Page 15 of A Wistful Symphony

In the evenings, the cottage is always crowded.

Nan Olympia sits on the sofa watching Downton Abbey , with Delia polishing her toenails by her side.

An Arctic Monkeys song coming from upstairs tells me Zoe is cooped up in her bedroom, and Mum and Aunt Petra chatter in the kitchen while cooking something that smells like roast beef.

When I lumber by the kitchen door, Mum says dinner will be ready in half an hour. I ask if she could bring a plate to my room. Mum frowns but doesn’t comment. She can tell when I’ve had a bad day.

After my usual long bath, I smuggle in an extra hour of practice to clear my head.

The piano always has a soothing effect on me.

Rach’s Presto is still a daunting beast (damn his abnormally large hands), but it’s slowly getting better.

At least the fortississimos are much clearer than last week.

Perhaps anger and frustration are excellent motivators, after all .

I laugh bitterly at the thought. If that was true, I’d be a virtuoso by now.

Delia enters my room as I’m about to go for another round.

“Are you going to tell Mum what happened today?”

“The canteen?” I take off the headphones. “No. And neither will you.”

“Why? Wasn’t that like a hate crime?” She ties her long walnut hair in a ponytail and sits on my bed.

“Incident at best.” I turn my stool to face her. “Even if, in theory, we can press charges, the police will likely suggest we work it out with the school staff. Who will do nothing, judging by the amount of fucks they gave today.”

“But ….” She claws the blanket and pouts. “Mum can talk to the headteacher.”

“Who would maybe suspend Benson, and he’d come for my throat.”

“Still, we should tell her. She could do something.”

“No, Delia, we shouldn’t. There’s nothing we can do, and it’ll just upset her.”

“Why do you keep treating Mum like she’s made of glass? She should be protecting us, not the other way around.”

I press my lips tight and avert my gaze. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Delia lets out a heavy sigh, and we both fall silent. I know my baby sister only wants to help, but she has no idea how hard this could backfire. Better to keep my head down until the end of the school year.

“You know, this is not going away. Have you seen the pictures?”

“Yeah, Ollie showed me. Benson sent it to some groups, right?”

“Not just that; it’s all over Facebook. Everyone in my class was talking about it.”

My stomach churns, but I try my best not to react. “I’ll figure it out later,” I mutter. “Now piss off. I need to practise, okay?”

“Fine.” She pouts again, getting up. “But remember, you’re not the only one involved. They’re talking shit about Andrew as well.”

Delia leaves me to my much-desired solitude, and I put my headphones back on, determined to erase this whole day with countless rounds of Rachmaninoff.

My fingers stretch on the keys in the placement of the opening cadence, but I don’t move.

I can’t keep my mind off the bloody pictures.

So I do the most stupid thing one could do in such a situation: roll the stool to my laptop and open Facebook.

I don’t think I’ve ever had so many notifications.

Benson posted the photos on the student’s page with a ghost account.

There’s nothing much to the pictures. In one of them we’re kissing, in another your face is hidden in my neck.

The first glance at the comments section, however, squeezes my chest. It’s curious how being protected behind a screen brings out the worst in people.

After a few lines, my head buzzes with static, and I almost shut the darn laptop off before remembering what Delia said. I’m not the only one affected by this.

When the search finds an account under your name, I can’t help smiling. Your profile is minimalist. The description is a quote from Hayao Miyazaki, and the profile picture is taken from a distance, with you looking away from the camera. It rather matches your elusive personality.

To my surprise, the friend request is accepted right away. I type and delete for over a minute, unsure of what to say. This is probably the crappiest time to reach out, but I do it anyway. I can’t leave you alone in this.

Hi, it’s Lowell.

Sorry about the shitstorm.

Hope you’re doing ok.

hey eric

its a drag but I’m fine thanks

not ur fault the guys a dick

Benson has a long-time problem with me.

Lord knows why.

Sorry you got caught up in the mess.

hey chill its alrite

not like I regret it anyways

and now theres pics to remember it

u look cute in em btw

My brows knit. You’re being surprisingly blithe about the whole situation, and judging by your reaction at the party, I’d expect it to affect you more. But the oddity doesn’t stay with me for long. As I reread your last message, my cheeks flush. Should I go for it, like Zoe suggested?

You look good in them as well.

I really liked last Friday.

Wish we could do it again.

whats stopping us?

not another party tho

better stay away from em

how bout the pub?

The Royal Oak?

Haven’t been there much, but it’s cool.

You sure it’s ok after today?

People may stare.

let em I dont mind

when r u free?

I finish practice early on Wednesdays.

Does 7:30 work for you?

super! see ya there ?

I stare at the screen with my mouth slightly open, unwilling to close the tab. No matter how much as I reread our brief exchange, the astounding conclusion remains the same.

Do I actually have a date in two days?