A Change in My Life, 1/?
Title: A Change in My Life, chapter one
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: K+/PG; rating could rise later
Word Count: 4,745
Main Characters: Fictional Rockapella (Sean, Scott, Elliott, Barry)
Summary: Elliott is a college teacher. Scott is an international solo singer. Barry is with the Metropolitan Opera. And Sean is down-and-out. How did it happen, and why don't they have any memories of each other or their lives?
Will be posted to 10_hurt_comfort when complete.
Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
A Change in My Life
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine (save the villain, who is half-mine), neither are the songs, and the story is! It's an idea that's been floating through my mind in various forms for a while, but only after finishing my revisions of Alive Beneath the Snow did it fully come to light. The 10 Hurt Comfort prompt Seeing You With New Eyes/Second Look was an inspiration too. If it looks confusing, it's supposed to. If it looks like Twilight and Dawn, that is just a coincidence due to the scenario usage. Many thanks to Kaze and Crystal Rose for plot help!
Chapter One
I've Been Lonely, I've Been Cheated, I've Been Misunderstood
"Okay, that's your assignment for the day. You know the drill---have it back by tomorrow."
The curly-haired brunet underlined the words on the chalkboard, even as the class groaned behind him. But it was almost a routine by now; he knew most of the pupils would work with diligence to complete the homework. The majority of them were there to learn. As for the rest, well, he could do little about them. He wished they were not there to begin with.
One unruly student began to quietly crumple a piece of paper on his desk. Seeing what he was doing, his brother snickered and followed suit.
This would not be the first paper war they would start; they were known all over campus as jokers and class clowns. No one could understand why the duo was even taking the difficult course, but there were rumors that they were cheating their way to the top. It did not help that they did not like their reserved teacher, either. He was not a pushover, in spite of his shy nature, and it unnerved them that they could not unnerve him.
Indeed, the instructor turned, adjusting his glasses with an uneasy frown. "Advanced Physics is dismissed," he said.
The pupils gathered their belongings, some shoving or dumping their books and papers into their backpacks while others were more orderly. The ones who had been going to throw their paper wads tried to discreetly slip the ruined sheets into their pockets to toss on the way out. But the brown-eyed gaze quickly fell upon the curled hands.
"Do you have something you want to give me?" he asked.
The brothers froze. "No, Teach," said the first.
"We were just goofing off," said the second.
"Well, that's usual," said the teacher.
"You gotta have a little fun in life," grinned the first. "We don't wanna end up like you---stuffed up in some classroom blabbing about math and science and how things move."
"I don't know why you're even here," answered the brunet.
"Sometimes we don't, either," said the second.
They hurried past him and out the door, awkwardly shoving the wads into their bags.
Their instructor just sighed, turning back to the chalkboard and picking up an eraser. As always, he would leave the room just as it had been when he had entered. He believed in keeping things neat and tidy.
"Knock knock."
He blinked and turned, looking to Ms. Parker, the smiling Chemistry teacher, at the open door. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Hello, Elliott."
Just from the greeting alone, he could feel the color creeping up his cheeks. "Hi," he stuttered, quickly looking to the blackboard. There was still a spot of chalk left on it. He busied himself with wiping it off.
Amused, the woman walked around the desks and up to the board. "There's some on you, too," she noted. Before Elliott could respond, she took out a white handkerchief and brushed his cheek.
He went a deeper red. "Thanks," he said. Not wanting to be rude, he turned to look at her. "Can . . . can I help you with something?"
She sighed. "You never want to just talk," she said with a half-smile. "But . . . alright, I admit it---I came to ask a favor."
"Oh." He crossed to the chair at his desk. "Well, w-won't you sit down?"
She smiled more. "You're always thoughtful," she said, walking past him to the chair. He hurried to sit on the edge of his desk, but while trying to look at her out of politeness he miscalculated where the edge was. He gasped as he toppled to the floor, flat on his back.
Instantly Ms. Parker leaped out of the chair and dashed to his side. "Are you alright?!" she exclaimed.
