quasi una fantasia

Quasi una fantasia

"Hey I think I left my bag in class."

"Get out of here."

"No seriously I did."

"Hurry up and get it."

"Alright can you just chill here for a second?"

"It's cold out here, bro."

"Don't worry, I won't be long."

**

It's the kind of class that starts at sunset, so by now it is dark, and the moonlight streams in from the windows like airy quicksilver. Motes of dust float in its shears like pixies waltzing in tune to the night. The stage, lit by the moon, seems a pond in some fairy tale forest, full of magic and mystery and a promise that could send you softly into a never-ending sleep, never to wake but caught in a dream that did not want you to.

She is playing when he walks in. Sitting there, playing. All alone. Softly and sweetly and in no rush to be anywhere at all, just there. Playing.

He enters in a light jog, but as he continues down the auditorium steps his feet slow, as if moving against the tide, until they stop altogether.

White dress tickling her knees. Auburn hair. Eyes half-closed in a dreamy state. Her fingers are moving with the lazy grace of butterfly wings and each touch of the key makes a sound that seems to strike him somewhere deep inside and then it echoes, and its everywhere. The song is slow and soft and the melody is somewhere between a lover's croon and a lullaby. It is quiet, but there is an intensity to it, like every note matters. Like every single one is something precious she lets go of, a child sent out into the world.

He finds himself thinking these poetic things and he's flabbergasted. He hasn't thought up of a single poetic thing in his life. Heck, he's barely graduated past Generally Literate. But something's happening up there that he can't understand, so he is thinking of words that can best explain what he feeling. Making sense of his emotions, perhaps. Was that poetry?

He does not know. He would have thought more about it if the girl didn't hit a note all the way in the eastern hemisphere that had a tendency to, in any given circumstance, spark chills, now even more so. He abandons reason and lets himself be caught up in her world and it is a fine place to be. The longer he stays the more he enjoys it, and the more he does not want to leave.

He senses something momentous about this event. Like the time he won his first trophy at the Peewee Soccer Tournament. Or the instance he threw a bucket of water at his babysitter (and subsequently discovered the wonder of the female body). Or freshman year of high school. High school graduation. The things in between that he loves, that he regrets. The unforgettable things. It's the first time the realization comes before the occurrence itself and not in the aftermath. That has to mean something, he figures. It's got to.

And this clenching in his chest. Just above the stomach. It started moments ago and it won't stop, just throbbing there uncomfortably. Yet strangely nice.

And who is she, anyway? There are thousands of girls on campus, many of them talented and likely to work some magic on the 88 keys, yet he feels like he should know her. Or he did know her a long time ago, but he forgot, and the memory is nagging at him, kicking at him, screaming at him to remember?

This is so weird.

When she finally stops playing, and the song ends, the final note drifting away and taking along with it the remnants of a spell, suddenly Michael Bellamy feels very small, and lost, like a wanderer realizing he has reached a place he never intended to go, and the shadows are longer, the mountains are taller, and the way out is miles away.

The girl's eyes open. They are big and green, almost unrealistically green. Like straight out of an anime or something. She is smiling, and her teeth are a little whiter than her skin, maybe a little sharper, and her features are clear and unblemished. He thinks she looks straight out of a One Direction song, but then he stops himself. He hates his sisters for blasting those goddamn songs all through high school and he wishes he didn't memorize as much lyrics as he has and he's distracting himself because suddenly her eyes rest on him and he's doing all he can to shrink away, to hide in his own shadow, anything. 

He stiffens. His stomach hits his toes. He feels like some pervert on Dateline NBC, standing there, staring at her, with his arms hanging at his sides like a gorilla. Like he was viewing something private and close and intimate and hell it was, probably the most private and close and intimate thing he has ever seen in his life.

She brushes some hair out of her face. "Hi. Were you...?"

Be cool. Don't act like a creep.

He laughs. Well, he giggles like a prepubescent boy poking a girl who is diagnosed with cooties, but to his ears he is laughing.

"Hey! No, I was just, I mean, I forgot something so I walked in here and you were playing, so I, you know...I watched...you..."

Kill yourself.

Her eyes narrow.

"What song was that?" he blurts.

She hesitates. Her fingers stroke the black and white keys and he is entranced by the movement. She seems unsure of how to progress. Good, because he feels the same way. She is quiet for a long time.

