Page 44 of A Wistful Symphony

During our only period apart, I go to the headteacher’s office to discuss your options.

Since your previous records were spotless, if you keep an average score, you can still graduate, but that’s about it.

You’d have to bust your arse on the A-levels for any university to accept you with such a gap on your record.

I doubt you’d bother, since you didn’t even care about coming to this meeting.

It doesn’t prevent me from planting the seed into your head at lunch hour, though.

“Are you studying for finals?” I say when Ollie gets up from the table and leaves us alone for a moment.

“No. Why would I?” You play with the food on your plate, pupils dilated. You took the damn pills this morning.

“Well, if you graduate, I’m sure with your skill you can score a scholarship at some university.”

“What for? Musicians have crappy wages unless you’re a pop star or something.” You shrug. “I need to pay my bills more than I need a degree right now.”

“Alright, then take a gap year to establish yourself, and try it the next. All the more time for you to practise and nail your—”

“Eric.” Your tone is bitter. “Just because something works for you doesn’t mean it works for me.”

“Why not? You have this freakishly wonderful skill, and you used to love your violin so much.”

“Yeah. And maybe it’s time for me to stop dreaming and face reality.”

“Well, you should at least think about it,” I mutter, cutting my chicken with a bit more force than necessary.

“Do you need me to cut that for you?”

“Fuck’s sake, Andrew, it’s my ears that are impaired, not my hands.”

I regret the words as soon as they come out. You chew the inside of your cheek, glance away, and get up from the table. “I’m going to get some dessert.”

I sigh at your retreating. Great. The last thing I need right now is to push you away. I rest the cutlery on the plate, having suddenly lost my appetite, when a voice almost makes the chicken hurl up my throat.

“Had a fight with your cocksucker boyfriend?” Benson sits on the bench in front of me.

That’s it. He’s going to finish what he started. I can’t escape.

“Benson, I’m really not in the mood.” I try to sound casual, but my heart jackrabbits, and I grasp the edge of the seat until my knuckles turn white.

“What do I care?” He leans forwards. “You know what that little prank cost me? My dad roughed me up. Matt spent the night in jail, and his parents moved outta town, and Noah’s parents took him outta this hellhole school so he wouldn’t get a bad rep. All because you couldn’t mind your own business.”

“Me?” I spit, baffled. “I almost went deaf, you psycho. You’re lucky they didn’t put your arse in jail.”

He rests his chin on his palm, fingers over his lips, and says something incomprehensible.

“I can’t understand you if you cover your mouth, moron.”

“I said fuck you, Lowell!” he shouts next to my left ear.

The thundering voice so close to my hearing aid triggers the buzzing, and pain pierces my skull like I’ve never felt before.

I scream and raise a hand to my earlobe, pressing it tight so the throbbing won’t burst my eardrums, still sensitive from the surgery.

It’s like the fireworks, all over again.

Please, don’t let him damage my hearing for good.

I heave and wince, shutting my eyes tight. The horrible buzz is nowhere near fading. “The hell were you thinking? You fucking—”

Before I can finish my sentence, someone tackles Benson to the ground. Tentatively, I open my eyes to see the horrible scene unfolding.

It’s you. Straddling Benson and throwing punches at his face.

Your eyes are crazed, jaw clenched and lips pressed in a fine line as you jab him without mercy. Benson tries to defend himself, but you only grab his wrist and resume punching. Benson’s face is a hot mess. Nose cracked, eyes swollen and turning dangerously black as he gasps for air.

I can’t bear to see this. All this violence suits you like a gruesome Halloween mask on a rosy-cheeked child.

It doesn’t add up. My sweet and caring Andrew wouldn’t be capable of something like this.

Of acting like him . I close my eyes and suck in a breath.

One, two, three times. It must be the drugs making you act this way. It must.

Andrew’s nothing like him.

People gather around us, gawking. Everyone is too shocked to do anything, so I swallow my astonishment and run to your side, still pressing my left ear.

“Andrew, I’m better now. Please, stop this! This isn’t you!”

But your ears are deafer than mine. I grab your shoulder and try to pull you back, but in your deranged state, you yank my hand away and push me to the side. I fall, butt to the ground, grunting in pain, which finally makes you come back to your senses.

“Eric? Gosh, oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Before you can finish, Benson strikes a right-hand hook to your face and a left one to your gut.

The hall inspector appears in the corridor.

I’ve never been so glad to see him in my life.

His loud, authoritative cries resound across the canteen, and the fight parts in an instant.

The circle of swarming people quickly scatters.

Benson is taken to the infirmary while you and I follow the inspector to the headteacher’s office.

We sit in the row of chairs in the waiting room while the hall inspector talks to Headteacher Fischer and explains the whole situation.

The secretary gives us pitying looks and shakes her head.

I sigh and rest my head on the wall while your eyes fix on the fingers you’re fidgeting with.

The high of your rage has worn off, and I hope the one from the pills runs the same course.

“That was unacceptable, Andrew,” I say in a grim tone.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is ragged. “But I was only trying to defend you.”

Avenge me, you mean. Because the drugs turn you into a beast.

