The Saxophonist

Chapter One

My mind is a washing machine of thoughts, a whirlwind of sound. All fighting to form a coherent song, a melody that everyone can understand, all my thoughts spinning round and round in a continuous loop- some thoughts pinwheeling at high speeds, others drifting in lazy circles.

The most prominent thoughts sound like jazz. Oh, the beautiful sound of jazz. Sexy, free-flowing, smooth, confident, funky, jazz. All over the place yet masterfully controlled. Perfectly imperfect. But my thoughts have changed. Recently, they've been anything but beautiful. They're dark, black, angry.

No, not angry.

Furious.

I close my journal. That's enough for today. I need to get to class. By the way, I'm Daniella. Jazz enthusiast and Music and English major at NYU. I have a part time job as a waitress. I play the saxophone and I have two cats named Fred and George (after the Weasly twins from Harry Potter) who live with me in my studio apartment in one of the greener neighbourhoods in New York. It's a good life. Except when it's not.

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful. I know how lucky I am to have a roof over my head and food on the table. But sometimes, when I spend too much time not doing something for school or work or music, the memories come flooding back. I remember the time when I didn't have these things. I remember my childhood, I remember what life was like before I turned eighteen, before I got a job and my apartment. And I remember the other kids. The ones I left behind. Abandoned.

I shake my head to clear my mind. No time to think about that now. Got to get to school, got to keep moving. Otherwise I'll get swallowed by the deep dark pit of my past. Can't let that happen. I step out into the hallway. I rush down the stairs like a frightened rabbit, two steps at time. I can almost imagine a fluffy white tail between my legs. Out the front door and onto my bike. And off I go, racing with the morning sun, willing my motorbike to go faster, to escape my past.

I only stop once I get to my girlfriend Amanda's apartment block. She's already waiting outside in a white pleated skirt, nude block heels and a peach coloured button up blouse, tote bag on her shoulder and long, pin straight, black hair framing her face. Amanda is the stereotypical Asian soft girl at first glance. She even plays the violin and listens to girly Korean pop music. But once you get to know her, she's anything but typical. Amanda is extraordinary. She speaks fluent English, Swahili, and Korean as well as her home language of Thai. She cooks spectacular Indian dishes and she paints serene nature scenes and semi- abstract portraits as well as making sculptures. She's a women's and LGBTQ+ rights activist. And she is my entire world.

I grin like a Cheshire cat. "Morning babe. Need a ride?" She gives me a kiss on the cheek, slips on her helmet and gets on behind me. I hear a muffled "Morning, Dani! Let's go, we're late" from under the helmet and I peel out of the parking spot, worries forgotten. Amanda has that effect on me. She makes me feel like my past never happened and nothing bad can ever happen to me again. We drive for about five minutes before we reach campus. I drop her off at the Art block before heading off to the literature halls. We're writing narrative essays, but I finished mine in the previous lecture so I flip back in my journal to the passage I wrote a two years back about Amanda.

We met in the first semester of 2018. She had transferred to my history of music course. I sat behind her. I began falling for her in May, after she raised her hand and boldly challenged a homophobic comment the bigoted lecturer had made. It spiralled from there. I started noticing her around campus. I followed her social media accounts and read articles about her activism. I signed her petitions and attended protests she organised, mostly for LGBTQ+ rights or women's rights. In the end, it was her who approached me first. She said she had seen one of my saxophone clips and invited me to play at one of her meets. I declined , making excuses, saying I was too shy, but I managed to gather the courage to ask for her number before she walked away. We started talking more and more, meeting up before class and going out for coffee. I started giving her lifts to her activism events. We gradually got closer and closer.In February 2019, I worked up the courage to ask her out. She said yes, and officially became my girlfriend. Now, six moths later, I accompany her to all her events and give her a lift to class every day. I am hopelessly in love with this phenomenal woman.

I smile. Nothing's changed. It's two years later now and I'm still head over heels in love and I still think she's the most powerful person on the planet.

The loud, sudden bell signalling the end of class rudely awakens me from my daydream. I pack my laptop, journal and pencil case into my backpack in a daze of nostalgia and walk to my next class - history of music. I immediately perk up when I walk in and see Amanda at her seat next to mine. This is the class where we met, and (completely coincidentally, of course) my favourite course. Luckily, we have a different lecturer this year to replace the homophobic old bigot we had that year. The new lecturer is an open-minded woman with dark hair in her late 50's called Professor Sayed, a former sociology lecturer. Who switched to the music department at the end of last year.

As I sink down into my chair and lean over to give Amanda a kiss and whisper "Hey, Gorgeous" in her ear, I can't help feeling guilty. I've been thinking a lot about my past lately, and I feel really bad that I haven't told her anything. We've been dating for two years and I know all about her life, and she still knows nothing about mine. I make up my mind and decide it's time to tell her. "Hey Mands" she smiles at my use of the silly nickname that I made up for her around our first anniversary. "Yes?" She answered. "Do you want to go to Achara's for lunch together? I have something to tell you." Achara's Thai was our favourite place to go eat when we wanted to have a bite together. Mands got me into her traditional food when we first started dating, and it wasn't very hard to get me hooked on the delicious traditional Asian dishes. She gave me an inquisitive look but trusted me despite the questions in her eyes. "Sure, I'd love to" This is what I loved about Amanda. She trusted and loved with her whole heart and made you feel like the most special person she ever met. It made me feel even more guilty and I resolved to tell her every last detail about my past this afternoon, down to the minute, so that her trust in me was rightful.

The rest of the day passed by in a montage of colour and sound that I didn't pay attention to. By the end of the day I was quivering with nerves about the date. What would Amanda think of me after she found out about the life I had lived before? I tried to steady my hands so I could control the bike as i drove to the other side of campus to go pick Mands up. By the time I reached the art buildings, I had managed to plaster a smile on my face and greeted her with a tight squeeze. She smiled and hopped on my bike, holding on to my waist and resting her head on my shoulder. I squeezed her hand and then started up the bike. I tensed up again as we drew nearer to the restaurant, anxious about the conversation I knew I had to have with her. I've been putting this off for way too long.