Michael's face is hot and sweaty. He is fairly sure he is doing an excellent impression of a tomato. He is humiliated and embarrassed and mortified and every definition, synonym, homophone, or whatever term in the dictionary that applies to the current situation. He thinks if he grabs his bag and sneaks out the door she won't notice-

"Moonlight Sonata."

He blinks. "Sorry?"

"Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven. Ever heard of him?"

"Ah," he says. He is strangely relieved. And then the words fly out before he can stop them: "Yeah, I think he plays for Ole Miss."

You've done it you cheesy son of a bitch she'll think you're a total loser now and not want anything to do with you...

She laughs.

Oh.

"Okay, I'll give you that one. Hilarious."

God even her laughter sounds like music.

He shrugs. He's cool. He's hip. He's totally rad. And he's funny.

"Just some new material I've been working on. You know, for my gig."

And apparently he's a comic.

She arches her eyebrow.

"You don't look like a comedian to me."

He sighs, wishing an anvil would fall on his head like in the cartoons. "I'm not. But hey, I got one person laughing."

She grins.

The sensation in his chest intensifies.

"My name's Michael."

He extends his hand.

He realizes he is several yards away from her and at least four feet below. 

He rushes over to the stage and leans over the edge, where she is walking, almost floating, steadily towards, her flats making soft noises on the smooth wood, like cat's paws. She looks down at him, and he feels a curious adrenaline rush at the nearness of her. She reaches out to shake his hand, but then at the last moment draws it back. There might have been some static.

He swears he sees sparks fly.

"I'm Celine," she says. "So I hope you weren't in here to watch me play."

He hears the name (Celine? You're freaking kidding me? Is this a dream right now?), but doesn't hear the rest, because he is overwhelmed by her perfume. Something with lilacs maybe? Or is it the One Direction fragrance? 

"Hello?"

He shakes his head. "Oh, sorry, say that again?"

"I said you're drooling a bit."

He swears and touches his mouth. It would be his luck that he gets caught salivating over a pretty girl.

She laughs again, and he decides he could get used to the sound. "I'm messing with you."

He smiles this time, feeling a bit more comfortable around her. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. I asked you what were you doing here. Other than, you know, watching me."

"You make it sound like I'm some sort of creeper."

"I have Dateline NBC on speed dial."

Touche, Celine. Touche.

"I actually...uh..."

What is he here for anyway? Her smile widens, and he swears its the most adorable thing he has ever seen. He could watch a string of baby animal videos on YouTube for three hours straight and still not be as filled up as he is at this moment, staring at her smile. Her smiling at him.

He fidgets, and his foot touches something.

He looks down and its a plain brown book bag filled to the brim with papers and textbooks and handwriting that seems oddly familiar.

That's my book bag. What's it doing over here? I swear I brought it out when I was with Trevor and the others...

Oh.

That's what he was doing here, he realizes. He left his book bag in the auditorium and he was here to get it and go back to his friends. Yeah that's it. His friends out in the cold and the dark and dreadfully Celine-less.

That sounds boring.

He grabs his book bag and turns away, but Celine is sitting on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, smiling at him, as if daring him to leave.

They can wait.

He plops down next to her, not as close as he would have liked, but close enough to feel her presence, to smell her perfume, to be overwhelmed by everything. At this distance she is almost as tall as he is, a little thin, but elegant and poised even when she is sitting on a university stage, swinging her legs like a school girl but on her the motion seemed deserving of artistic analysis.

"You sure you don't want to leave me alone?" she said.

He shook his head. "I think I'll tolerate you for a little longer. So, Celine..." he looked at her, arms crossed. "Where are you from?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her hear. "Far enough."

"Cryptic much?"

She broke eye contact. "I don't like talking about home that much."

His heart sunk at the prospect of having upset her. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

"You're fine. It's just...let's just say I chose a school in the Bible Belt just to get away from home."

Michael laughed. "Not much of a WASP are you?"

"You could say that."

"I'm not, either. I don't mind it, though. Not many bible-thumping, hell-fire preaching whackos around this part of town. Not very religious?"

"We're spiritual. But in a different way."

"Don't tell me I'm flirting with a Wiccan."