He rose up on his elbows with a groan. "Yeah," he said. He gave himself a mental kick for letting his clumsiness kick in right in front of Ms. Parker. As if he didn't embarrass himself around her enough! It was not lost on him that she had taken an interest in him when he had first arrived at the university. And the more she was interested, the more he blushed and flubbed and showed that he was truly the Monumental Monarch of the Kingdom of Shy.
. . . Whatever that was.
"Your glasses didn't crack, did they?" she asked in concern.
"No, they're fine," he said. But out of habit, he took them off for a quick examination. Then he sighed, slipping them back over his ears and nose. And Ms. Parker was right there, watching him. He averted his eyes as he reached up, grabbing the real edge of the desk to pull himself up.
"What . . . what is it you were hoping I could do, Ms. Parker?" he queried, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes.
She rose with him. "I've been so busy lately," she said in an apologetic tone, "and I hate to ask for help, but I completely forgot that my sister's flying in from Canada early tomorrow morning. There's that overnight seminar tonight for the Chemistry department, you know. . . ."
He nodded. "I know. . . . And you don't think you'll be done soon enough?"
"I really don't think so," she said. "The last class the next morning ends at nine-fifty. Her plane comes in at nine. I tried to get out of the last class, but . . ." She sighed, shaking her head. "It's a no-go. I'll come as quick as I can, but I don't want her to just be standing around wondering where I am. . . ."
"Of course not. . . ." Elliott's stomach was turning cartwheels with his nervousness, but he managed a smile. He did not have a class tomorrow morning, so there was no excuse for him not to go. Anyway, he tried to help people in spite of being shy. "I'll stay with her until you come."
Ms. Parker slumped back in relief. "You're a lifesaver, Elliott," she said. "Just a minute, I'll give you a picture so you'll recognize her. And the flight information, too." She opened her purse, sorting through her belongings. As she flipped past her checkbook, car keys, and several pens, she continued to talk.
"I wish I could catch you at the campus's social events sometime," she said. "I only ever see you at all when you're needed as a chaperone for something."
Elliott shifted his weight. "Yeah . . . that's me---the chaperone," he said with a weak smile. "I don't know . . . I'm not much for social events. . . ."
"A lot of us would like to get to know you better," Ms. Parker said.
"I guess I'm just a recluse, like everyone says," Elliott said. How long was it going to take her to find that picture? He wanted to finish cleaning the room and then escape to his house and blessed solitude. Not that he really liked being alone, but it was preferable to standing around wondering just when his voice and mind were going to fail him. He taught the class just fine, but as soon as it was over he always retreated back into his shell. He definitely did not like being kept talking after the fact.
Ms. Parker shook her head. "You just need to find the right person and then you'll open up," she said.
"Maybe," Elliott half-acknowledged.
At last locating the photograph, she pulled it out, a regretful smile on her features. "Sometimes I wish . . . oh, nevermind." She looked up, holding it out to him. "Here she is---Geri."
Elliott took the picture, looking at the slim woman with long black hair. "I can see the resemblance," he said, again with the smile.
Ms. Parker smiled too. "You have a beautiful smile, Elliott," she said. "Thank you again." She handed him a folded piece of paper before closing her purse.
He blushed even as he set the picture and the paper on his desk and began to collect his books and notes. "It's no problem," he said. "I'm glad to help." And that was honestly true---though he did hope Ms. Parker would not take long to come for her sister. What in the world could he find to say to a strange woman if they were stranded at the airport for a while? . . . Well, actually, what would he find to say to a strange woman if they were stranded at the airport for five minutes?
Maybe he would get lucky and she would be talkative and monopolize the conversation. Or maybe she would be quiet too and not mind long stretches of silence. She looked like a quiet person.
"Well . . ." Ms. Parker interrupted the reverie. "Is there anything I can do to help you, Elliott?"
Elliott started. "Oh no . . . thanks," he said as he glanced up at her.
She nodded. "I'll just get going, then," she said. "I'd better pack for the seminar. . . ."
He nodded too. "Good luck."
She laughed. "I'll need it," she said as she turned to walk back down the aisle to the door.
Elliott only watched for a moment before returning to his task of gathering everything together for the journey home. It almost felt mechanical and automatic as he loaded books and papers into his briefcase. The only new thing was slipping the photograph and the flight information into one of the parcel's pockets before shutting and locking the lid.
