This is the first of my Seven Days a Week short story collection, and it's only the first installment. I originally planned to post this story as a whole, but I guess I'll just post it as a whole later since I want to know what you guys think of this piece. Enjoy ^^
Oh, and another note, the title may seem a bit odd, but trust me, there's a reason it's the title.
A plume of smoke rose from the dish, lingering in the atmosphere like a volcano’s smoke. Thick, white glaze rolled down the side of the swirl. A stream of drool ran down the corner my chin while a collection of stardust twinkled in Sandy’s eyes.
How delightful. I thought. A treat for the Greats.
With our noses pinned to the surface of the glass, we stared, silently, as the suited customer stabbed a fork into the pastry. Flashing sunlight as it moved, the fork devoured the treat while its owner’s attention was set on the Sunday edition of the paper.
“No!” Sandy and I shrieked. Our hands gripped the window and our cries fogged the glass.
Most people squealed the way we did while obsessing over their favorite soap opera in the comfort of their apartments, a plate of tea and scones at their side table. To Sandy and I, staring at the Violet Café’s customers was a soap opera, or the closest thing to one, anyway.
As usual, a few curious glances directed toward us while the haughtiest of the bunch wrinkled their noses in disgust. We were just street kids to the likes of them; ratty old things covered in filth, clad in apparel from second-rate shops and thrift stores.
“Molly, c’mon! They’re coming!” Sandy tugged on the edge of my knit sweater, her fingers snagging in the yarn weave.
I returned to reality and realized what had happened. Through the panes, a glossy-headed waiter with a look of frustration on his brow marched up the entrance, a red carnation wilting in his breast pocket. Behind him, a woman whose eyes were hidden behind a dark veil smiled contently, her gloved fingers stroking the gold rim of her teacup.
“Go, go, go!” I shoved Sandy from behind and we started sprinting down the sidewalk. Swarms of pedestrians wearing the usual dark coats and shades surged past us like bees. The smoky air of the city was barely breathable through the mass, and the majority of the sun was obscured by everlasting overcast.
I thrust myself through the crowd, raising my arms to shield my face when necessary. My lungs felt heavy, as if pollution were a sand weighing it down with the rest of my chest. I guessed I was near a manufacturing plant. Home was close.
“You still there, Molly?” I heard Sandy call from somewhere in front of me.
Though my eyes were burning red from the fumes and winter’s frost ate at my calves, I picked up my pace.
“I’m here!” I shouted, staggering forward, but saving myself with the help of a stranger’s coattail.
Let’s go, Molly. The faster you move the sooner you can get away from this dump, away from those glares. My palms began to pulse and I jolted past the crowd, toward The Meeting Place, within a few minutes.
#
By the time Sandy arrived, her head hung over her chest, panting like a dog, I already had my arm propped up against The Meeting Place’s structure.
“Where’ve you been?” I rolled my eyes and folded my arms. Sandy lifted herself upright. The corner of her lip raised, revealing a fang.
“How’d ya’ get here so fast, Molls?” She scratched her head, wispy brown tangles snarling into more knots. “Last time I checked, I was the one ahead. Cody got ya’ some Red Bull and you hid em’ in those sleeves of yours?”
I glanced up at the stoop of the building. Behind Sandy, Tom Sr. was hovering over the rusted stair, a collection of bread crumbs and pigeons in his hand. Ever since I was a little girl, the bond between Tom Sr. and the pigeons of New York amazed me. Even when provisions weren’t at hand, the birds would flock to him, much like the underprivileged and deprived that visited him.
Tom Sr. and his children, the ones not in college anyway, ran The Meeting Place, the neighborhood soup kitchen. To my surprise, there were more than just a few New York citizens in need of some good food and shelter. Perhaps that was the inviting aura surrounding Tom Sr., the one that welcomed even the most reclusive of guests. Perhaps something simple like kindness or compassion is what humanity truly looks for, what they really need.
