The wheels of the writer go round and round.
Round and round.
Round and round.
The wheels of the writer go round and round
Early in the morning.
She shook her head. Why was the tune from a stupid nursery rhyme whirling through her mind like an evil dervish?
Oh, right. Because her composition was due tomorrow. The one she’d been assigned to complete with Davin, the hottest guy in the class, and this was their final time in the practice room. And he wasn’t here. Again.
Because why would he show up to work with her? She was the girl who lost her contacts the second week of school. The one whose mom said she could have a new pair for Christmas. Which was still six weeks away. The one whose spare glasses looked like something a cartoon owl wore.
And the constant rain in Oregon made her naturally curly hair frizz. So she looked like a fluff-headed throwback to the 80s. Wasn’t retro a thing? Apparently, only certain aspects of it. She could claim she hadn’t gained the freshmen fifteen. In fact, she’d probably lost a bit of weight if her favorite jeans were an indicator.
Not that a few pounds would make her slim. Nope. She had what her dad called an “athletic” build. Of course, he was a former All-American linebacker who sold sporting goods, so he could carry an extra thirty pounds of muscle in all the right places. She just happened to have the haunches of an ox and the chest of a duckling. Or whatever animal would wear a B-cup bra.
She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. Her fingers stroked the ivories of the piano in front of her, naturally moving through the scales. The overused studio had seen better days, and a few of the keys were off but only by a little bit. Someone who didn’t have perfect pitch wouldn’t notice. To her, those notes grated on the nerve endings beneath her molars, the proverbial fingernails on a chalkboard.
They even had a few of those in the composition classrooms. So, yes, Mrs. Z., it was a meaningful metaphor. Stupid Writing 221. She’d come to Fox for the musical program, to work with an award-winning composer and get her degree in musical composition. On the books, she was a sophomore because taking college credit classes was something she could do when she wasn’t playing softball.
And she hadn’t been good enough at softball to land a full-ride scholarship to the PAC12 school of her dreams. But she’d played for the music department here, and they’d given her a generous scholarship. The guaranteed student loans from Uncle Sam covered the rest.
Her fingers moved into a favorite Chopin concerto. She could relate to the melancholy of the piece.
The campus slogan was “Be Known.” But she wasn’t. Not really. She had a few friends in her dorm and a couple in the composition program, but she hadn’t really connected with anyone. Most held her at arm’s length because her mom was Islamic. Her dad didn’t practice religion, and Maya had no use for it. None. Why would she?
But everything about this school was Christian. Especially the arguments in the world religions class she was taking.
People were nice, sure, but she felt a bit judged by them. Uncertain how they would feel if they knew her mother attended the daily prayers at the mosque in South LA.
A throat cleared. Her heart stalled and her fingers froze. Her wrists crashed onto the keys in a cacophony of dissonance. She cringed away, eyes flying open as she whirled toward the sound, nearly scooting herself onto the floor.
Devan Good stood before her in all his glory. Brown hair raked across his shoulders. Coffee bean eyes stared out from his olive complected skin. At this close range, a spackling of acne on his forehead ruined the perfect portrait of him. So Dorian Gray was human after all.
He flashed the grin that every girl sighed over.
Oh, yes. She was done for. It would have been better to complete the project solo.
It isn’t really “complete” but I’d love to hear your thoughts. Would you read on?