Amy.

Author's Note: Hello all. This is a short story I wrote up a week ago from the perspective of a young violinist and the beginnings of his romance with a troubled pianist. I may make it into a series...idk yet. But reviews and comments would be greatly appreciated.

Amy.

The date was November 3rd, 2001. I was 17 years old and I remember it like it was yesterday. My mother had just dropped me off at the annual Winter Season Recital...twenty minutes late. It was a cloudy winter's morning and the winds seemed to dance about in unison to the melancholy tune of Mozart's requiem in D minor. As I made my way to the auditorium, my violin case around my left shoulder, I could feel the beginnings of a light drizzle upon my forehead. "Goodness," I sighed "Where on Earth did I leave that umbrella?" As the rain began to pour down harder and faster and the winds began to dance more angrily than before, I abandoned my light trot in favor of a full-fledged sprint to the auditorium door.

"Hello, Marcus," smiled Mrs. Watson, my violin instructor, "We're going to be on next. I hope you're ready for that solo."

"Hi," I replied as I wearily extended a single hand, "I-I'm ready." We both let out a light chuckle as we exchanged a gentle handshake. It felt strange to lie to Mrs. Watson so easily. In reality, I had never felt so nervous in my life. I stared up into the light grey abyss that was the sky, searching for a little piece of composure to call my own. Just as I began to feel myself drifting off into peaceful serenity, Mrs. Watson grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back into reality.

"Marcus," she began, her voice riddled with frustrated affection, "Why don't you come inside and get out of the rain? I saved you a seat...Please do try to be on time next recital."

"Oh. Sure, Mrs. W.Sorry." A gentle nod was her only reply.

As I slid nervously into my seat at the end of row two and laid my violin case against the wall, I was greatly relieved to see who I was seated next to. It was none other than Adam, my "partner in crime" as I called him. Adam was a tall, red-haired dude, a little older than I, yet far less mature on any day of the week, including today. "Well!" he ejected, "Nice of ya to show up, Marc'!"

"Be quiet," I whispered, "They're about to start the next piece." Adam gave me a quizzical stare and lightly shook his head.

"Geez, Marc'," he chided, "Why are you always so tense? Lighten up, kid." I gave a large gulp and focused my attention onto the stage in an attempt not to look at him. The auditorium lights dimmed down and a radiant spotlight was projected onto the center of the red velvet curtains. The entire room fell silent. Though only a few short moments passed before the curtains opened, they felt to me like an eternity. Adam had positioned his body such that it was nearly impossible for me to make out the image of the beautiful young lady in the wine-colored dress until she had gracefully taken her seat in front of the piano, and begun to play.

I remember closing my eyes, and marveling at the sheer beauty of Schubert's Serenade. It was as if every note lifted me higher and higher into euphoria and deeper and deeper into tense apprehension at the same time. "Damn," I thought, "She's just so good...Just so good!" No amount of reassurance from Adam, Mrs. Watson, or anyone could've abated my fears of being upstaged. Little did I know that what would happen next would give rise to an entirely new set of fears for someone other than myself. Just as the final blissful notes of the piece began to float through the air, the beautiful pianist let out a terrible cry. It almost seemed as if someone had stabbed her in the side, the way she had collapsed upon the instrument, producing a discordant array of misplaced notes. The velvet curtains came together more quickly than usual, and, once again, it was utterly silent. All of my worries concerning my performance seemed to vanish. What on Earth could have happened to have caused her to produce such a terrible scream? And most of all, how was she doing now? My train of thought was rudely interrupted by the sound of Adam's booming laughter.

"Woah," he chuckled, "Did you see that? It's was like she got straight-up possessed or something!" I couldn't help but be disgusted his reaction to the scene.

"Hey man, stop it. We don't know what could have happened. Something might be wrong with her." Adam gave me a devilish grin before responding.

"Oh," he began smugly, "You didn't know?" At this point, I was at a complete loss for words. "Dude, that's Amy; Amy Walters. She's a total nut. I'm surprised they even let her play this morning, Marc'. Some say she's got an anxiety disorder but I think she's just lookin' for attention." Adam's jovial explanations of the incident continued to drone on as I quickly got up from my seat and grabbed my violin case. By now, the silence had waned and the sound of light chatter could be heard throughout the crowd.

"Mrs. W?", I called, "What happened to her? What happened to Amy?" My instructor wore an expression of quiet indifference and confusion.

"I-I don't know, Marcus...I think she just...I really don't know." Either way, I had to find out what was going on; I had to find Amy.