Her eyes gleam. "Blessed be."

"Funny. But are you?"

She scoffed. "If it were that simple."

Michael likes this. It feels eased, the words flowing at a steady stream without having to combat the forces of the Awkward Silence. Every second he spends with her the more he feels strangely at home. Like he could be doing this forever.

Hurry up and get it

Trevor. Outside the school. Michael reaches for his side. Right, book bag. Trevor and the rest are outside the school and I am in here to get back my book bag. 

He looks at Celine, getting ready to apologize. His mouth is open, the words clambering up his throat, ready to be unleashed.

She returns his stare and there is something infinitely sad about her eyes. He hadn't noticed it before, but they seemed always at the cusp of weeping, wet and shimmering like a viridian raindrops. He stops to catch his breath. He knows those words will hurt her more than any blade or fist. He won't - no, he can't - do that to her.

"Tell me about your home," he says before he can change his mind. He's got to keep her talking, needs to her hear speak again. "I know you don't like talking about it, but I'm curious."

She crosses her arms over her stomach. A wistful expression overtakes her. Her face becomes ethereal, transformed by whatever memories playing in her head.

"It's green. Really green. Fields and fields of grass as far as the eye can see. And flowers, too. Flowers of all kinds and colors and every day they seem to change, every day a new color, a new scent. Like the land is reborn with every sunrise. I live in a city by those fields, in a house with a father and a mother and three brothers and three sisters. The city's like glass, shiny and bright, sheer perfection and I promise you could blind yourself if you looked too long. The people there are always happy and there's no such thing as famine or drought or pestilence. It can get a little violent, but what city doesn't? Feuds between families, really old feuds, and it get ugly at times. But things right themselves. Order returns. Banners fade and seasons change. And everything goes back to normal eventually.

The corner of her mouth curled. "You know, the usual."

Michael doesn't know what to say. It's as if someone had plugged every sensation ever felt by a human being into his bran and flicked the ON button. He feels out of breath, like he'd just run a mile. Or made love.

"That sounds pretty awesome."

"It is awesome."

He turns to her. 

"So why'd you leave?"

"I don't know," she admits. Again the arms cover herself. The shoulders slump. Sorrow incarnate. "I guess I felt alone."

He swallows. He is light-headed.

"It doesn't have to be that way, you know."

She looks up, those green, green eyes wet and wide and wonderful. "What do you mean?"

"I can come home with you."

Her hand touches the hollow of her neck. "Do you mean it?"

"Yeah. It sounds like quite a place."

I mean, as long as it's not too far away. Just a quick stop, a little chat with the fam. Or a long chat. Whatever makes her happy.

Celine leaps up. She begins to dance on the stage, jumping and spinning like an acrobat on a high. Michael stands and watches her, laughing and scarcely believing what he's doing. He is going to go with her to this city of glass and wonders. He's leaving this podunk town and going with the most beautiful girl he has ever met to a place that's the closest to Heaven he's ever heard.

"Oh, Michael we're going to have so much fun! We're going to sing and dance until we can't stop and sing and dance some more and it will be just grand! Won't it, Michael?"

Her face is almost sparkling. He nods like a puppy. 

This is it. He is leaving for good. His heart can't take it anymore its beating so fast, so loud in his ears like drums before a game.

Hurry up

"Yeah, I..."

Hurry up and get it.

"I'll have to bring my stuff with me, though. My homework, my books, my book bag..."

Hurry up and get it. 

It's cold out here, bro.

"Maybe some of my friends. I bet they'll like it there too..."

Celine stops dancing. She looks at him almost reprovingly. She picks at the hem of her dress and looks down.

"I don't know anybody here but you, Michael."

"Oh right, sorry. My bad. I guess we'll have to leave them here...at the school...with my book bag..."

The pain returns. In his chest, just above his stomach. It's his heart and it's beating fast, smashing against his rib cages, threatening to burst. Fast, like before a game. Fast, like before a race. Fast, like before a sacrifice.

Now that was dark.

It hurts.

Get out of here

Hurry up and get it

It's cold out here, bro

Get out of here

Celine steps closer to him, hand outstretched. She is frowning. She looks confused. No, she looks worried.

"Michael?"

Michael blinks. He looks at her. Looks at Celine.

"What's wrong?"

