Poem: Practice
Practice
by Amy Hull
I eat quickly
in the chaos of the lunchroom
voices, shuffling feet, clanking dishes and silverware
frustration, anger, boredom, all
echoing off the walls and ceiling
drowning out even voices inches from me.
I escape the din less than ten minutes after entering
The cool air in the back parking lot
smells of freezer burn and
nips my cheeks and thin fingers
as I scuff my feet at bits of gravel.
The playground--bare but for basketball hoops
caged in a tall chain-link fence
and two lone swing sets
(what did junior high students need with play equipment?
there was no recess, thank heavens,
only lunch period; the time after eating and before starting class)--
is still mostly empty.
Most of the student share their lunch period
with friends.
They linger over eating and talking
delaying their departure from the building into the empty yard.
No one is watching
so, as has become my habit,
I slip in the doors of the music wing.
No one is there this time of day
no one will see or hear me as
I quietly sneak into the practice room--
always too hot there
behind the strings classroom
bound on each side by an empty closet
set apart from the band area, the math rooms, the home ec rooms
even the hallway.
The empty silence of my private
hideway
greets me.
No one will hear me put in my thirty minutes
of practice.
No one will know I've crept into the building
away from the emptiness,
loneliness,
brutal teasing,
and other dangers
of the playground.
Then I can leave my violin at school
rather than maneuvering the awkward case
up and down
the narrow school bus steps
up and down
the long hill of our driveway.
I can practice the viola,
a new instrument for me
the only student with large enough hands
and one
which I play equally poorly,
not having perfect pitch
or the ability to prevent the occasional
strangled screech
of the strings.
I've learned to read alto clef, though.
That wasn't hard
after all, I learned
bass clef alone
so I could teach myself to play piano
an instrument that requires only precision--
which I can do--
rather than tuning notes to perfection
by ear
which I can't.
I set myself a task:
I will play each piece
without errors
through at least once before stopping.
There are only four
or five or six
...the details have slipped away.
I tighten the bow,
rub the natural smell of new, hard-candied resin
along the horse hairs,
attach the shoulder rest,
set my music in order
and begin methodically.
One piece
technically correct
no real soul to it.
I never was terribly musical.
I turn the pages on the black music stand
which is so much sturdier than
the compact, collapsible, silver one at home.
I start the next piece,
make a mistake,
start over.
The door squeaks open.
I turned, flushed with the adrenaline rush of guilt,
ready to promise the approaching teacher
that I'll leave immediately,
but see a student.
Male.
Tall.
Unfamiliar.
He saunters in.
Sits on another stool
or leans against the wall.
I'm not sure what he looks like
or what he's wearing.
I'm looking resolutely at my the black dots of my music.
I ignore the tightness of my stomach and
start the piece again,
make a mistake,
start over,
try to keep my focus on the round, ordered notes,
not on watching
him
out of the corner of my eye,
fuzzy in the space outside my glasses frames.
Ignore him.
Ignore.
Keep breathing
even though it's shallow
quick.
Keep playing.
My chest is tight,
empty,
hollow,
But I'm here to do something.
If I stop, he wins.
If I talk, he wins because he's interrupted me.
If I keep playing
maybe
just maybe
he'll go away.
Junior high boys are bored by classical music,
Right?
The music isn't interesting.
If I ignore him I won't be interesting
and he'll leave me alone
or so says all the common wisdom
I've ever been given
over
and over.
Ignore him
and he'll stop.
Ignore him
and he'll go away.
I make mistakes over and over
my fingers faltering
finding the wrong places on the strings with a slight tremor.
Discordance and squeals replace
the tentative harmony of the first piece.
He watches.
I shudder
inside
invisibly.
I don't think about his purpose
about what he might
say
or do.
I don't think he might hurt me.
Poker face.
I must maintain my poker face.
He's on my right
so maybe he can't see,
especially through my thick lenses,
that my eyes are dilating.
Each piece,
once through,
no errors.
Then I can go.
If I change my plans, he wins.
If I look at him
acknowledge him
I have no idea what he will do.
I do know no one else is near;
it's part of why I chose this place for my
lunchtime refuge.
He might hit me
with the stinging slap of the girl on the playground last month
that left a dull ache and broke my glasses,
which my parents then had to pay to fix,
since I'd not ignored the girl,
or not ignored her properly.
He might break my violin,
the one my parents could barely afford
in the first place,
or block the door
and trap me
in this secluded back room.
He might mock me
or take my things
or touch my breast
like the preacher had
so recently
or do worse.
I keep playing
though I can't keep time
over the erratic and over-sped
beating of my heart
pounding in my ears
distracting me.
I make a mistake again
keep going,
get to the end,
start over.