Just as I was about to make my way towards the green-room, a lone spectacled man in a red suit jacket took center stage. This was Mr. Jacobs, the recital's director. "Attention everyone! Attention!", he yelled. The man cleared his throat before resuming. "It would appear, at this moment, that we are experiencing some...minor difficulties, and I am terribly sorry to announce that the rest of the recital will have to be cancelled for today. Thank you for joining us this morning and we are terribly sorry for the inconvenience. Have a wonderful rest of the day." A multitude of distraught sighs from the audience made their displeasure evident. A few minutes passed before the whole of the congregation, including Adam and Mrs. Watson, had slowly exited the building. I, however, remained standing against the wall in the deafening silence of the vacant auditorium, that familiar series of unanswerable questions running wild within the unquiet solace of my mind. Where was that young lady? How was she doing? And, most importantly, what on Earth had caused her to cry out in that manner? Despite the peculiarity of the incident, what stunned me the most was that I was vitally determined to find the answers to all three of these questions...and I had not the slightest idea why. Just as I threw my violin case around my shoulder and turned to go to the green-room, I felt a warm, gloved hand upon my other one. I let out a sigh of relief upon seeing the familiar face of Ralph Jones, the auditorium janitor, although he much preferred the term "Director of Cleanogomies." I'd seen him at many of these recitals in my time, and he'd never been the sweetest candy in the jar. I'd have to play it cool if I wanted to find Amy, and I was steadfastly determined to do the latter.

"Hey, kid. You know you gotta leave now, right? Show aint' happenin' today. You heard Mr. Jacobs."

"Oh, hi Ralph," I replied "I'm leavin' in just a minute. I've Gotta go find Mrs. Watson...and do...that thing!" I couldn't feel my face right then, but I was sure I looked awfully stupid. Then again, this was Ralph I was talking to. He was never really the sharpest knife in the drawer either.

"Alright, Marc'," he chuckled "Would ya just do this old man a little favor?" I gave a slight jump at the thought of having to help him clean the auditorium. "Could ya just please tell Mrs. W to remember to call me later tonight. I've got some hardware that needs fixin' if ya know what I'm gettin' at, boy." I started to laugh, but quickly stopped myself upon seeing that he wasn't kidding around about this.

"No problem Ralph." I smiled. I never told her.

After Ralph had gone back to the supply closet, I was by myself in the theater. Now came the real challenge: finding Amy. I placed my violin on top of one of the empty seats in back and headed up to the stage. It was only dead weight, after all. The curtains were drawn, so I had to crawl my way under them. Man, what a dusty floor! All I remember about those brief moments in the dark threshold behind the curtains was just that: darkness. After looking around aimlessly for a bit, a dimly lit doorway across the stage caught my eye. "Gee," I thought, "Talk about creepy." I stepped through the doorway quietly as not to make a single noise. There was another door at the end of a long hallway, and I could see more light pouring through the bottom. Just as I lifted my hand to knock on the door, I stopped myself and began to brush myself off, straighten my tie, and pat my hair down. "Okay, Marcus." I thought, "This could be Amy or it could be Mr. Jacobs...or even worse, a closet full of clown masks." Without another thought, I lifted my hand once again, but this time, I knocked.

There was no response. Had someone left the lights on? I took a deep breath before knocking a second time. After what seemed like an eternity, there came the sound of a distressed female voice from the other side of the door. It was her.

"Who is it?" cried Amy, "Go away! Leave me alone! I don't want to talk!" My heart sank as I slowly wrapped my fingers around the cold brass doorknob. I closed my eyes and took another deep breath as I reluctantly turned it and opened the door a little...and then some more...and then some more, until I stood looking at a scene that made my heart sink even further down into my stomach. There sat Amy Walters on an old leather futon on the other side of the room, her face buried in her arms, crying. I swallowed the lump in my throat and licked my lips before speaking.

"H-hello," I stammered, "I'm-"

"I don't care who you are! Get out!", cried Amy as she lifted her head to look at me. Her sleek auburn hair still held the radiant quality it had when she had sat down to play her piece, and her puffy, reddened, caramel-colored eyes peered deeply into my soul. Once again, I was at a complete loss for words. It was apparent that she didn't want to see anyone right now, especially a complete stranger, but I couldn't let that stop me from finding the answer to those burning questions which still pervaded my thoughts. I smiled at her awkwardly and scratched my head as I spoke in the softest tone I could muster.

"I-I saw your performance earlier...You were very...skillful...wait no! I mean...you played nice...I mean nicely! You played nicely the piano! Or...no! You played the piano nicely." I gave a frustrated sigh at my ensuing awkwardness and Amy's expression of anger began to soften. The small studio had come ablaze with light chuckles, and I thought I saw Amy smile for the very first time. She gently wiped her eyes, began to speak, stopped herself, and then began again.

