face becoming cherry red. I realized I had completely messed up on the scale as my light-headedness passed away.
“What’s wrong? Is the room too hot?” John asked.
“No, it’s ju-just that I drank too much monster energy today,” I stammered.
So we started all over again, determined to properly execute the verse. I concentrated as much as I could, but as John looked at me for the cue, I suddenly felt my cheeks flush red once again. I pounded the piano in frustration and embarrassment and ran out of John’s sight before he could figure out what had just happened.
That night, I couldn’t help but think about the moments that we had spent together, his smooth, silky face, his brilliant eyes, his mesmerizing voice. I knew that these emotions were not appropriate, or so I had been taught in Sunday school, but I just couldn’t help but wait for the next day to come.
As school ended as usual, I strolled down the stairs in a drug-like trance, empowered by a force that I couldn’t resist. As the door opened, I knew this was it. This was the moment that I had dreamt of the previous night. This was the moment I had been waiting for all my life. This was the moment something would happen. I sat down next to him, and we started playing the piece as usual. And as the piece ended, I instinctively turn towards John, for a moment that seemed like an eternity, drew upon his face and almost made contact. Suddenly, a blow knocked me out of my trance. I rolled over the floor in excruciating pain as I realized that it was John who had kicked me. In embarrassment at my stupid decision, I stayed there as he cussed me out.
The next day as I entered the hallway, I felt everybody glancing at me and gossiping. I knew the word had spread about my act in the music room yesterday. Wherever I moved, people propelled themselves away from me in disgust. I didn’t know how time passed by but I found myself in music class with Mr. Burton and John. I wouldn’t dare look at John’s face but sat there as if I were a prisoner.
John didn’t show up on festival day. I never really expected him to perform alongside me after the incident. But I wanted to finish the song that we had started and show him that I was still here and nothing had changed.
***
As the notes came to an end in that old Mercedes, I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. Andy was standing on the front porch, our daughter, her face caked in peanut butter, in his arms.