Dissonance and Resolution

Measure 1: Warm-Up

Something that was a hard pill to swallow for me was the fact that whether or not I acknowledged I had talent, some people would still see me as a selfish little douchebag. Now I'm not afraid to tell myself that I'm talented, because I am, but at first I would be all modest about it. But then people would be like "aw, Adam's trying to hide his talent, what a douche. Trying to make us feel bad." And that would make me feel bad. As I got better at things like sight-reading and musicianship, I had to force myself to know that I am in fact very talented, and that's not a bad thing, and I don't want to make people jealous or feel bad on purpose. I'm reminding myself of my worth because, well, I deserve it.

Choir's my favorite class of the day. That's right, a class. Not a club. Crazy. It's in the afternoon (right after lunch, which is why warm ups are vitally important to us), and we're the advanced choir. Gatsby's divided our classes up into different periods depending on our respective levels. I was assigned to the advanced choir my freshman year and I've stayed here for the past three years.

You might be wondering who the hell Gatsby is. And no, not the millionaire Jay Gatsby. I mean if our choir teacher was the millionaire Jay Gatsby, we would be in big fuckin' trouble. But Mr. Gatsby Townsend was named after the millionaire Jay Gatsby, and likes his first name so much that he wants us to refer to him by it. He's a pretty cool guy, fresh out of college and a bit lanky. Drinks coffee straight out of the pot while we watch and his sexuality is enigmatic (like every male choir teacher ever). And my best friend's big brother.

"Good morning, Adam," says Cynthia in a fake British accent. I was put next to Cynthia Townsend because we sit on the edge of our sections (me tenor and Cynthia alto 2). We bonded immediately and now I like to think we are best friends. She is sweet, smart, and the president of everything but the United States. She has a lot on her plate and the fact that she can do so much and still look awesome and sing beautifully in choir is beyond me. According to her I'm the "white person who hypes her up whenever she gets new hair." And the bitch is right. Box braids, butterfly locs, sew-ins, everything looks good on her. They look so good I even learned the terminology to compliment her. This week it's a black wig with bangs and curly ends. Looks cute.

"Love the new 'do, Cynth." She sets down her bag next to my chair as the bell rings again, notifying us that it's time for class to start. Cynthia laughs because "the new 'do" sounds incredibly Caucasian of me, and we both get settled along with the rest of our classmates to begin with our lesson.

It's the same as always. We do the same pattern daily to the point where I can think about other shit while I do it. During lip buzzes I think about what I need to practice at home. During scales, what time Mom's picking me up. While we do some sirens I like to play out fake scenarios in my head where the bass across the room that I don't talk to takes me on a date to a cute coffee shop in the autumn.

After warm-ups is sight reading practice, during which Cynthia passes out the sight-reading practice sheets. Since it's the second semester, and we are the Super Cool Advanced group, every single one of us has to audition for the state youth choir at the end of the semester. It involves a hard musicianship exam and a much harder sight-reading exam. Only two or three people get into it from our school per year, but this year Gatsby has high hopes for all of us, so it's pass-fail. And more than once he's implied it's because I'm in the class. Nepotism? Maybe. Talent? Maybe. Makes me feel like a douche? Yes.

"Alright, here's your scale." Gatsby says. His fingers glide across the piano in the front of the room like a pencil rolling down a desk as he plays our scale for #17 on our sheet. He gives us a good minute to study (usually it's thirty seconds but this is a new one), and when we all look up to give him a nonverbal "okay," he starts snapping slowly and counts,