Adagio had never thought much about being a music student. Sure, when she was younger, it was possible she could get picked on for it, or be the only one in her class, or one of very few in her grade. Certainly she knew the standard of being, and was aware these norms emphasized an image -- an ideal, if you will -- perhaps different than herself. But she liked that image too, and thus could not fault others for liking it, for following it. And despite not looking like the images she saw, she still felt they somehow included her, if not explicitly, then by the weight of affection of years of living among a place, a people -- the bond of shared classes, of shared hallways, of shared favorite Village restaurants: surely that bond was not so frail to have been sustained by politeness. Even if Adagio was different than most everyone else, she could still be part of the places and systems that raised her. Something bigger than herself. Something safe.
Then came the tension.
The tension, it was -- hard to describe. Now, when Adagio met the eyes of someone outside her major, she did not know if they harbored a default dislike of her, or perhaps a wary apathy, or else a tense distance in their mind. Now, whenever she spoke, her identity came to the forefront of her mind. She knew that people might have an idea of her without ever speaking to her. Many times she could even guess at the thoughts they must be having.
Worst of all, she could not fault them, because if she were not born exactly herself there is no saying she would not be thinking them too.
In due time, perhaps at the end of the world, the people of Port Alms might finally come to see, as one, that this was no way to live -- indeed, turning against one another does not make a life.
But today was not the end of the world, and that easily the people could be forgiven for their affectionate misguidings, their singular perspectives, their unflippable confidences about shakable truths. That easily the world did not change today because too many people were sure about too many things. That easily the stars in the sky glittered, forever trapped in time, and that easily the earth may as well be too.
Adagio did not care for the feeling one bit. Specifically, if you must know, she hated it. She hated the way the eyes of everyday people glazed over headlines on the news, how the headlines could say, The Sky Is Falling! or Children Are Dying! End Times Are Near! The Plague Never Left! and the people will murmur to each other how sad, how peculiar -- and miss the same train to work.
Yet -- how could they do anything but?
Sometimes Adagio thought she had the courage to be who she really was -- to be the person to stand up and wave her hands in front of their glazed eyes and make them see. But then she would look back down, or stand, or blink -- and the feeling would vanish.
If she had told a friend how she felt, she would have discovered that a friend felt the same way. But she did not, and neither did they -- and so like ships in the nights passed each other without each discovering they were not alone in their human experience.
In this singular way, perhaps it was a blessing that the first Trip arrived when it did.
* * *
The narrator of the Great Fate Machine, a senior girl, was the act selected to perform at the first quarter's funding game. Going on my resume, the girl had grinned when she returned to class the day the office called her down to tell her. Adagio heard it from Saachi, who probably heard it from her ears all over the school. Saachi was always passing on information -- Adagio never asked who her informant was.
The Spera School walked down to Towers Theater. The thousand students filled the thousand seats, and after they leaned back, leaned forward, leaned sideways, rest their arm on the armrest and took it off again, the show began.