GET OUT OF HERE

Michael steps back. His feet touch the book bag, which he had dropped. No, threw aside. Forsaken. Why did he do that?

"Michael?"

His head hurts. His heart hurts. His everything hurts. His mind is foggy and memories vague and he can't make sense of things except for her, and everything else is telling him to

GET OUT OF HERE

He curses and touches his head. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, I don't..."

Celine, in her white dress. Celine, with her auburn hair. Celine, with her green eyes. Angry green eyes. God, they look angry. Why were they so angry?

He loves her, doesn't he? Right? He is going to go home with her.

GET OUT OF HERE

God it hurts.

"Michael."

"Celine, I don't..."

"Michael, we're going to go home together."

"I've got my book bag..."

"Michael, take my hand."

"Got what I needed. I hurried up and got it. It's cold out there..."

"Michael please take my hand."

Michael looks up.

GET OUT OF HERE

Celine is standing in the center of the stage, hand outstretched. Her limbs are stiff with anger, with desperation. She is crying, those big green eyes of hers furious and full of hate and yet so sad, and is reaching out to him. The moonlight traces her and suddenly she is something else and Michael's heart and head nearly burst from what he has seen, because Celine is bright and different and something from another world that drives him mad with lust and grief and joy and pain and pleasure and need and hatred and desire and greed and envy and longing and sorrow and want and fury and passion and pity and he needs it all to stop please stop!

"Please, Michael."

GET OUT OF HERE

Michael runs.

Celine screams his name, and the sound chases him out of the auditorium, but he knows he needs to run, to keep on running, to hold his book bag tight, to run and run and run until he was far away from the girl in the white dress with the auburn hair and the sad eyes from the city of glass and fields of green that had almost taken him away forever.

**

Michael runs out into the cold and dark and is stopped by Trevor and Mark and Lee and Richard and he's so glad he hugs them all. They laugh and push him and call him a faggot but they don't understand that the sight of them makes him want to cry with happiness.

"What took you so long?" Trevor asks. "We were freezing our balls off out here."

"I...I can't..."

"We even got Lee to check up on you."

Lee smiles, and it's a normal human smile, Chinese, California-raised, skin colored by the sun, not pale, not perfect, not something out of a dream, or out of a nightmare. "Yeah dude I was about to walk then I heard you talking. I didn't want to interrupt so I came back."

Michael wants to kick his friend between the legs. He should have walked in. That was the mistake.

"Was it Professor Alma?"

Michael frowns. "What?"

"I didn't hear who you were talking to but I assume it was him."

"Michael wants to raise his quiz grades like a good little GPA whore." They laugh.

He doesn't even hear their jibes. He walks up to Lee and grabs his shoulders. "What did you hear?"

Lee is amused by his friend's behavior. "I don't know, bro, just you talking."

"Did you hear a piano?"

"What?"

"Did you hear a piano being played? Did you hear Moonlight Sonata? Beethoven?"

Lee stares at him like he doesn't know him at all.

He shakes Lee. "DUDE COME ONE ANSWER ME!"

Trevor pushes him off. "Michael, what the hell?"

"Did you hear the piano?"

Trevor laughs. "Dude, it's a science lecture hall. There's no piano in there. Never was."

The boys laugh.

"Fucking piano. The ghost piano. Jeez, Michael what did you smoke before class?"

"Right, Michael?"

"...Michael?"

**

The auditorium is dark save for the pool of moonlight centered on the stage. The empty stage, the curtains red as blood and the wood almost black if it weren't for the moon and its light and the spell it cast. If you stood there on the stage, just stood there, silent and still, and listened, you can hear the final notes of a sonata reaching its end, slow and forlorn, and if you really listened, standing closer to that lone pool of moonlight on center-stage you can hear the sound of a girl weeping softly. And if you stood there just a bit longer, if you had the right amount of patience, she might sense you as well, for lonely hearts cry out to one another. The song might pick up again, in full swing, louder and brighter and full of more beauty. And if you waited just  a little longer, she just might come up and say hello.

A/N: Something that just struck me out of nowhere. Wrote it like a man possessed. On a quick read-through its a load of crap, but seeing as that I'm the author, things might be a bit distorted. I'm just a beginner, so I need lots of help. Any kind of critique is welcome.