“Nah,” I shook my head, “Cody hasn’t gotten Red Bull for ages. Apparently Monster and Rock Star are what’s flooding the inventory these days.”
Sandy narrowed her eyes at me. “Mhmm, whatever you say, Molly.” She spun around and threw a wave at Tom Sr. before turning back, emerald green eyes glinting with the sun’s ray. Her only beauty. “So whatta’ we gonna’ do ’bout those lovely little cinnamon rolls? We take the B bus every Tuesday just to catch a glimpse of em’, so we might as well do more than look at them.”
“Sandy,” I furrowed my brows at her, “I told you to use proper English when you’re not around Cody and the rest of the Shadies.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She beckoned me with indifference.
“And besides, we can’t afford to eat at Violet’s. Their desserts are like, fifteen dollars minimum, plus tip, plus tea, plus the fact that you need to reserve weeks ahead of time if you’re not one of their gold members!” I threw a fist in the air, animating the frustration that grew within me.
Sandy threw an arm around me and directed my attention toward the cluster of gray clouds. “What do you see?”
“Depressing overcast eating up the sun and shadows rising from the factory tubes, ” I snorted. “The usual around these parts. The Richies put all of the dirty stuff in the same area for a reason: to keep us as far away from their manicured fingers as possible.”
“You can’t say that clouds will box up the sun forever, Molly. It’s gotta shine sometime, doesn’t it?” Sandy asked, optimism leaking through thick, southern accent.
“It probably won’t,” I sighed. “Not around here, at least.”
“You gloomy Gus!” She slapped my forearm, not hard enough for it to inflict any damage. “I’ve seen the dang sun shine before! It’s not a myth like Nessie! It really exists! And sometimes, it shines nonstop for days, weeks even.”
“But you’re from Alabama, Sandy,” I reminded her. “This is New York, the place where only artificial things like billboards, fireworks, and Broadway shed light on the lives of the workers. It’s all a man-made fantasy, and we live on the dark edge of it.”
“Alabama ain’t as far away as you think. Look.” She stabbed a finger at the cluster of clouds masking the sun, and for just one second, I could’ve sworn I saw a ray of light; gold as honey and warm as fresh pie. “So you best be shutting up right now, Molly. There is hope.”
I brushed off Sandy’s arm and shot her a smirk.
“Yeah. I suppose there is.” My smile fell. “Now go on home, Sandy.”
Though something shimmered in her eyes, she threw me a salute before turning on her heel and marching in the other direction.
“What a loon.” I headed down the street and to my apartment complex.
#
“Anyone home?” I called the second I inserted my key. With a single rotation and the sound of a click, the door flew open, the layer of dust sitting on it flying into the air.
My cry echoed through the narrow hallway. Nothing moved. I shrugged it off and tossed my bag on the desk in the living room; the legs of the table buckled, but held up the weight. A stack of mail peeked out from beneath it. I made a mental note to check them later.
The T.V. was left on, the antennas bent in a position different than the previous day. A commercial advertising a talking doll for kids played across the screen.
“How stupid,” I muttered to myself. “Why can’t people use their brains instead of having the object do it all for them? Give a kid a stick and some pebbles and they’d end up more complex than someone who spent their life talking to a robot doll.”
I pressed the power button on the remote and played some classical music on the I-pod stereo in my room. The stereo set was probably my only valuable possession, money-wise. After joining the orchestra in middle school, I set my mind on getting one. An I-pod may be the stereotype item all teenagers have, but I liked to think of it as a close second to listening to a real concert orchestra. Plus, it could play the songs repeatedly and you don’t even have to pay for another ticket.
The way its silver paneling shined through the windowpanes made me long for it, like it did for all spectators. Perhaps the reason for glass walls is to enhance the appeal of an item. The panes always made what lay behind them seem so miraculous, so impossible to obtain. However, the only way to melt the glass barrier is by coughing up enough cash, and cash isn’t something easy to come by.