Once through
each piece
no errors.
"You should get a pimp."
I miss a note.
I'll have to do this one yet again.
My minute pause was too long
and gave me away.
He knows I heard.
So much for ignoring.
And I was doing so well
except my stiffness,
the tremor of my very visible fingers,
the number of sour notes.
Like the others, he doesn't go away when I ignore him.
Doesn't stop
or leave me in peace
in spite of
repeated
futile
adult promises of that outcome.
Clearly
I don't ignore well enough to earn that respite.
He knows I'm aware of him,
repeats his statement.
I use my reputation for naïveté
pretend not to know the word
"Pimp?"
"Yeah. You know, a pimp."
I think he mentions how much money I could make.
I start the piece again.
If I get it right, there will only be four more pieces
to play through
perfectly
to fulfill my practice time.
He shuffles,
restless.
Perhaps I am ignoring well enough
after all.
Perhaps I'm boring
in my long wool skirt--
the reversible one I blind-stitch hemmed by hand
to keep as much length as possible--
and my cardigan,
dressed for a decade
thirty years past.
I ignore him.
He doesn't leave.
The hairs standing up on my neck and arms
acutely aware of his presence
my sour notes belying my
practiced and ill-executed indifference.
The pulse in my ears continues to interrupt
the beat for the songs on the metal stand.
Five errors that time
I start over yet again.
He's bored
moving slightly
looking around more
not enough reaction
not enough entertainment
just the awkward dissonance of badly-played classical music.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
At the swagger and casual certainty
in his voice, I actually pause.
Big mistake
He may have smiled.
He knows he's got me.
I take a deep breath.
My heart rate only speeds up further.
I hope the shiver
that ripples through my belly
is not visible
while I play the piece again.
Three more.
Just three more.
Maybe I'll skip viola today.
Eventually, after days of the standoff
he leaves.
He never touches me
which means that it won't "count"
and telling anyone will only earn
yet another repetition of the crushingly dismissive,
"Well, did he touch you? Then what's your problem?"
My things are still mine.
My violin intact.
I do what I had planned, and play through each piece without errors.
I loosen the bow hair,
wipe the resin from the strings and surface of the violin,
carefully store it away.
Cautiously, I open the door
check the hallway for all clear
ignore the pounding in my chest and ears
ignore my trembling
If I ignore it, it will go away, right?
I go to class.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
I don't lug my instrument home on the bus.
Creeping softly into the house,
I lock myself in my room,
take down the previous year's yearbook,
look from face to face.
By the second page,
the faces
eyes
shapes
skin tones
blur together.
I keep looking,
examining each face twice,
knowing that,
without a name,
any report to an adult would be shrugged off
even if there were sympathy.
"Sorry. What can we do if you can't tell us who he was?"
My hands tremble
as I turn the pages
but all the faces look alike
and I can't isolate one
or even five
can't find in my memory a single feature
the shape of a nose, the shape of the face.
I dutifully look at each picture of each boy
scrutinize
stare
ponder
know that I don't know
know that whatever mental picture I had of the student
from the practice room
is lost in the sea of faces of the yearbook
if his face was even in there.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Bravado.
It was certainly bravado
and a last-ditch effort to get my attention
to elicit a response
beyond the bad violin playing.
The chances are miniscule
of him knowing any such thing,
of there being any follow-through.
I close the yearbook,
swallow hard,
shake my head,
return it to my bookshelf.
And so I go on.
Normal.
Nothing happened, after all.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Just words.
I keep my silence;
other tellings have only ricocheted back
on me
like stray ammunition or friendly fire.
If I'm listening a bit more closely
watching my surroundings a bit more carefully,
listening for a stray footfall,
for skittering rocks or snapping twigs,
being ready for the unexpected.
That's just wise, after all.
I only pay truly careful attention,
shoulders squared
ears sharp
a hand on the leather strap of my purse
when walking near the school,
and only for the six months or so
until I move up to the ninth grade school building.
Still, years on,
something electric shudders its occasional path
through my stomach and groin
as I wait for the inevitable reality of that prophecy,
loosed by his words
kept alive
in my mind,
the tremors of my hands,
and the emptiness that sometimes echoes
hollowly
through my chest.
***
Revision, 25.April.2010
Practice
by Amy Hull
I eat alone
voices shuffling feet clanking dishes silverware
frustration anger boredom
all
echo off walls and ceiling
chaos
drowns out voices even inches away.
I escape the din in seven minutes.
Cool air
smells of freezer burn
nips my cheeks and thin fingers.
I scuff my feet at bits of gravel.
