Dissonance and Resolution

Measure 3: Poco piu Mosso

"You want to do what?" Shawn bats his long, straight-boy eyelashes at me. "Is that even allowed?"

"Let's race. Come on." I say, hyping his excitement up by getting up from my chair and stretching my legs and arms. "Gatsby's at a meeting right now. We'll run around the room a few times, do some push-ups, and then some sight-reading. And you'll have the advantage because... you know. Look at me." I present my lanky skinny Caucasian body with my hands.

"Pfft." He stands up and starts stretching as well. My plan is working. "Don't you dare try to let me win, then." Shawn has a ferocious look in his eyes, like I am a rotisserie chicken on his coffee table in front of the TV and he is about to gobble me up after a really rough day. Holy shit, do I need to work on my analogies.

"Cynth, count us off." Cynthia doesn't have a free period, but she finished all of her classwork super quickly so she could watch us race. I told her we would do a few sight reading practice measures before I suggested it so she could take her time. You can imagine how those went. Now she's sitting at Gatsby's desk, transcribing last student council meeting's minutes onto a Word document (this is the secretary's job; Cynthia is not the secretary). Her fingers move so fast on the keyboard that I make jokes she's going 30 over the speed limit, but she gets to a stopping point to spectate our competition.

"Okay, okay." She finishes one last sentence and gets up. "I want a fair race. Three laps around the room. Then," she traces the trail with her fingers, "ten push ups by the cabinets, and then sit in one of these," gesturing to the chairs with a sight reading practice sheet on a music stand in front of them, "and complete the sight reading at your own pace. But if you mess up, you have to start again. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Shawn says, and takes one of those running positions the people in the Olympics do. I do the same to give Cynthia the same answer. It's a miracle he's not making fun of my form right now.

"On your marks..."

Honestly, whatever will make him learn to sight read.

"Get set..."

This is the worst fucking idea I've ever had.

"Go!"

And it feels like Shawn's going at 100 words per minute. I mean miles per hour.

Shawn's a blur right now, both because he's super fast, and I'm already so fatigued I feel like I could pass out. He finishes his third lap while I'm half-way through my first one. I actually feel like I'm going to die, and Cynthia has a piece of computer paper in her hands as a makeshift towel to throw in in case my prediction comes true. As I wobble my way through my last lap, Shawn completes his ten push-ups and makes himself comfy on his chair to sight read. This is the part I was most nervous about. Maybe I gave him too much of a head start. He counts himself off quickly.

"Do, re, mi, fa-"

"Nope, start again." Cynthia smirks and pushes her glasses up.

"Do, re, mi, sol, la, la, sooool, fa, mi, mi-"

"Again." Cynthia glances at me with a slight smile. Thank god. It's working. I would smile back at her if I wasn't making a desperate attempt to keep my arms up. After a good four minutes of trying to do my last push up and Shawn trying to finish his measures, I pull my chair closer next to him and the music stand and speed through my eight despite my lack of breath. "Alright, the race is over. Adam's the winner."

"What?! Bruhhhhh...." He sighs and groans and does little side-steps impatiently. "Can we do it again? I'm gonna win this time. I promise. I'm gonna do it. Please?"

The bell rings and I can feel his dreams being crushed. "Talk to the bell, bubba." I say and smile at him, walking across the room to get my backpack.

He is stunned. In a good way. I think.

--

My mornings are pretty nice. I know I seem like the kind of person whose life revolves around their hobby, but one of my daily goals is making sure that I am not. I start my day off with a balanced breakfast, stretches, and a prayer.

Just kidding. I start my day off with about half-an-hour of scrolling on my socials and online window shopping. For breakfast I eat whatever fruit Mom's put in the fruit bowl for the week, and my pills. I would take one of the applesauces too, but Mary doesn't like it when I take her applesauces. She says I can take them when she's back at college after her break, but for now, the sauce is prohibited.

I throw on whatever the hell I put on The Chair by my door (today it's ripped jeans and a Rage Against the Machine shirt) and put a good heaping of my clinical strength deodorant on, which costs more than most of the clothes in my closet. Then it's washing my face, brushing my teeth, and putting my only pair of shoes on.

Mary's driving me to school until she leaves. I like spending my days with Mary, we're at that age where now we don't hate each other anymore. I came out to her first. In the car, we talk about whatever we want without Mom yelling at us for cursing. When she feels like it, she'll get me breakfast from Dunkin' Donuts. However, today it is fruit.

"How's it going with the fuckboy you're teaching?" She opens the window for her morning cigarette. "Has he learned anything?"

"Not really. But I challenged him to a race to help him. Like people in the movies do." I adjust myself to the uncomfortable seat and smell. Even my deodorant can't take the smoke. "Hopefully it'll help him. He wants to have another race today."

"Okay, that's good." She smiles, still looking at the road. "You can choose the playlist, this one's getting boring." I take her phone from the cupholder and the car's atmosphere changes from dark and smokey and boring to cool and amazing and incredibly heterosexual with some 2015 radio throwback music. Me and Mary are raising the roof up in here.

When I open the door of the car to step onto the school sidewalk, people stare due to the loud blaring music. Neither of us care. I give my sister a kiss on the cheek and head out to Gatsby's to see Cynthia.

--

"Ti...ti...do."

When I creak open the door to Gatsby's room, I hear a familiar voice singing some solfege. And even though it's easy, his pitch is perfect.

Wait a minute. No way.

Gatsby sits next to Shawn. He stands up, but tells Shawn to continue when he notices. He walks over to me peeking through the door. Quietly laughing at my shocked expression, he leans against the wall. "Can't believe your ears, huh?"

"Wha- Have you been teaching him behind my back? So why do you need me?" I jokingly bitch at my teacher. He rolls his eyes at me and turns his head at Shawn, who is continuing his sight-reading at an amazing pace. I look at him as well. His posture is way better than it ever was at the end of the day, and he's breathing through his diaphragm.

"He emailed me last night and asked me to come in the morning on his own. Something about beating you in a race?"

My grip gets tighter on the door. "Really?"

"Yep. Only good things. He said you looked cute trying to keep up with him, but he says he won't be satisfied until he beats you at the last part of your little triathlon."

I feel my face get hot and my mouth curl into a smile.