11.10b

On the day of the final, professor musicpants mixed the class and put on a calm classical cd and passed out a stack of tests and then probably danced a little happy jig in his little happy heart because he just enjoyed causing so much pain and horror in his students.


I was bitter but sure not about to let it get to me.
When I finally found my seat, I flopped down into it and took stock. Seven pages. Not a tremendous test. Essay question. Probably a guaranteed B on that, an A if I'm lucky and can pick the right phrases at random. Now, three pencils sharpened and oh no oh very no Marco was sitting right next to me try to ignore him.
I had no real luck. Grr. Focus. Why is the cultural revolution of the upper alps important to this class, anyway? Marco flipped through the remaining pages of the test. I wrote an answer and erased it and wrote two other composers' names with question marks. I would either come back to it or I wouldn't. Marco sighed. I could smell him sharp like the soap at my grandfather's house and soft like the old coat mom keeps in the closet. I knew the next question was Bach. The questions were in vaguely chronological order. Thank you for stupid teachers, am I right? The Hundred Years' War? Speculative. The sound of his felt marker on paper was smooth and fast, and I wondered why he used a marker. Was he so sure of himself? Did he just like the color? I stole a glance. Purple. Not bad. Organs were from Germany. Violins were from Italy. Mostly everything was from Italy. Marco, are you from Italy?
"No."
Holy crap did I say that out loud? Focus, idiot. Your grade will be from Italy in a minute. Adagio. Andante. Tremolo? It sounds right. I don't think it's the name of a movement. Thinkingsound maybe sigh is it spelled Fugue or Fuge or what? Marco's hand was just in my peripheral vision and it was warm against the cold white of the desk. Every once in a while, I could see the purple marker in his
"Are you from Italy?"
I was taken off guard from the side, tackled mentally and thrown to the ground like a ten-year old playing football with the NFL. "What? No."
"Then why did you ask?"
"It was just . . . for no reason. Drop it."
"I think question thirty is a trick."
"Thanks. Shut up."
I concentrated hard while the professor passed our row. Debussy. Vivaldi? Beethoven. Der Zauberflumlaute. Pianissimo, Piano, Met-so Piano, Met-so Forte, Forte, Fortissimo. There is no middle volume? There has to be a middle volume. I bit my pencil and listened to the crunch until I saw Marco looking at me. I widened my eyes and raised my eyebrows as if to judge him for judging me. He chuckled and swish swish felt tip marker. Why was this guy so important? Why was that question half about Corgiliano and half about Marco?
Stop, self.
I know.
I know I know, I'm me.
Just the same, it would be nice.
I know I'd love to, but I can't, and I know it.
Self, just this once?
No, me. Sorry.
Nuts.
Marco flipped the last page and started on his essay without pausing for breath. If thoughts were physical, I don't suppose it would be too far off to assume he would be a dancer. Not like a ballerina or anything but a dancer--someone who pops and locks and drops and spins and isn't graceful but gets the job done as quickly as possible and wows the crowd and then stops dancing and I need to stop dancing and Stop noticing things.
"What?"
"What what?"
"You whispered something."
If I did, it wasn't to you. Shut up.
Atonal dissonance? Sad cellos. No, mournful. That's what he said: mournful. Done? No, that one at the first. I'll pick Purcell because he sounds more like a handbag made from mussels or something equally punny. Always hated his name. Essay question:

Pick an instrument and compare or contrast its use in three to four separate musical pieces. Be thorough. Discuss sound, skill, and motion.

Ok, smartypants. Piano. Piano concerto something from somebody, that jazz song we heard last week, and the silent one where the guy sits for four minutes and you listen to the audience. Done. Wait, have to write it still. I hate essays. Marco burned through his first sheet of paper and started on a new one that he'd have to staple to his other masterful pages of perfect scores. I slowly encroached on the half-sheet mark.
"How are you so fast at this?"
"I chose cellos. I basically have to just repeat how sad it is in everything and I'm done." He winked at me.
"You're a rat. You're a rat and you cheat. I hope you choke on your victory and die."
He just smiled.
The piano is one of the most versitile versetile versatile? spelling sucks. Hooray pencils. Versatile instruments, and can be used in a wide range of no can be used effectively in a wide range of compositions. Perfect first line. Now I just needed to find the rest of them so I could go home. Sharp and soft like grandpa's house and mom's front closet.
"Marco?"
"You can't concentrate worth jack crap."
"Right."
"What do you need?"
To say, or not to say? Perhaps maybe on the off chance it might be possible that there is a likelihood that it could be, but I'm not saying it's sure to be, fun to hang out sometime after this class? But nothing definite? I'll just not say it, and that way he'll never have to know.
"Catherine?"
"Holy crap did I just sit there for like thirty seconds with my mouth open?"
"I'm not willing to divulge that information."
"I . . . I guess I don't need anything. Let me finish my essay, ok?"
He shook his head and I could see his smile rip through him like a shockwave. It was weird to see him smile and the force of it run through all the way to his fingers and out. Pianos. They are helpful? Ok. Keep going. Concerto? Jazz. Silence and done.
"Marco?"
Holy crap he wasn't there. Look around. At the front? Nope. Jump! He was behind you the whole time.
"You're a dillweed."
"Clever. Now you're done, you wanna ask what you were gonna ask?"
Well, it's now or never. Rosalyn wouldn't have to ask the question (but I guess that's ok because I'm not Rosalyn and nobody will ever treat me like people treat Rosalyn so I should stop using her as my ruler and now I'm just delaying the inevitable.
I cleared my throat. He spoke instead.
"You have a class after this?"
"No. . . "
"Well, there's a student cafe down the street. You can ask me there."
With that, he walked out.
I guess I didn't have to ask the question anyway.
I rushed up to the front and threw my paper at the professor and turned around and it was probably the emotions or the rush of being done with the class but I did something monumental. I grabbed a marker and wrote on the board.
Cellos are mournful. A+.

I ran out of the classroom and Marco was laughing so hard he was bent over. Time to run and laugh.
I was happy but I wasn't about to let it get me.