Jaime Preciado and the Mighty Ding

It was later than I had thought. I guess people lose track of time when it comes to these types of things, like playing music. In my case, I was listening to some OM&M with my eyes closed and thoughts of melodies coursing in my blood.

Mr. Knight was our band director here. He was a pretty chill guy that we called, “Sir Knight” a lot. He knew about my family, how my dad had left me as a kid and my mom was struggling a lot with trying to find a job.

We pretty much lived in a ghetto neighborhood. It wasn’t the best, but not the worst, I guess. One time a guy threatened me with a knife. I knew he wasn’t serious because the knife still had butter on it.

Yeah, we had some drunk people on the street.

Right now, I wasn’t home. It was 8:58 at night and Mr. Knight had left an hour ago. Teachers technically weren’t supposed to leave students alone, but he could trust me. It’s not like I could roll a two hundred pound marimba with to a chop shop.

I opened my eyes and scribbled in my song writing journal. It was filled to the brim with poems and lyrics. My brain was clear and focused when other people weren’t around. I guess I’m pretty antisocial. People were always making fun of my speech disorder and how I could only answer in one word. I mean, it’s a doorbell sound, so I was called a variety of names and teased through my childhood.

It’s not that I don’t hate people. I just feel better when they’re not around.

So as I wrote, I listened, and I thought, I became more like a person and less like that antisocial child who seems to live in the band hall and plays piano by herself. Speaking of piano, I stood up and walked into the hall. The band hall was swarmed with a rush of cool air from the open back door. I kept it propped open a crack just to let the cool air in. Down the hall, around the corner, and in the furthest corner of the school, I entered the Echo Chamber. It was our little practice room for band kids. Since we were the furthest part of the building in a corner people rarely visit, we inherited this little spot. Inside was a variety of instruments, but my favorite was the baby grand piano.

With keys as sweet as an expired granny smith apple, but an outside as beautiful as a rotting corpse, it smelled like death and sounded (slightly) better than that.

I sat down at the piano, taking in its beauty. This was my love, my life. Music is who I’m married to. Nobody would take a stupid, one worded girl, but music would gladly take me in. If I could talk to music, I would never tell it to eat an orange. I wouldn’t subject it to that insult. Music is my soul mate. Humans, not so much.

They say you can’t put a price tag on human love, but if I could, I would wait until it was on sale.

Upon contemplating those thoughts, I settled my fingers on the keys. I would play what I couldn’t speak. So I chose a sad, slightly depressed tune. Hmm…how about Remembering Sunday? Yes, that would do. It was about love, lost, and then giving up. You know what I think when I feel like something’s gone bad and I want to give up?

I think life just gave us a bad batch of lemons and so I take that sour lemon, and go squirt someone in the eye. It always makes me feel better to see them dancing around like a headless chicken.

That, and I drive around in my car, throwing skittle out the window at passing runners, and then tossing a paper airplane at them that reads, “TASTE THE RAINBOW!”

If I can’t speak, I might as well poke ‘em in the eye with skittles and paper projectiles.

Anyways, I brought my fingers to the keys. They lightly danced around, like little, violent, slightly sad, ballerinas. The lights were off since I felt it would better lighten (ahem, darken) the mood. It would be better for the song, basically.

So I mouthed along to the song. I can form words, but they’d never actually be sounded.

“Ding.” I spoke hopelessly at the end of the piece. I heard a slight noise from the hallway, but ignored it. It might as well be a big gust of wind.

I started to play Stay Away From My Friends by one of my favorite bands. They were always so hopeful and inspiring. I felt the arpeggios easily trickle down the keys as I maneuvered my hands to fit the board.

My mind wandered in this song. I was lucky to have a friend such as Autumn. She was the only one who understood and didn’t look at me as a freak. I think that’s really restricting me from getting friends. I was perfectly content with my blue haired best friend and I didn’t want any more odd stares from girls trying to talk to me or boys attempting to flirt.

They all never stay around long enough for me to explain.

But you know what? Haters. Gonna. Hate.

Imma just play piano now!

So as I finished up my song, I was snapped out of my trance by a man clapping. I nearly shrieked and jumped from my piano bench. The outline of a man leaning against the doorframe appeared in my vision. He was casually standing there. The lights flickered on and I grabbed my backpack, mind numb from the sight.

Jaime Preciado was standing in the doorway.

Notes