Some people found him paranoid, but for him, locks were a blessing and something to have wherever possible. He had been bullied as a child until he had learned how to fight to defend himself. Still, when he was in a building of education, fist-fights were certainly inappropriate. He had learned other ways of protecting himself and his belongings. One of them was always standing his ground, just as he had done with those class clowns. Another was locks, preferably with combinations.
He sighed, taking his briefcase by the handle and moving to walk out of the room. His footsteps echoed in the empty space, belying his feelings of isolation.
"Mine is the Kingdom of Shy," he sang to the deserted classroom. "I'm a consequentially lonely guy. And don't try to lend me a smile; I've got grins piled up to the sky."
He shook his head, placing his hand on the doorknob. Songs were coming to him out of the blue again, songs he had never before heard. It was so eerie when that happened. He had just brushed it off to begin with; after all, he must have heard the songs somewhere and just not consciously known it. But after a while it had started happening with such frequency that it did not seem coincidental at all.
He was not a believer in the supernatural; he believed in cold, hard facts. Ideas far removed from his comfort zone had admittedly come to him---that he was channeling someone long gone or that he even was that person reborn---but he had refused to entertain them for long. Still . . . could he really keep doing so? What other explanations were there?
With a sigh he stepped into the hall and headed for the door, bathed in the morning autumn sun.
****
The concert hall was filled to capacity. As the last notes of the song echoed and then faded, the audience clapped and cheered below the fancy stage. The red and blue lights shone on the grinning man for whom they were applauding, clearly displaying his young age. He bowed, then straightened. They wanted an encore.
"Arigato!" he called. "Domo arigato. I do have one . . ." He signaled for the clapping to cease. "One more song for you tonight. You've been a great audience." He looked out over the smiling, welcoming faces. "It's always a joy to come to Nihon. I feel like it's my second home."
He brought the microphone near his lips as he began to sing. The audience quieted altogether, listening with rapt attention.
Didn't hear a tone, are you, Hello?
I never hear a tone, I guess you know
I can't remember what I called to say
Thought you might be home on Saturday
I really can't believe it's been a year
It took a little time without you here
I'm guessing you survived alone somehow
It's good that I can joke about it now
I still avoid the park at Christopher
Never wanna feel the way we were
Unless I'm in a hurry for that train
And that's the only newsstand open late
People change, everyday, change like you
I got all the time in the world
People cry all the time, cry like me
We got all the time in the world
It's been so long that no one even asks
And everybody's walkin' on the grass
Grass that took a while to reappear
I'd forgotten green without you here
Christmas came and went upon this bench
Tryin' to justify what made no sense
Now the ivy's overrun the tears
But it could never hide what happened here
People change everyday, change like you
I got all the time in the world
People cry all the time, cry like me
We got all the time in the world
Fillin' in the conversation by myself
Fillin' in the reason why you leave me leavin', leavin'
Thinkin' back; the hope we had was more than mine,
The hope we had was more than mine
More than mine, I know it makes sense to you,
More than mine
Just make it make sense to me
Maybe I'm alive beneath the snow
Maybe you're too petrified to know
I can't believe that you would tell me lies
How could I have missed that in those eyes
Maybe if I only heard your voice
I would understand you had no choice
Though I'm glad it's clear for you to see
I wish that you could make it make sense to me
People cry all the time
Cry like me; I got all the time in the world
Flowin' in and out your life
By tomorrow mornin'
Flowin' in and out my life . . .
People change, everyday
People cry all the time
People change, everyday
For a moment there was silence as the audience processed the deep lyrics. Those who did not understand much English were still touched by the poignant melody. All rose, giving the singer-songwriter a standing ovation. He smiled, bowing again.
"Arigato!" he called as he straightened and waved. "You've been wonderful. Sayonara. Sayonara!" He waved again as he hurried off the side of the stage, the applause and cheers ringing in his ears.
His manager was right there waiting for him, his chubby face aglow. "Scotty! That was beautiful!" he exclaimed, laying his hands on the kid's shoulders. Nevermind that Scott was twenty-one; he was a kid to the gruff, middle-aged man. "Debuting your new song on the last night of your Japan tour---it was perfect!"