How rectangles of paper seem so desirable in the eyes of men and why humanity became desperate to a point of insanity for them amuses me. The founders of it had no intention of their idea leading to people going mad to have the more than the man next to them. Greed poisoned us all, but it’s too late now. Until an antidote is found, the poison will taint us, slowly taking over our minds, hearts, and souls like a shadow.
I poked around the cupboards. I snatched a bag of animal crackers from the top shelf before taking a seat at the desk. Shoving a handful of the frosted cookies into my mouth, I started looking through the mail.
Water bill, electricity bill, rent, pizza ad, complimentary beauty magazine, orchestra performance at town hall, ga-what? I picked up the orchestra advertisement from the “not important” pile and examined it. Orchestra performance at the Town Hall, New York, NY. 7 p.m. Friday, the 10th of December. I wrinkled my nose. $140 minimum for a ticket. That’s absurd!
There were a few more envelopes left in the “not read” stack, including a large, manila envelope, but I threw them back on the desk to check out later.
At the end of the hallway on the right-hand side was my bedroom. I ran toward it; sliding on the rug and leaping into the room with enough eagerness to pass for perky. It wasn’t my style, being carefree. The serious, sassy, or cool girl was usually what they labeled me as. No one knew that deep down I wished I could skip along the street with a smile plastered across my face, not caring about anything except that very moment.
Too bad I was a coward, too much of a wimp that I cared about what others thought of me. Clothes, hobbies, personality; they were all based on whatever fit best to my image, and of course, whatever could win scholarships or earn money.
Propped against the wall at my bedside sat my cello, its glossed wood surface concealed and protected by its cover. I hurdled onto my bed, pressed my face to my pillow, and screamed an ear-piercing shrill. It went like that for around thirty seconds, my contained screech making my pillow go deaf and my legs thrashing around as if I were a fish.
“Okay.” I lifted myself from the bed. “I’m ready.”
I stripped the cello from its case, its polished strings gleaming like liquid gold. Carefully, I took hold of the cello, one hand around its neck and the other supporting the lower bout. I carried it out to the balcony, making sure the tail spike didn’t hit any of the potted plants or scrape against the wood.
Now… I settled myself on one of the patio chairs and positioned my cello. One hand on the fingerboard, the other grasping the bow, I stared out at the horizon peeking behind the other apartment complexes. A single ray of light peered through the crack. I smiled.
“This one’s for you Sandy.” I raised my bow toward the fading sky and closed my eyes. “Don‘t let your light die down.” I began.
The world is different when you add music. Chaos calms, nonsense becomes logic, and the impossible becomes possible. Something about the resonance makes the people stop to listen, whether they be kids on the sidewalk playing jump rope, teens texting on their cell phones, or adults caught up in the fast lane. They always listen, their heartstrings can’t help but be strummed, their spirits can’t break away from the chains. They know it’s in them, but most of them just forgot.
Caressing the strings, the bow glided across bridge like a swan through ocean air. Pulsing palms and skillful fingers danced along the fingerboard with pure delight. I hardly noticed that my foot was tapping or that my body was swaying with the melody, I just knew it was…natural. Each note that flew through the air flowed through my veins, their vibrations taking hold of my soul. I didn’t control music, music controlled me.
As my last note gave its way to silence and the final vibration rolled down the concrete, a new sound filled the air.
Clapping?
It was. Nearby pedestrians of all ages clapped their hands with sincere appreciation. People relaxing on their patios, it seemed like the number had doubled, gave a round of applause. Even those teens with their noses caught up in their cells cheered and the hasty adults in their cars honked.
My cheeks began to redden and my body felt hot.
They were listening?
I grabbed the edges of my skirt and curtseyed before returning inside.
Sandy was right. I set my cello against the wall. Maybe I should start being more optimistic.
(To be continued...)
*hands cookie*
Gender:
Points: 4362
Reviews: 263