Becoming Who We Are Ch. 01

She stared at Mark's back for entertainment. He definitely worked out, she thought, watching his shoulders move slightly under his shirt. His hair, almost a blue-black, looked thick and straight. It fell into a neat line halfway down his tanned neck. She wished she had gotten a better look at his legs. She couldn't see them from where she sat. Behind her, Lakeesha leaned forward and said softly, "Cute."

Melina shot a quick look at Mrs. Cowden writing in her book. Melina turned, grinned at Lakeesha and said, equally softly, "Very."

The girl smiled back and Melina felt the year might have some promise after all.

**

The cheerful cacophony of musicians warming up greeted Melina as she opened the door to the band room for fourth period. She crossed the large main room to the smaller instrument closet, wondering what had possessed the school to choose such a hideous shade of brown for the carpet. Maybe it didn't show stains, but what was the use of that if it was so ugly anyway?

She could barely push her way into the small chamber. She edged through the kids assembling saxophones, trombones and other large instruments and slid her trumpet's case off its shelf. When she spun around, her case nearly hit someone putting together a sax, his back to her. She started to apologize, then realized he had no idea she had almost hit him and shut her mouth. It occurred to her then that she had seen the back of this particular head before.

"Mark?" she said, incredulous to find him in the band room. He hadn't struck her as the musical type, somehow. He turned and smiled.

"Hey! You're in band too? What do you play?"

"Trumpet," she said, holding up the case as proof. She nodded towards the saxophone. "Tenor or alto? I can never tell the difference."

"Tenor," Mark said, sliding a wooden reed onto the black mouthpiece and tightening the metal ligature around it to hold it in place. He carefully fitted a short, curved tube to the saxophone's body, then slipped the mouthpiece onto the end of the curved piece of metal. Attaching the instrument to a wide strap around his neck, Mark closed and latched the case and slid it into a large slot. He turned to Melina and tapped the instrument's curved neck.

"You can tell by this curve. An alto's neck is straight."

She nodded. A bell rang and kids streamed out of the closet into the main band room.

"We'd better go," she said, moving to join the others. "I still need to get my trumpet ready."

Mark followed the girl into the big room and up the four shallow stairs that led to the practice tiers. She certainly had a nice back. Not every girl could carry off that shade of green, but it enhanced her wide green eyes. Mark noticed details like that; his mother often commented, in Mandarin of course, on female customers' taste -- or lack of it -- and he always had to make some sort of response or suffer a scolding for not listening. Thank goodness Mary was old enough to handle money now, and he seldom had to work the cash register anymore. He loved his mother, but she drove him crazy with her detailed critiques. Mark kept an eye on Melina as she joined the other trumpets. She carried her case, and herself for that matter, with grace. His martial arts teacher would approve.

He stepped down to the second tier and sat beside the first chair tenor sax player, who made a show of reading through her music and ignoring him. Mark didn't mind. He had more important things to do than waste time trying to win her over.

He flipped through the pre-game music. "White Rose March." The school song, "Rose Warriors." Something called "The Horse," and "We Are the Champions," an old rock and roll song that had lost something vital in the translation to a marching band arrangement. He had practiced all faithfully since band camp in early August. Not that he really needed to -- the parts for tenor sax involved rhythm lines rather than melody, and he could play ninety-six bars of dotted quarter and eighth notes in his sleep. To warm up, he quietly fingered some more difficult passages from a Bach two-part invention he had memorized, then ran through a chromatic scale rapidly and with precision. He did not glance up to see if the first chair -- was it Suzanne or Susan? He couldn't recall -- noticed his proficiency. That would have given away the game.

Behind him, Melina slid into her seat beside the other second trumpets. Ms. Shaffer had told her yesterday she would probably make first trumpet after marching season, but for now, Melina would take first chair among the seconds. The band director, who spoke and moved like a living version of "Flight of the Bumblebee," had told the girl she needed a strong player on second. In fact, she had worried a bit about the balance between the firsts and seconds, but now that she had Melina, she felt better about it. And would Melina please keep that last comment to herself? No need to undermine the others' confidence. Oh, did she think she could learn all the music in a week? After flipping through the music, Melina had nodded. A couple of songs had a tricky run or two, but otherwise the music looked basic enough. She had kept that observation to herself, too.