Scott grinned, sweeping his blond curls away from his face. "I like to go out leaving something to talk about, Louie," he said.
"And you've done that!" Louie chortled, slapping him on the back. "Now, go get packed for the flight to the States. There's only a break of a few days before the U.S. tour starts."
"I know, I know," Scott said, heading for his dressing room.
He could not help the yawn that tore free as he entered the small space and turned on the light. What he really felt like doing was laying down on the couch and going to sleep. He loved coming to Japan, but he hated the long flights both to and from the Land of the Rising Sun. He was always drained and jetlagged for ages afterwards.
Maybe just five minutes wouldn't hurt. . . .
He yawned again, kicking off his shoes before sinking into the plush green softness. Absently he reached up to the back of the furniture, pulling down an old black trenchcoat to use as a quilt. He did not remember why he had it or where it had come from, but it was one of his favorite possessions. Ever since he had become famous, it had been one of his trademarks. His wildly permed hair was another. His freshman album's cover depicted him dressed in the coat and waving while a light breeze tousled his curls.
Now if he could just figure out what was missing. No matter how good and well-received his concerts were, it always felt like something was being left out. It was one of the most aggravating and puzzling mysteries he had ever encountered.
Louie was tired of hearing his concerns in that direction. "You worry too much, Scotty," the man had frowned after hearing about it several times. "What could be missing? Every song, every note, is perfect! And you interact with the audience! Nothing's missing!"
But he felt that way anyway. Even now, he felt it.
He rolled over, yawning again as he brought the couch pillow closer to him. His flight did not leave for twelve hours. He could sleep before packing. There wasn't really that much to pack here. . . .
Sleep descended on him quickly, immersing him in a strange and vivid scene. It was nighttime . . . most likely during a new moon, since it was so dark. He was kneeling on the debris left from a collapsed building, heartbroken as he cradled a body in his arms. His voice choked from his lips, singing the same song he had debuted tonight in Japan.
"People change, every day . . ."
He started awake, his eyes flying open as he heavily breathed, staring at the back of the couch.
"What was that?!" he gasped, sitting up straight. The trenchcoat tumbled to his lap, but he barely noticed. Instead he ran a shaking hand into his hair. Somewhere in the distance, his clock was ticking.
"Who was that?" he asked the lonely room as his heart pounded in his ears. Had he been holding someone alive? Dead? Had the person been alive but died later? And why had there been such intense emotions of horror and heartbreak on his part? He must have known the person. More than that, they must have had a special connection.
What was he even thinking? It could not have really happened. He would remember something like that. He looked about as old in the dream as he was now. And he had just written People Change before coming to Japan.
With a sigh he pushed the trenchcoat off of his legs and swung them over the edge of the couch. He had better pack. When he started having dreams about cradling lifeless bodies and singing newly-written songs to them, it was time to just forget about sleep for a while.
But the desperation and pain in the dream-him's voice would not be so easy to forget.
****
Back in the States that evening, the Metropolitan Opera House was also filled to capacity. Not only was the season's newest opera premiering tonight, but it was starring their latest goldmine of talent, a young man who had joined two seasons previous and had been consistently popular with patrons and critics alike. His bass voice and tone were velvet, they praised, and his range was incredible. He had garnered quite a gathering of fangirls since his debut, and they always made sure they were in attendance at every performance.
He was also infamous as far as reporters were concerned; he turned down every interview they tried to get. His manager was about to go insane.
"Look, Barry," he said now, pacing the man's dressing room moments before the curtain would rise, "the reporters really want to talk to you about your role in this new opera. Can't you give them five minutes?"
Barry grunted, adjusting his bow tie in front of the mirror. "You know what to say to them," he said.
"You not saying anything stirs up more rumors than if you answered, say, five questions," the older man said in frustration, throwing his hands in the air. "I don't know why you're so opposed to it."
"I don't like reporters, Barlow," Barry said in a flat tone.
"You like hardly anyone," Barlow grumbled. "In fact, other than your family, have I met anyone you like?"
The question was ignored. "If I give them five minutes, will you leave me alone?" Barry looked at him in the mirror.
"If you give them five minutes, I won't say another word about interviews for the whole season!" was the reply.