The playground--bare but for aging basketball hoops
caged in a tall chain-link fence
two lone swing sets beyond
(what did junior high need with play equipment?
there was blessedly no recess,
only the time before school and after eating)--
is still mostly empty.
Most students
linger over eating and gossiping
(how do they hear in that cacophony?)
sharing lunch with friends.
With no one watching
I slip in the music wing
into the practice room--
silent
still
stifling
hot
empty--
behind the strings classroom
bound on each side by an empty closet
set apart from the band area, the math rooms, the home ec rooms.
The empty silence of my private
hideaway
greets me.
No one will know I've found a corner
safe
away from emptiness,
loneliness,
brutal teasing,
other dangers--
the slaps of hands and words
the broken glasses and spirit
of the playground--
here I am protected
by doors rooms walls.
Thirty minutes of practice then
I will not need to maneuver the awkward case
up and down
the narrow school bus steps
up and down
the long hill of our driveway.
I can practice the viola,
new to me
the only student with large enough hands
I play both poorly,
not having perfect pitch
or the ability to prevent the occasional
strangled screech
of the strings.
I've learned to read alto clef, though.
That wasn't hard
after all, I learned
bass clef alone
so I could teach myself to play piano
an instrument that requires only precision--
which I can do--
rather than tuning notes to perfection
by ear
which I can't.
Music on stand
I will play each piece
without errors before stopping.
I tighten the bow,
rub the natural smell of new, hard-candied resin
along the horse hairs,
attach the shoulder rest,
begin methodically.
One piece
technically correct
no real soul to it.
turn the pages on the sturdy black stand
start the next piece,
make a mistake,
start over.
The door squeaks open.
I turned, flushed with the adrenaline rush of guilt,
ready to promise the approaching teacher
I'll leave immediately.
It's a student.
Male.
Tall.
Unfamiliar.
He saunters in.
Sits on another stool
or leans against the wall.
I'm not sure what he looks like
or what he's wearing
because I do not look at him.
I look resolutely at the black dots of my music.
I ignore the shudder in the backs of my arms
the tightness of my stomach
the pounding of my heart.
I do not look at him.
Only at the music on the sturdy black stand
I start the piece again,
make a mistake,
start over,
focus on the round, ordered notes,
not on watching
him
out of the corner of my eye,
fuzzy in the space outside my glasses frames.
Ignore him.
Ignore.
Keep breathing
shallow
quick.
Keep playing.
My chest is tight,
empty,
hollow,
I'm here to do something.
If I stop, he wins.
If I talk, he wins because he's interrupted me.
Safe place.
Safe, hidden.
If I keep playing
maybe
just maybe
he'll go away.
Junior high boys are bored by classical music,
Right?
The music isn't interesting.
If I ignore him I won't be interesting
and he'll leave me alone
or so says all the common wisdom
I've ever been given
over
and over.
Ignore him
and he'll stop.
Ignore him
and he'll go away.
I make mistakes over and over
my fingers faltering
finding the wrong places on the strings with a slight tremor.
Discordance and squeals replace
the tentative melody of the first piece.
He watches.
I shudder
inside
invisibly.
I don't think about his purpose
about what he might
say
or do.
I don't think he might hurt me.
Poker face.
I must maintain my poker face.
He's on my right
so maybe he can't see--
especially through my thick lenses--
my eyes dilating.
Each piece,
once through,
no errors.
Then I can go.
If I change my plans, he wins.
If I look at him
acknowledge him
I have no idea what he will do.
Looking might provoke.
If I ignore him he will stop
ignore him he will stop
No one else is near;
it's why I chose this place
for my lunchtime refuge.
He might hit me
with the stinging slap of the girl on the playground last month
that left a dull ache and broke my glasses,
which my parents then had to pay to fix,
since I'd not ignored the girl,
or not ignored her properly.
He might break my violin,
the one my parents could barely afford
in the first place.
He's blocking the door
trapping me
in this secluded back room
the band around my chest tightens.
My stomach drops at my own foolhardy
rule-breaking
that chose this danger.
He might mock me
or take my things
or touch my breast
like the preacher had
so recently
or do worse.
I keep playing
though I can't keep time
over the erratic and over-sped
beating of my heart
pounding in my ears
distracting me.
I make a mistake again
keep going,
get to the end,
start over.
Once through
each piece
no errors.
"You should get a pimp."
I miss a note.
I'll have to do this one yet again.
My minute pause was too long
and gave me away.
He knows I heard.
So much for ignoring.
And I was doing so well
except my stiffness,
the tremor of my very visible fingers,
the number of sour notes.
Like the others, he doesn't go away when I ignore him.
Doesn't stop
or leave me in peace
in spite of
repeated
futile
adult promises of that outcome.
