Page 43 of A Wistful Symphony

Comeback Impromptu

I ’ ve been locked in the bathroom for the past half an hour, sitting on the floor and staring at the patterned tiles on the walls.

Today I go back to school, something I’m not looking forward to at all.

It’s the first day I’ll face Benson and his minions after the day of the hearing, and I sweat at the very thought.

The hearing went as predictably as possible.

They pleaded guilty. As underage first-time offenders, a referral order was imposed on them.

They officially apologised—which was as vindicating as it was pointless.

Mum required financial reparation and combining the amount from all three of them, we could buy better hearing aids.

That was a pleasant silver lining. They were also sentenced to a rehabilitation programme and community service for six months, and if they lay so much as a fingernail on me again, it will mean juvie.

Seems fair, from a logical perspective, but I don’t feel compensated in the least. I keep thinking, all the bloody time, that a piece of paper would never stop Benson if he wanted to get even. He’s deranged enough to do that.

You’ll be there with me, though, the only reason I’ve found a shred of courage to face him at school. Mum spoke to the headteacher and the rest of the board, and they made an exception based on your previous spotless record. That’s the single upside.

All I have to do is get up and walk out the door.

“Honey?” Mum talks on the other side of the locked bathroom, which makes it extra hard for me to understand her. “Andrew is waiting for you.”

“I’ll be right there,” I shout, but don’t move. My body drags me down, weighing a ton, and my palms are clammy no matter how many times I wash them.

Deep breaths, Eric.

In front of the tiny garden gate, you lean against your shiny black SUV and gaze at some distant point on the empty road.

The school uniform sits awkwardly on your body, like something that doesn’t belong anymore, and your fingers curl around your tie to loosen it.

I’m not sure how much time I took to get from the bathroom to the front door, but you don’t complain. You never do.

You open the door to the passenger seat for me. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” I attempt a laugh that comes out close to a snort.

“Have a great day, you two.” Mum waves as the car makes its way down the country road.

We spend the entire ride in a strange silence, lulled by Satie’s slow and soft notes coming from the stereo.

Not your usual choice. You prefer sturdier pieces, and I wonder if you put Gymnopédie on deliberately to calm me down.

I’ve been grasping the fabric on my thighs for some time, and my trousers are now a crumpled mess.

Benson will come for you again if your trousers are creased , my mind lies, and I hastily smooth the fabric to make the thought go away.

You park somewhere far in the schoolyard and turn to me. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“No.”

“We can turn around, you know. Spend the day at my flat and try again tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “It won’t be easier tomorrow. Might as well do it already.”

Even so, I can’t gather the strength to move. Sighing, you leave the car and come around to open my door. I stare from your face to your forearm, raised and waiting for mine.

“I’ve got you,” you say with a reassuring smile.

I take your arm and get up.

As soon as we cross the front gates, all eyes are on us.

I’m not sure what catches everyone’s attention the most: me coming back to school, the brand-new hearing aids, you—who haven’t shown up in months—by my side, or our arms locked around each other’s as we walk through the halls.

Benson is nowhere in sight, but I still grasp your sleeve as hard as I can until we reach the classroom.

The teacher doesn’t make a fuss and shows us to our seats.

Benson is already in class, in his usual place at the back.

His cheeks turn red, and he immediately looks away.

He won’t bother me. He can’t bother me. As I walk to my usual desk and you take the vacant one by my side, I’m ready to bury this whole matter six feet under.

For once, I want to drown in nothing but English literature.

Concentrating is hard, however. Every time Mr Peterson turns his back to us, I miss some of what he’s saying.

Not having the visual aid of his mouth turns out to be a major handicap.

You’re vigilant by my side, eyes hovering from my desk to the front of the classroom.

Noticing my struggles, you hand me a note asking if I want you to dictate what he’s saying.

I hate to be that kind of burden but end up agreeing.

“Lowell, Westcott, quit that gibberish at the back,” Mr Peterson chides.

“I’m sorry, Mr Peterson.” You get up, making all colour flee from my face.