Barry turned to face him. "The season's just starting," he pointed out.
"I know," said Barlow.
"I'll hold you to it," Barry said with a warning finger.
"I'm trustworthy!" exclaimed the desperate man. "Please, don't make me get on my knees and beg!"
Barry gave him a long look. "It's tempting," he said.
"You're nothing but a sadist," Barlow fumed.
Barry's expression never changed from the usual deadpan, even though inwardly he was amused. "Five minutes," he said. "I won't answer anything past that time limit. And if you say one more thing about interviews this season, I'm getting a new manager." Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the dressing room and backstage.
But as he went, the blunt words were still in his ears.
"You like hardly anyone!"
An exaggeration, of course---though when he thought about it he doubted his long-suffering manager had met anyone he liked other than his family. There were acquaintances, of course, mostly people from the opera, but no close friends. He would not say he preferred being alone, but it was difficult to find anyone whom he wanted to get to know better.
He would not admit it, but he did wish for that.
The director hurried over to him. "Five minutes to curtain call," he said. "Are you ready?"
"Of course," Barry grunted.
Without thinking he placed a hand in his pocket. But then he frowned. What was in there? He pulled his hand out again, holding on to a strange, rubbery object.
The director gawked. "What's that?!" he said in disbelief.
"It looks like a rubber fish," Barry said, a bit of a frown on his features now.
"I can see that, but why do you have it?" the director demanded.
Barry just gave the man a Look. Did he really think he had to worry about some practical joke being enacted?
The director sighed. "Okay, okay, nevermind. Just don't bring it out on stage." And he hurried off to find the other performers.
Barry returned his attention to the rubber fish. He had no idea why he had it. He had never put it into his pocket, let alone bought it in the first place. Maybe someone was playing a joke on him. It would be just his luck.
Mel was the resident joker among the company. And here he was now, rushing to get into place before the curtain went up. Barry grabbed hold of his arm.
"Hey Mel, did you put this in my pocket?" he asked, holding up the mysterious denizen of the deep.
"What's . . ." Mel squinted, coming closer. "Is that a rubber fish?!" he exclaimed. "Gee, I never would've thought it of you, Barry. . . ."
"We don't have time, Mel," Barry said, now highly unamused. "Before the curtain goes up, tell me---did you put it in my pocket?"
But the other opera star shook his head. "I've never seen the thing before," he said.
Barry grunted in annoyance, shoving it back into his pocket. There was no time to get rid of it at the moment. But after the opera was over, and after he fulfilled his half of the agreement with Barlow by giving a five-minute interview, he was determined to find out who owned the thing---and why it had been given to him.
He did not appreciate the joke.
****
The key turned in the lock, the old door creaking open as a hand reached through the gap to feel for a light switch. A bare bulb clicked on, illuminating the small apartment as its resident stepped inside. With a sigh he shut the door behind him, then peered into the paper bag he was carrying.
"I made just enough for dinner tonight," he mused, setting the meager groceries on the cracked and chipped dinette table. Then he pulled out the single chair, sinking into it as he dug into the bag. "And a few nights after this. Ramen, Ramen . . . and oh yeah, more Ramen. Good thing it's cheap. And tasty."
The tall man leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms above his head. "Oh! Sean, you've outdone yourself," he declared. "Maybe tomorrow you'll even get enough to cover breakfast. That is, if you want a little variety. Who'd think singing on street corners could be so productive?"
He lived alone in his shabby apartment near a bad side of town, but he did not particularly like the solitude---so he made up for it by talking to himself. Sometimes he felt less lonely when he heard his voice, yet other times he only felt moreso.
Right now it was the latter. His shoulders slumped as he leaned over the table, pulling out the newspaper from inside the bag. "Might as well check the Want Ads," he mused. But it was always so fruitless. No one was looking for new hired help in these troubled times. At least, no one was looking for someone with his skills. The best thing he could do was to work for himself. Still, he could not always just sing on street corners.
He turned the pages, his eyes glazing over with boredom. At last he exhaled, flipping back near the front of the newspaper. "What have we here---the Entertainment section," he mused. "Scott L.'s coming back from Japan to do a U.S. tour. . . . Hey, I like his music. . . . The new opera season's started with that Barry guy. . . ." He yawned, pushing the paper aside. "I guess it's too much to hope that either of them would need someone to do odd jobs."