Clearly
I don't ignore well enough to earn that respite.
He knows I'm aware of him,
repeats his statement.
I use my reputation for naïveté
pretend not to know the word
"Pimp?"
"Yeah. You know, a pimp."
I think he mentions how much money I could make.
I'm not listening
only clenching my violin between my chin and shoulder.
If I ignore him
he will leave.
I start the piece again.
If I get it right, there will only be four more pieces
to play through
perfectly
to fulfill my practice time.
He shuffles,
restless.
Perhaps I am ignoring well enough
after all.
Perhaps I'm boring
in my long wool skirt--
the reversible one I blind-stitch hemmed by hand
to keep as much length as possible--
and my cardigan,
dressed for a decade
thirty years past.
My body not on display
and he still sees my sexuality
I swallow hard
plan for how to hide better
if I have the chance.
If he doesn't hurt me.
My sour notes belie my
practiced and ill-executed indifference.
I ignore him.
He doesn't leave.
The hairs standing up on my neck and arms
acutely aware of his presence.
The pulse in my ears continues to interrupt
the beat for the songs on the metal stand.
Five errors that time
I start over yet again.
He's bored
moving slightly
looking around more
not enough reaction
not enough entertainment
just the awkward dissonance of badly-played classical music.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
At the swagger and casual certainty
in his voice, I actually pause.
Big mistake
He may have smiled.
He knows he's got me.
I take a deep breath.
My heart rate only speeds up further.
In the commotion of the lunchroom
I wouldn't have heard his words.
But I am in my safe hideaway
and no one knows I am--we are--there.
I hope the shiver
that ripples through my belly
is not visible
while I play the piece again.
Three more.
Just three more.
Maybe I'll skip viola today.
Eventually, after forever
he leaves.
He never touches me.
Relief
mixes with
disappointment
because it won't "count"
and telling anyone will only earn
yet another repetition of the crushingly dismissive,
"Did he touch you? Then what's your problem?"
My things are still mine.
My violin intact.
I do what I had planned, and play through each piece without errors.
I loosen the bow hair,
wipe the resin from the strings and surface of the violin,
carefully store it away.
Cautiously, I open the door
check the hallway
ignore the pounding in my chest and ears
ignore my trembling
If I ignore it, it will go away, right?
I go to class.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
On the bus I can curl up
small
behind the driver
shivering where it's "safe".
No violin to make me bigger.
At home I lock myself in my room,
look in the yearbook from face to face.
By the second page,
the faces
eyes
shapes
skin tones
blur together.
I keep looking,
examining each face twice.
Without a name,
any report will be shrugged off,
"Sorry. What can we do if you can't tell us who he was?"
My hands tremble
as I turn the pages
all the faces look alike
I can't isolate one
or even five
can't find in my memory a single feature
the shape of a nose, the shape of the face.
I dutifully look at each picture of each boy
scrutinize
stare
ponder
know that I don't know.
I didn't look at him
looking might provoke
ignore him and he'll go away
I ignored him right out of my memory.
My shoulders sag.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Bravado.
It was certainly bravado
and a last-ditch effort to get my attention
to elicit a response
beyond the bad violin playing.
The chances are miniscule
of him knowing any such thing,
of there being any follow-through.
I close the yearbook,
swallow hard,
shake my head,
return it to my bookshelf.
And so I go on.
Normal.
Nothing happened, after all.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Words.
He didn't touch me.
So he didn't hurt me, right?
I keep my silence.
His silence.
Other tellings have only ricocheted back
on me
like stray ammunition or friendly fire.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
It was a bluff.
Words.
If I'm listening a bit more closely
watching a bit more carefully,
listening for a stray footfall,
skittering rocks or snapping twigs,
ready for the unexpected,
that's just wise, after all.
I walk
shoulders squared
ears sharp
muscles tenser
hand clenched on the leather strap of my purse.
He didn't touch me.
No one has since the preacher.
He didn't hurt me
just touched.
The cigarettes kids crumpled into my hair on the bus
wasn't really touching.
"Bitch. We're gonna set your hair on fire."
They were bluffing.
He was bluffing
The coldness in the pit of my stomach
will fade.
They didn't really hurt me
after all.
If I am a bit nervous
it is only near the school
and only for the six months or so
until I move to the ninth grade school building.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Still, years on,
and I hear
footfalls
a snapped twig
a skittering rock or bottlecap
feel
see
a man standing close
a stranger's cold eyes
and
something electric shudders its occasional path
through my stomach and groin.
I wait for the inevitable reality of that prophecy,
loosed by his words
kept alive
in my mind,
the tremors of my hands,
and the emptiness that sometimes echoes
hollowly
through my chest.