"You're a violinist, aren't you?" she inquired calmly "I've seen you around town. You're Matthew, right?"

"No. I'm actually-"

"Oh, yes that's right, Martin!"

"Uh...No I'm-"

"Marty?"

"I'm Marcus. But most of my friends call me Marc'." I was surprised and a little bit alarmed by the forceful tone of my voice. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to disappear from her sight. Just as I was about to see myself out of the studio, she spoke again. Never before had I heard a tone so lovely.

"Nice to meet you, Marc'. I'm Amy." She nervously extended a pale hand and I extended my brown one. "Uh, it's nice to meet you I guess." I couldn't think of anything else to say at that moment, but for the first time since I had entered the room, I didn't feel the need to say anything more. Right then, I remembered why I had really come to find her here.

"Amy," I inquired meekly, "What happened earlier? Why did you--what made you have to leave the stage?" The girl's face had become flushed with worry and she cast her face down slightly.

"Well," she started dryly, "I just...I had a thought."

"Elaborate." I wondered whether or not I was pushing her to talk too fast. Her quick reply let me know that this was not the case.

"Let me just say that I've been having some problems lately. You see, my parents...they're never at these recitals." My jaw must've dropped in surprise at hearing that this was the reason for Amy's breakdown. I had to compose myself before responding.

"If it makes you feel any better, my mom didn't come today either."

"No, Marcus. You don't get it." Her voice was full of defiant charm. "They never come. Not Ever...and every time I play--" Her voice began to crack a little. "I have to look into the front row and see two empty seats staring back at me." Amy began to cry once again, more quietly than before. I wasn't sure whether or not I should try to console her any further. Rather than allowing myself to be overtaken by the moment, I placed my hand onto her back and began to coax her gently.

"I understand why that could be...difficult."

"No you don't. They are never around, they don't even come to see me play. They never say they love me or that they're proud of me, and nothing is ever good enough. I'm just an accessory to them; just a conversation piece." All of a sudden, I realized that this girl's problems were far more deeply seeded than I had realized. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do with the given circumstances.

"Amy," I whispered, "I think you're an amazing pianist...and also quite lovely." She stopped crying for a moment and wiped her eyes a second time.

"Thank you, Marc," she smiled, "You're very nice....and quite handsome." A jolt of excitement surged throughout my being and I lifted my hand from her back. I needed to do something to manage the excess energy generated by such a compliment form Amy.

"How about some music?" I offered, "No piano though."

"Alright.", replied Amy quietly. I had seen a rack of old records lying under the clock upon entering the room, the player sitting atop an old wooden desk. Whoever this studio belonged to was old school...really old school. I fingered through the records until I found the only one on which I could read the title. "Here we go," I ejected, "Nat King Cole's Unforgettable: A Duet With Natalie Cole." "Hmm," I mumbled, "Sounds like somethin' Gramps listens to." Amy let out a restrained chuckle and I thought I saw her blush a little bit too.

"Put it on, Marc'!" she urged.

"Alright, alright. Gimme a second." I carefully removed the covering from the record and loaded it into the player before taking a seat next to Amy. (with her permission of course.) It came as a pleasant surprise to me that the machine still worked. The first notes of the tune began to play.

"Wow," laughed Amy, "This is such a beautiful song. It's damn old though!" No longer was she the distressed soul I had found crying by herself upon entering the studio. She was rather a radiant and enthusiastic girl, whom I could not help but smile back at.

"You know what?" I said impulsively, "Let's dance, Amy!" It was like magic the way those caramel-colored eyes lit up and the way those cherry lips curled into a smile I can't even begin to describe with words.

"Okay!" she replied as she quickly stood up from her seat and grabbed my hand.

"Here we go."

"Marc?", she inquired.

"Yes, Amy?"

"I've never danced this way before." A slight chill ran down my spine. Was this all really too good to be true?

"What do you mean? Danced what way?"

"You know," she whispered shyly, "This close."

"Shhh.", I reassured her, "I've got you." I felt that it was in my best interest to pretend that this wasn't my first time too. As the song came to a close, I felt Amy rest her head onto my shoulder and a single gentle hand slide down my side before gently taking my own. Her red-brown hair smelled of strawberries. I wanted to say something to her, but I was immobilize by an array of indescribable emotions.

"Marc," she whispered once again, "I don't ever want to let you go."

"I don't ever want to let you go either, Amy.", I whispered in return.

To be continued???