Today, Melina swiftly assembled her instrument, testing the slides and valves to see that they worked properly. She had time to run through a couple of passages that looked potentially troublesome before Ms. Shaffer waved the band silent. The director flipped on the electronic tuner and began the tedious process of tuning nearly seventy instruments.

"Who are you?" the boy to her right asked.

"Melina Taylor. I just moved here last week."

"I was supposed to be first chair," he said resentfully.

Melina didn't know what to say to him. She couldn't exactly apologize for being better, so she shrugged and said nothing. The guy on her other side must have heard, for he turned to her with a brilliant smile.

"Hi. I'm Pete. You must be new."

She returned his smile with gratitude.

"Yeah. I'm Melina. My family just moved here from Maryland."

Desperate to keep the conversation going, she flipped her music to a song that had a strange-sounding run.

"What's your part in this? Mine sounds weird."

"It's a harmony part," the first boy said derisively. "Can't you tell that? Geez!"

"She wasn't talking to you, Ron," Pete said, leaning forward to see around Melina. "So butt out."

Pete leaned back, thumbing through the miniature music pages until he found the right one. He scanned the bars and put his fingers under the ones in question. Melina put her music next to his and they compared the two.

"It is harmonic, but in fourths," Pete said. "That's why it sounds funny. We're used to hearing thirds or fifths."

Melina gave Pete a closer look. He sounded casual and confident.

"Have you taken music theory?"

"God, yes," he replied, smiling. "My life is music theory. My mother teaches music and performs in a quartet and Dad plays bass in a swing band. I couldn't avoid music theory if I wanted to. Mom started me on the piano when I was five."

"Really?"

"Yep. She thinks kids should start playing music when they're young."

"So how many instruments do you play then?"

"Besides trumpet and piano, guitar -- I play that in jazz ensemble -- flute and sax, 'cause they're very similar, and anything else with valves -- French horn, baritone, tuba. But trumpet and guitar are the only ones that sound any good. I just like to dabble with the others."

He sounded matter-of-fact, as if anyone could learn to play eight instruments. Melina was impressed.

The first chair trumpet sounded a clear, mellow "C." The entire section quickly tuned one by one. Melina had nice, clear tone, Mark thought.

"A few cents flat, Melissa," Ms. Shaffer said.

Melina said nothing. Teachers called her Melissa all the time. They had way too much to do today for her to correct the director now. She'd mention it on her way out.

Making the necessary adjustment, Melina tried again. Perfect. Next to her, Ron sounded terribly sharp. Melina smiled to herself as a couple of people turned around to see who was so off-key.

Once tuned, the band played the entire pre-game show without stopping. After that, Ms. Shaffer had them play each song again, this time halting the group frequently to adjust balance, correct mistakes and fix all the other little things that go wrong when sixty-eight amateurs play together for the first time in several weeks. Ms. Shaffer appeared drained by the end of the session, but Melina felt energized. Ms. Shaffer knew her stuff. It would be a good band. The tone signaling the start of the fourth, and final, lunch period sounded, the musicians' cue to hurry or be last in line.

Melina didn't hurry to pack up. Seeing her, Ms. Shaffer hurried over.

"Melissa..."

"Melina."

"Oh. Sorry. It usually takes me a few days to learn all the names. Anyway, do you have a few minutes to get a uniform? I completely forgot about it when you came in last week. There aren't many left, so you'd better pick one now, while you still have a slim chance of finding one that doesn't make you look like an overgrown bellhop or a toddler wearing her daddy's usher uniform."

Melina laughed.

"I'll be right there."

She slid her trumpet case into its slot and followed Ms. Shaffer to the uniform room. The director compared the three available suits to Melina and shook her head.

"Oh, dear," she said. "It's worse than I thought."

She picked up the first uniform and read from its label.

"This one's for someone six-foot-four and one hundred ninety pounds."