“I know.” I inhale, trying not to let my anger and fears get the best of me. “But I won’t stand violence, even if it is for my sake. Do you understand, Andrew?” I turn to face you. “If you ever do that again, we’re done.”

You look deep into my eyes—which you rarely do—and bite your lower lip. “I understand.”

A minute later, Headteacher Fischer calls us in.

He sits by the desk, a bookcase full of tomes and trophies behind him, as we take the only two seats in front of him.

It’s quite a small office for a man in his position.

You sit near the window, facing a distant spot in the courtyard with your bruised fists clenched.

I have no idea what goes on inside your head.

“I can’t believe it. You two had the best records in the school, and now this?” he scolds. “What has got into you?”

You stare at the red on your knuckles while you speak. “I’m sorry, Headteacher. It was all me. Eric had nothing to do with it.”

“Do you care to explain what happened?”

You don’t respond. You don’t even bother looking at him, so I take the lead. “It’s Benson’s fault. He screamed next to my hearing aids. Andrew was only trying to defend me.”

“And yet Benson is in the infirmary, while all you have is a bruise on your cheek, Westcott.” He raises an eyebrow. “It doesn’t add up to me.”

“Come on,” I plead. “You know Benson has been bullying me for over a year. He’s the one responsible for what happened to my hearing. He should be in jail.”

“That’s for the police to handle, not you two lads.” He adjusts his glasses. “I get why you would want to defend your boyfriend, Lowell, but this was a serious incident on school grounds. I need to know every side. Anything to add, Westcott?”

All you do is shrug. The headteacher sighs. “I have no other choice here. I need to call your parents.”

“What? Why?” You turn, exasperated.

“You’re seventeen, Westcott, which means they’re still responsible for you, even if you don’t live under the same roof.” He crosses his arms. “You’re not emancipated, are you?”

You swallow hard and stare at your lap. “No, I’m not.”

“There you have it. Lowell, you’re dismissed. If you don’t need to visit the infirmary, you may go back to your classes.”

I glance your way, not wanting to leave, but you don’t look at me.

“I’ll be waiting outside, okay?” I rest a hand on your shoulder.

You flinch from my touch, and my hand feels terribly empty hovering in the air. Is this your aversion to unwanted touch, or are you resentful about what I said earlier? I can’t tell, but it doesn’t matter. It guts me either way.

Minutes are like hours on that uncomfortable chair in front of the headteacher’s office.

I fear what will happen to you. Could your parents force you to come back home until your eighteenth birthday?

And what would that mean to you, to live under that rotten roof, under the tutelage of your bigot father?

You’re so on edge, Andrew. The last thing you need right now is that sort of push.

I tap my feet on the ground, twisting fingers on my lap to prevent myself from scratching the corner of my nail. I wish with every inch of willpower that your mother will be the one who walks those corridors, that somehow she takes you in her arms and makes everything better.

I couldn’t be more wrong.

My throat dries when Reverend Westcott’s shiny Oxfords echo in the corridor.

A stern figure, he is. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his greyish-blond hair combed back.

He doesn’t even glance at me before entering the headteacher’s office, which I’m grateful for, because his eyes can cut through steel.

It takes long. Too long. I try to shadow-play the Gymnopédie you put on in the car our first day back, but the melody eludes me. The cadences are all jumbled and broken in my mind, cut through with a single thought repeating itself in desperate warning.

Andrew is not safe.

At last, you two leave the room. I jump up from my chair and mean to say something, but your father’s icy voice is faster than mine. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough for Andrew’s reputation? Move along, lad.”

My eyes seek yours, searching for any kind of reaction, but your gaze is fixed to the ground. I’m left here, heart sore and throat tight, as you follow that man through the corridors.

As soon as you curve to the right, my legs come alive, and I sprint towards you both. When I get to the next corridor, however, your conversation freezes me in place.

“Ridiculous. Pulling a scene like that all because of that wretched boy,” Reverend Westcott huffs. “Do you enjoy humiliating me and dragging our name in the mud, you ungrateful brat?”

“No, sir,” you utter, still facing the ground.

“I only came because I’m legally obligated to, but may this be the last time I’m called to the school because of you, Andrew.

” He shakes his head. “Making your mother all fidgety, for heaven’s sake.

You know Claire has fragile nerves. And don’t even think of showing your face at our home.

This doesn’t mean you’re part of this family again. ”

“Why would I ever want to go back to your fucking family?”

The back of your father’s hand strikes your cheek so hard I can almost hear the slap.

“Don’t you ever talk to me like that, boy,” he spits, before leaving you in the hallway.

You raise your palm to the bruise and remain silent, not at all surprised by your father’s violence. He was lucky enough to do it at a blind spot on our CCTV, and clever enough to hit you right on top of Benson’s punch, so it wouldn’t leave an extra mark.

How many bruises have you covered over the years?

With gritted teeth, I clench my fists until my nails—short as they are—threaten to cut through my skin. I can’t see someone go through this. Not again. You were already free from that house, from that man’s grip and the miasma of his bigotry. I can’t watch you fall right back into his claws.

All because of me.

“Andrew.” I come closer, not sure of how I might soothe your many wounds. But you turn your back on me and cross the front entrance without saying a word.

The next day, you never show up at school.