***
by Amy Hull
I eat quickly
in the chaos of the lunchroom
voices, shuffling feet, clanking dishes and silverware
frustration, anger, boredom, all
echoing off the walls and ceiling
drowning out even voices inches from me.
I escape the din less than ten minutes after entering
The cool air in the back parking lot
smells of freezer burn and
nips my cheeks and thin fingers
as I scuff my feet at bits of gravel.
The playground--bare but for basketball hoops
caged in a tall chain-link fence
and two lone swing sets
(what did junior high students need with play equipment?
there was no recess, thank heavens,
only lunch period; the time after eating and before starting class)--
is still mostly empty.
Most of the student share their lunch period
with friends.
They linger over eating and talking
delaying their departure from the building into the empty yard.
No one is watching
so, as has become my habit,
I slip in the doors of the music wing.
No one is there this time of day
no one will see or hear me as
I quietly sneak into the practice room--
always too hot there
behind the strings classroom
bound on each side by an empty closet
set apart from the band area, the math rooms, the home ec rooms
even the hallway.
The empty silence of my private
hideway
greets me.
No one will hear me put in my thirty minutes
of practice.
No one will know I've crept into the building
away from the emptiness,
loneliness,
brutal teasing,
and other dangers
of the playground.
Then I can leave my violin at school
rather than maneuvering the awkward case
up and down
the narrow school bus steps
up and down
the long hill of our driveway.
I can practice the viola,
a new instrument for me
the only student with large enough hands
and one
which I play equally poorly,
not having perfect pitch
or the ability to prevent the occasional
strangled screech
of the strings.
I've learned to read alto clef, though.
That wasn't hard
after all, I learned
bass clef alone
so I could teach myself to play piano
an instrument that requires only precision--
which I can do--
rather than tuning notes to perfection
by ear
which I can't.
I set myself a task:
I will play each piece
without errors
through at least once before stopping.
There are only four
or five or six
...the details have slipped away.
I tighten the bow,
rub the natural smell of new, hard-candied resin
along the horse hairs,
attach the shoulder rest,
set my music in order
and begin methodically.
One piece
technically correct
no real soul to it.
I never was terribly musical.
I turn the pages on the black music stand
which is so much sturdier than
the compact, collapsible, silver one at home.
I start the next piece,
make a mistake,
start over.
The door squeaks open.
I turned, flushed with the adrenaline rush of guilt,
ready to promise the approaching teacher
that I'll leave immediately,
but see a student.
Male.
Tall.
Unfamiliar.
He saunters in.
Sits on another stool
or leans against the wall.
I'm not sure what he looks like
or what he's wearing.
I'm looking resolutely at my the black dots of my music.
I ignore the tightness of my stomach and
start the piece again,
make a mistake,
start over,
try to keep my focus on the round, ordered notes,
not on watching
him
out of the corner of my eye,
fuzzy in the space outside my glasses frames.
Ignore him.
Ignore.
Keep breathing
even though it's shallow
quick.
Keep playing.
My chest is tight,
empty,
hollow,
But I'm here to do something.
If I stop, he wins.
If I talk, he wins because he's interrupted me.
If I keep playing
maybe
just maybe
he'll go away.
Junior high boys are bored by classical music,
Right?
The music isn't interesting.
If I ignore him I won't be interesting
and he'll leave me alone
or so says all the common wisdom
I've ever been given
over
and over.
Ignore him
and he'll stop.
Ignore him
and he'll go away.
I make mistakes over and over
my fingers faltering
finding the wrong places on the strings with a slight tremor.
Discordance and squeals replace
the tentative harmony of the first piece.
He watches.
I shudder
inside
invisibly.
I don't think about his purpose
about what he might
say
or do.
I don't think he might hurt me.
Poker face.
I must maintain my poker face.
He's on my right
so maybe he can't see,
especially through my thick lenses,
that my eyes are dilating.
Each piece,
once through,
no errors.
Then I can go.
If I change my plans, he wins.
If I look at him
acknowledge him
I have no idea what he will do.
I do know no one else is near;
it's part of why I chose this place for my
lunchtime refuge.
He might hit me
with the stinging slap of the girl on the playground last month
that left a dull ache and broke my glasses,
which my parents then had to pay to fix,
since I'd not ignored the girl,
or not ignored her properly.
He might break my violin,
the one my parents could barely afford
in the first place,
or block the door
and trap me
in this secluded back room.
He might mock me
or take my things
or touch my breast
like the preacher had
so recently
or do worse.
I keep playing
though I can't keep time
over the erratic and over-sped
beating of my heart
pounding in my ears
distracting me.
I make a mistake again
keep going,
get to the end,
start over.
Once through
each piece
no errors.