“But Eric didn’t understand what you were saying, so I was repeating it to him.

You know, because of his ‘accident.’” You purposely throw in the air quotes, making our professor clear his throat awkwardly while Benson pulls a sour face a few seats away.

“Alright. But keep the volume down, so it won’t disturb the other students. Lowell, is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?”

“Well,” I say, wanting to bury my head in the ground, “if you face forward when you speak, it’s easier to read your lips and mix it together with the sound, sir.”

He nods, and we carry on with the class.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper when you turn to me once again.

“Why not? You’ll have an easier time.”

“Yeah, and everyone is staring at me. Benson included.” I gulp and throw a quick glance behind me.

“Don’t worry. He wouldn’t dare come near you again. And if he does, I’m here with you.”

“Let’s hope so,” I mutter.

Mr Peterson raises his voice again. “Boys, what did I say about volume?”

“Sorry, Mr Peterson,” we answer in unison.

The rest of the classes go by without incident.

You’re always around me, asking if I need help and throwing glances and notes every time I seem to struggle with something.

I appreciate your efforts, but to be honest, it’s unnerving.

All I want is to go through my last days of school unnoticed, do my best with the hearing aids—which are a comfortable addition by now, like a pair of glasses—and to forget this whole thing ever happened. Why can’t you let me?

At lunch hour, Ollie, Zoe and Shelley gather around us at the table, and I’m pleased the subject of our talk goes nowhere near the happenings of the Spring Festival or the weeks that followed.

Soon, a discussion about ‘what’s the album of the year so far’ starts, and Ollie gets in a heated argument with Shelley when she calls Bastille’s Bad Blood ‘commercial crap.’ This quarrel is so trivial, it’s actually fun.

I need some sense of normalcy in my life.

“Do you want me to fetch a drink for you?” you ask, and just like that, normality vanishes.

“I’m good. I’ll go to the queue later.”

“No worries, I’m going now. I can fetch yours as well. Orange or apple juice?”

“I don’t know.” I try to smile. “Apple, I guess.”

Ollie glances from me to your distant form with a knowing grin dancing on his thin lips. “He’s being quite the gentleman after the disappearing act he pulled at the hospital, huh?”

“Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”

“Sure thing. I just figured all this babysitting is annoying you.”

“Uh-hum,” I mutter, just in time for the corner of my eye to burn with Benson’s death glare two tables away. Talbot and Spencer aren’t with him. “Hey, Benson is all alone back there. His minions finally noticed what an idiot he is?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Shelley cuts in.

“Babe,” Zoe rebukes.

“Oops, sorry, Eric. Anyway, Matt and Noah transferred schools. I heard Matt’s family moved out of town so he’d be away from ‘bad influences.’ Jamie’s got nothing now.”

“Well, all the better,” Zoe says. “That wanker sure deserved a whole lot more.”

“Definitely,” I agree. We deem the matter settled, and the conversation topic changes when you come back with our lunch.

The rest of the week goes by as a repetition of the first day back to school.

You pick me up early in the morning. We walk the halls together to our classroom; have lunch with Ollie, Zoe and Shelley; watch some more classes; and then you take me to the performing arts building, where you watch me practise my audition’s repertoire until it’s time for you to drive me home.

Your excessive care remains the same. Days of putting up with you dictating my lessons, of you asking me if I need you to repeat things, if the place is too loud, if the buzzing in my ears is better, if I’m in any pain.

Sometimes I want to scream and bid you to stop all the fussing, but I understand where this is coming from.

Guilt is one powerful motivator.

I suck it up and say nothing. You’re troubling yourself with my wellbeing, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful. Besides, you came back to school just because of me, and I fear antagonising you might make you drop out for good.

Your future worries me, Andrew. You’ve stopped playing your violin altogether and have been taking pills quite often—sometimes even at school.

Lately, it seems you’ve only been living for my sake, and it can’t be healthy.

I want you to have a goal. To have dreams. To find some happiness in your life that doesn’t have to do with me.

Something other than taking painkillers like Skittles.