Next, he reached back into the bag to retrieve his mail, which he had stuck there in order to have less to carry. "Ads, ads, and more ads," he said. "Something here for the local university. . . . I barely have money for dinner. As if I could get together the kind of dough to take even one class."
But he looked it over anyway. It seemed to be advertising the Physics department in particular. The Advanced Physics class was taught by some guy named Elliott. He had graduated from college not long ago himself, but they had been so impressed with his knowledge that they had wanted him to teach the course. He looked nice enough from the picture . . . intelligent . . . maybe somewhat shy. . . . He was blushing, albeit slightly.
Sean frowned to himself. There was a tugging on his heart that he could not explain. Maybe it was because he really wanted to look into trying to get a job somewhere with one of these people. But it seemed to go beyond just getting a job. And that was just outlandish.
He snorted. "Yeah, like you'd be able to make friends with any of these guys," he said to himself. "They probably have tons of friends in their own social classes. Look at them---international singers, opera stars, college teachers. . . . You're just an outcast compared to them. They wouldn't have time for you."
He rubbed his eyes. He had better make dinner and go to bed. When he looked at the pictures long enough, he started to believe that he already knew every one of the depicted people. And that, of course, was preposterous.
"I wonder," he mused, "whatever happened to my rubber fish."
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: K+/PG; rating could rise later
Word Count: 4,745
Main Characters: Fictional Rockapella (Sean, Scott, Elliott, Barry)
Summary: Elliott is a college teacher. Scott is an international solo singer. Barry is with the Metropolitan Opera. And Sean is down-and-out. How did it happen, and why don't they have any memories of each other or their lives?
Will be posted to 10_hurt_comfort when complete.
Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
A Change in My Life
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine (save the villain, who is half-mine), neither are the songs, and the story is! It's an idea that's been floating through my mind in various forms for a while, but only after finishing my revisions of Alive Beneath the Snow did it fully come to light. The 10 Hurt Comfort prompt Seeing You With New Eyes/Second Look was an inspiration too. If it looks confusing, it's supposed to. If it looks like Twilight and Dawn, that is just a coincidence due to the scenario usage. Many thanks to Kaze and Crystal Rose for plot help!
Chapter One
I've Been Lonely, I've Been Cheated, I've Been Misunderstood
"Okay, that's your assignment for the day. You know the drill---have it back by tomorrow."
The curly-haired brunet underlined the words on the chalkboard, even as the class groaned behind him. But it was almost a routine by now; he knew most of the pupils would work with diligence to complete the homework. The majority of them were there to learn. As for the rest, well, he could do little about them. He wished they were not there to begin with.
One unruly student began to quietly crumple a piece of paper on his desk. Seeing what he was doing, his brother snickered and followed suit.
This would not be the first paper war they would start; they were known all over campus as jokers and class clowns. No one could understand why the duo was even taking the difficult course, but there were rumors that they were cheating their way to the top. It did not help that they did not like their reserved teacher, either. He was not a pushover, in spite of his shy nature, and it unnerved them that they could not unnerve him.
Indeed, the instructor turned, adjusting his glasses with an uneasy frown. "Advanced Physics is dismissed," he said.
The pupils gathered their belongings, some shoving or dumping their books and papers into their backpacks while others were more orderly. The ones who had been going to throw their paper wads tried to discreetly slip the ruined sheets into their pockets to toss on the way out. But the brown-eyed gaze quickly fell upon the curled hands.
"Do you have something you want to give me?" he asked.
The brothers froze. "No, Teach," said the first.
"We were just goofing off," said the second.
"Well, that's usual," said the teacher.
"You gotta have a little fun in life," grinned the first. "We don't wanna end up like you---stuffed up in some classroom blabbing about math and science and how things move."
"I don't know why you're even here," answered the brunet.
"Sometimes we don't, either," said the second.
They hurried past him and out the door, awkwardly shoving the wads into their bags.
Their instructor just sighed, turning back to the chalkboard and picking up an eraser. As always, he would leave the room just as it had been when he had entered. He believed in keeping things neat and tidy.