"You should get a pimp."
I miss a note.
I'll have to do this one yet again.
My minute pause was too long
and gave me away.
He knows I heard.
So much for ignoring.
And I was doing so well
except my stiffness,
the tremor of my very visible fingers,
the number of sour notes.
Like the others, he doesn't go away when I ignore him.
Doesn't stop
or leave me in peace
in spite of
repeated
futile
adult promises of that outcome.
Clearly
I don't ignore well enough to earn that respite.
He knows I'm aware of him,
repeats his statement.
I use my reputation for naïveté
pretend not to know the word
"Pimp?"
"Yeah. You know, a pimp."
I think he mentions how much money I could make.
I start the piece again.
If I get it right, there will only be four more pieces
to play through
perfectly
to fulfill my practice time.
He shuffles,
restless.
Perhaps I am ignoring well enough
after all.
Perhaps I'm boring
in my long wool skirt--
the reversible one I blind-stitch hemmed by hand
to keep as much length as possible--
and my cardigan,
dressed for a decade
thirty years past.
I ignore him.
He doesn't leave.
The hairs standing up on my neck and arms
acutely aware of his presence
my sour notes belying my
practiced and ill-executed indifference.
The pulse in my ears continues to interrupt
the beat for the songs on the metal stand.
Five errors that time
I start over yet again.
He's bored
moving slightly
looking around more
not enough reaction
not enough entertainment
just the awkward dissonance of badly-played classical music.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
At the swagger and casual certainty
in his voice, I actually pause.
Big mistake
He may have smiled.
He knows he's got me.
I take a deep breath.
My heart rate only speeds up further.
I hope the shiver
that ripples through my belly
is not visible
while I play the piece again.
Three more.
Just three more.
Maybe I'll skip viola today.
Eventually, after days of the standoff
he leaves.
He never touches me
which means that it won't "count"
and telling anyone will only earn
yet another repetition of the crushingly dismissive,
"Well, did he touch you? Then what's your problem?"
My things are still mine.
My violin intact.
I do what I had planned, and play through each piece without errors.
I loosen the bow hair,
wipe the resin from the strings and surface of the violin,
carefully store it away.
Cautiously, I open the door
check the hallway for all clear
ignore the pounding in my chest and ears
ignore my trembling
If I ignore it, it will go away, right?
I go to class.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
I don't lug my instrument home on the bus.
Creeping softly into the house,
I lock myself in my room,
take down the previous year's yearbook,
look from face to face.
By the second page,
the faces
eyes
shapes
skin tones
blur together.
I keep looking,
examining each face twice,
knowing that,
without a name,
any report to an adult would be shrugged off
even if there were sympathy.
"Sorry. What can we do if you can't tell us who he was?"
My hands tremble
as I turn the pages
but all the faces look alike
and I can't isolate one
or even five
can't find in my memory a single feature
the shape of a nose, the shape of the face.
I dutifully look at each picture of each boy
scrutinize
stare
ponder
know that I don't know
know that whatever mental picture I had of the student
from the practice room
is lost in the sea of faces of the yearbook
if his face was even in there.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Bravado.
It was certainly bravado
and a last-ditch effort to get my attention
to elicit a response
beyond the bad violin playing.
The chances are miniscule
of him knowing any such thing,
of there being any follow-through.
I close the yearbook,
swallow hard,
shake my head,
return it to my bookshelf.
And so I go on.
Normal.
Nothing happened, after all.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Just words.
I keep my silence;
other tellings have only ricocheted back
on me
like stray ammunition or friendly fire.
If I'm listening a bit more closely
watching my surroundings a bit more carefully,
listening for a stray footfall,
for skittering rocks or snapping twigs,
being ready for the unexpected.
That's just wise, after all.
I only pay truly careful attention,
shoulders squared
ears sharp
a hand on the leather strap of my purse
when walking near the school,
and only for the six months or so
until I move up to the ninth grade school building.
Still, years on,
something electric shudders its occasional path
through my stomach and groin
as I wait for the inevitable reality of that prophecy,
loosed by his words
kept alive
in my mind,
the tremors of my hands,
and the emptiness that sometimes echoes
hollowly
through my chest.
***
Revision, 25.April.2010
Practice
by Amy Hull
I eat alone
voices shuffling feet clanking dishes silverware
frustration anger boredom
all
echo off walls and ceiling
chaos
drowns out voices even inches away.
I escape the din in seven minutes.
Cool air
smells of freezer burn
nips my cheeks and thin fingers.
I scuff my feet at bits of gravel.
The playground--bare but for aging basketball hoops
caged in a tall chain-link fence
two lone swing sets beyond
(what did junior high need with play equipment?
there was blessedly no recess,
only the time before school and after eating)--
is still mostly empty.