She peered at the next one.

"This one's for someone five-foot-eleven and two hundred thirty pounds. Probably a sousaphone player. And this last one was made for someone five-foot-four and one hundred seventy pounds."

The director plucked the last one from the rack and handed it to the girl.

"You're not supposed to alter the uniforms, dear, but if you were to stitch a couple of tucks into that waistband, ones that could easily be ripped out later, I'd never know unless you told me. So here you are. At least it won't constrict your movements in any way. Just let me write down its number in the book here. You can leave it here and pick it up after school."

"Okay. I'll see you later then."

But Ms. Shaffer had already trotted back to her office. The day never was long enough, was it? And she was starved.

Melina left, pondering her new red uniform. It practically glowed in the dark. Well, at least people would be able to see them. Assuming the color didn't blind them, of course.

**

Luke's day had not improved much. At his parents' insistence, he had signed up for pre-calculus. He had understood almost nothing the teacher had said after introducing herself. Chemistry looked equally bad. English and German classes seemed tolerable, even if he was the only senior in German II. History definitely looked interesting.

"Luke Tang?" the teacher had said, pronouncing his last name correctly. Luke had nodded. "Do you have a brother named Mark?"

"Uh, yes."

"Ah. He has me for homeroom."

Luke couldn't think of anything to say, so he just bobbed his head again. Mrs. Cowden had smiled at him before continuing assigning seats. Flipping through the textbook later, Luke noticed an entire chapter on Chinese and Japanese immigration. That surprised him. In his experience, history book writers acted as though Europeans and Africans were the only people who had come to America from anywhere else.

Phys ed, as always, was a taste of hell. He felt awkward and stupid in the echoing gym. He hated the appraising glances the coach and the other kids had given him when he trudged out of the locker room. He knew the routine: they would look him over from head to toe, taking in his skinny arms and knobby knees. Depending on the appraiser's level of niceness, he would then get a shake of the head or a sneer. Today, he felt like a side of beef condemned by a team of meat inspectors.

After the final bell, Luke left the building with an overwhelming sense of relief. The school year had only one hundred seventy-nine more days. He couldn't wait for them to be over.

He had just crossed the street into the park when he saw the blond boy he had bumped into that morning. Luke quickened his pace, hoping the other kid had not seen him. The blond sped up, intercepting Luke and blocking his path.

"Where ya going?" he asked casually.

"Home."

Luke's heart thudded against his ribs. He yearned to run away from this grinning goon, but knew he couldn't hope to outdistance him. The boy folded his arms across his broad chest. His smile deepened.

"Where's home?"

"That way." Luke pointed to his left, away from where he actually lived.

"No it isn't, you lying sack of shit," the blond said. Luke held his breath. How could this kid know he was lying? His muscles stiffened until he could not have escaped if he wanted to. The boy took a step toward Luke.

"Why don't you go back where you came from?"

Luke said nothing. He flicked a glance at the boy's solid arms and clenched fists. He felt dizzy. He opened his mouth to breathe.

The blond boy took another step, then another. Luke's eyes locked onto the boy's face. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

"I said, why don't you go back where you came from, you little slant-eyed chink?"

Luke's breathing became ragged and shallow, as if he had just raced up a couple of flights of stairs. This kid outweighed him by at sixty or seventy pounds. He looked exactly like a Nazi stormtrooper.

Both jumped when a car horn sounded nearby.

"Hey, Jeff!" a girl shouted. Both boys swiveled their heads to see a girl with long dark hair leaning from a car's rear window. She waved. "Come here!"

Jeff's eyes returned to his trembling victim. He felt satisfied at what he had achieved. The kid looked petrified. He had been right to trust his instinct. He intended to enjoy this to the fullest. It would be a very good year.

"You'll see me again, you little chink. I promise."

He spun around and swaggered to the car. Unable to use his legs, Luke watched Jeff laugh with the girl, then open the car door and join her in the back seat. Only after the car sped away did Luke begin to relax.

He sank to the ground, dropping his books and covering his face with his hands.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Luke would be lucky to survive the year.