Most students
linger over eating and gossiping
(how do they hear in that cacophony?)
sharing lunch with friends.
With no one watching
I slip in the music wing
into the practice room--
silent
still
stifling
hot
empty--
behind the strings classroom
bound on each side by an empty closet
set apart from the band area, the math rooms, the home ec rooms.
The empty silence of my private
hideaway
greets me.
No one will know I've found a corner
safe
away from emptiness,
loneliness,
brutal teasing,
other dangers--
the slaps of hands and words
the broken glasses and spirit
of the playground--
here I am protected
by doors rooms walls.
Thirty minutes of practice then
I will not need to maneuver the awkward case
up and down
the narrow school bus steps
up and down
the long hill of our driveway.
I can practice the viola,
new to me
the only student with large enough hands
I play both poorly,
not having perfect pitch
or the ability to prevent the occasional
strangled screech
of the strings.
I've learned to read alto clef, though.
That wasn't hard
after all, I learned
bass clef alone
so I could teach myself to play piano
an instrument that requires only precision--
which I can do--
rather than tuning notes to perfection
by ear
which I can't.
Music on stand
I will play each piece
without errors before stopping.
I tighten the bow,
rub the natural smell of new, hard-candied resin
along the horse hairs,
attach the shoulder rest,
begin methodically.
One piece
technically correct
no real soul to it.
turn the pages on the sturdy black stand
start the next piece,
make a mistake,
start over.
The door squeaks open.
I turned, flushed with the adrenaline rush of guilt,
ready to promise the approaching teacher
I'll leave immediately.
It's a student.
Male.
Tall.
Unfamiliar.
He saunters in.
Sits on another stool
or leans against the wall.
I'm not sure what he looks like
or what he's wearing
because I do not look at him.
I look resolutely at the black dots of my music.
I ignore the shudder in the backs of my arms
the tightness of my stomach
the pounding of my heart.
I do not look at him.
Only at the music on the sturdy black stand
I start the piece again,
make a mistake,
start over,
focus on the round, ordered notes,
not on watching
him
out of the corner of my eye,
fuzzy in the space outside my glasses frames.
Ignore him.
Ignore.
Keep breathing
shallow
quick.
Keep playing.
My chest is tight,
empty,
hollow,
I'm here to do something.
If I stop, he wins.
If I talk, he wins because he's interrupted me.
Safe place.
Safe, hidden.
If I keep playing
maybe
just maybe
he'll go away.
Junior high boys are bored by classical music,
Right?
The music isn't interesting.
If I ignore him I won't be interesting
and he'll leave me alone
or so says all the common wisdom
I've ever been given
over
and over.
Ignore him
and he'll stop.
Ignore him
and he'll go away.
I make mistakes over and over
my fingers faltering
finding the wrong places on the strings with a slight tremor.
Discordance and squeals replace
the tentative melody of the first piece.
He watches.
I shudder
inside
invisibly.
I don't think about his purpose
about what he might
say
or do.
I don't think he might hurt me.
Poker face.
I must maintain my poker face.
He's on my right
so maybe he can't see--
especially through my thick lenses--
my eyes dilating.
Each piece,
once through,
no errors.
Then I can go.
If I change my plans, he wins.
If I look at him
acknowledge him
I have no idea what he will do.
Looking might provoke.
If I ignore him he will stop
ignore him he will stop
No one else is near;
it's why I chose this place
for my lunchtime refuge.
He might hit me
with the stinging slap of the girl on the playground last month
that left a dull ache and broke my glasses,
which my parents then had to pay to fix,
since I'd not ignored the girl,
or not ignored her properly.
He might break my violin,
the one my parents could barely afford
in the first place.
He's blocking the door
trapping me
in this secluded back room
the band around my chest tightens.
My stomach drops at my own foolhardy
rule-breaking
that chose this danger.
He might mock me
or take my things
or touch my breast
like the preacher had
so recently
or do worse.
I keep playing
though I can't keep time
over the erratic and over-sped
beating of my heart
pounding in my ears
distracting me.
I make a mistake again
keep going,
get to the end,
start over.
Once through
each piece
no errors.
"You should get a pimp."
I miss a note.
I'll have to do this one yet again.
My minute pause was too long
and gave me away.
He knows I heard.
So much for ignoring.
And I was doing so well
except my stiffness,
the tremor of my very visible fingers,
the number of sour notes.
Like the others, he doesn't go away when I ignore him.
Doesn't stop
or leave me in peace
in spite of
repeated
futile
adult promises of that outcome.
Clearly
I don't ignore well enough to earn that respite.
He knows I'm aware of him,
repeats his statement.
I use my reputation for naïveté
pretend not to know the word
"Pimp?"
"Yeah. You know, a pimp."
I think he mentions how much money I could make.
I'm not listening
only clenching my violin between my chin and shoulder.
If I ignore him
he will leave.
I start the piece again.
If I get it right, there will only be four more pieces
to play through
perfectly
to fulfill my practice time.
He shuffles,
restless.
Perhaps I am ignoring well enough
after all.
Perhaps I'm boring
in my long wool skirt--
the reversible one I blind-stitch hemmed by hand
to keep as much length as possible--
and my cardigan,
dressed for a decade
thirty years past.
My body not on display
and he still sees my sexuality
I swallow hard
plan for how to hide better
if I have the chance.
If he doesn't hurt me.
My sour notes belie my
practiced and ill-executed indifference.
I ignore him.
He doesn't leave.
The hairs standing up on my neck and arms
acutely aware of his presence.
The pulse in my ears continues to interrupt
the beat for the songs on the metal stand.
Five errors that time
I start over yet again.
He's bored
moving slightly
looking around more
not enough reaction
not enough entertainment
just the awkward dissonance of badly-played classical music.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
At the swagger and casual certainty
in his voice, I actually pause.
Big mistake
He may have smiled.
He knows he's got me.
I take a deep breath.
My heart rate only speeds up further.
In the commotion of the lunchroom
I wouldn't have heard his words.
But I am in my safe hideaway
and no one knows I am--we are--there.
I hope the shiver
that ripples through my belly
is not visible
while I play the piece again.
Three more.
Just three more.
Maybe I'll skip viola today.
Eventually, after forever
he leaves.
He never touches me.
Relief
mixes with
disappointment
because it won't "count"
and telling anyone will only earn
yet another repetition of the crushingly dismissive,
"Did he touch you? Then what's your problem?"
My things are still mine.
My violin intact.
I do what I had planned, and play through each piece without errors.
I loosen the bow hair,
wipe the resin from the strings and surface of the violin,
carefully store it away.
Cautiously, I open the door
check the hallway
ignore the pounding in my chest and ears
ignore my trembling
If I ignore it, it will go away, right?
I go to class.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
On the bus I can curl up
small
behind the driver
shivering where it's "safe".
No violin to make me bigger.
At home I lock myself in my room,
look in the yearbook from face to face.
By the second page,
the faces
eyes
shapes
skin tones
blur together.
I keep looking,
examining each face twice.
Without a name,
any report will be shrugged off,
"Sorry. What can we do if you can't tell us who he was?"
My hands tremble
as I turn the pages
all the faces look alike
I can't isolate one
or even five
can't find in my memory a single feature
the shape of a nose, the shape of the face.
I dutifully look at each picture of each boy
scrutinize
stare
ponder
know that I don't know.
I didn't look at him
looking might provoke
ignore him and he'll go away
I ignored him right out of my memory.
My shoulders sag.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Bravado.
It was certainly bravado
and a last-ditch effort to get my attention
to elicit a response
beyond the bad violin playing.
The chances are miniscule
of him knowing any such thing,
of there being any follow-through.
I close the yearbook,
swallow hard,
shake my head,
return it to my bookshelf.
And so I go on.
Normal.
Nothing happened, after all.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Words.
He didn't touch me.
So he didn't hurt me, right?
I keep my silence.
His silence.
Other tellings have only ricocheted back
on me
like stray ammunition or friendly fire.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
It was a bluff.
Words.
If I'm listening a bit more closely
watching a bit more carefully,
listening for a stray footfall,
skittering rocks or snapping twigs,
ready for the unexpected,
that's just wise, after all.
I walk
shoulders squared
ears sharp
muscles tenser
hand clenched on the leather strap of my purse.
He didn't touch me.
No one has since the preacher.
He didn't hurt me
just touched.
The cigarettes kids crumpled into my hair on the bus
wasn't really touching.
"Bitch. We're gonna set your hair on fire."
They were bluffing.
He was bluffing
The coldness in the pit of my stomach
will fade.
They didn't really hurt me
after all.
If I am a bit nervous
it is only near the school
and only for the six months or so
until I move to the ninth grade school building.
"I know when and where you're going to be raped
and I'm going to be there watching."
Still, years on,
and I hear
footfalls
a snapped twig
a skittering rock or bottlecap
feel
see
a man standing close
a stranger's cold eyes
and
something electric shudders its occasional path
through my stomach and groin.
I wait for the inevitable reality of that prophecy,
loosed by his words
kept alive
in my mind,
the tremors of my hands,
and the emptiness that sometimes echoes
hollowly
through my chest.
***