"Knock knock."
He blinked and turned, looking to Ms. Parker, the smiling Chemistry teacher, at the open door. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Hello, Elliott."
Just from the greeting alone, he could feel the color creeping up his cheeks. "Hi," he stuttered, quickly looking to the blackboard. There was still a spot of chalk left on it. He busied himself with wiping it off.
Amused, the woman walked around the desks and up to the board. "There's some on you, too," she noted. Before Elliott could respond, she took out a white handkerchief and brushed his cheek.
He went a deeper red. "Thanks," he said. Not wanting to be rude, he turned to look at her. "Can . . . can I help you with something?"
She sighed. "You never want to just talk," she said with a half-smile. "But . . . alright, I admit it---I came to ask a favor."
"Oh." He crossed to the chair at his desk. "Well, w-won't you sit down?"
She smiled more. "You're always thoughtful," she said, walking past him to the chair. He hurried to sit on the edge of his desk, but while trying to look at her out of politeness he miscalculated where the edge was. He gasped as he toppled to the floor, flat on his back.
Instantly Ms. Parker leaped out of the chair and dashed to his side. "Are you alright?!" she exclaimed.
He rose up on his elbows with a groan. "Yeah," he said. He gave himself a mental kick for letting his clumsiness kick in right in front of Ms. Parker. As if he didn't embarrass himself around her enough! It was not lost on him that she had taken an interest in him when he had first arrived at the university. And the more she was interested, the more he blushed and flubbed and showed that he was truly the Monumental Monarch of the Kingdom of Shy.
. . . Whatever that was.
"Your glasses didn't crack, did they?" she asked in concern.
"No, they're fine," he said. But out of habit, he took them off for a quick examination. Then he sighed, slipping them back over his ears and nose. And Ms. Parker was right there, watching him. He averted his eyes as he reached up, grabbing the real edge of the desk to pull himself up.
"What . . . what is it you were hoping I could do, Ms. Parker?" he queried, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes.
She rose with him. "I've been so busy lately," she said in an apologetic tone, "and I hate to ask for help, but I completely forgot that my sister's flying in from Canada early tomorrow morning. There's that overnight seminar tonight for the Chemistry department, you know. . . ."
He nodded. "I know. . . . And you don't think you'll be done soon enough?"
"I really don't think so," she said. "The last class the next morning ends at nine-fifty. Her plane comes in at nine. I tried to get out of the last class, but . . ." She sighed, shaking her head. "It's a no-go. I'll come as quick as I can, but I don't want her to just be standing around wondering where I am. . . ."
"Of course not. . . ." Elliott's stomach was turning cartwheels with his nervousness, but he managed a smile. He did not have a class tomorrow morning, so there was no excuse for him not to go. Anyway, he tried to help people in spite of being shy. "I'll stay with her until you come."
Ms. Parker slumped back in relief. "You're a lifesaver, Elliott," she said. "Just a minute, I'll give you a picture so you'll recognize her. And the flight information, too." She opened her purse, sorting through her belongings. As she flipped past her checkbook, car keys, and several pens, she continued to talk.
"I wish I could catch you at the campus's social events sometime," she said. "I only ever see you at all when you're needed as a chaperone for something."
Elliott shifted his weight. "Yeah . . . that's me---the chaperone," he said with a weak smile. "I don't know . . . I'm not much for social events. . . ."
"A lot of us would like to get to know you better," Ms. Parker said.
"I guess I'm just a recluse, like everyone says," Elliott said. How long was it going to take her to find that picture? He wanted to finish cleaning the room and then escape to his house and blessed solitude. Not that he really liked being alone, but it was preferable to standing around wondering just when his voice and mind were going to fail him. He taught the class just fine, but as soon as it was over he always retreated back into his shell. He definitely did not like being kept talking after the fact.
Ms. Parker shook her head. "You just need to find the right person and then you'll open up," she said.
"Maybe," Elliott half-acknowledged.
At last locating the photograph, she pulled it out, a regretful smile on her features. "Sometimes I wish . . . oh, nevermind." She looked up, holding it out to him. "Here she is---Geri."
Elliott took the picture, looking at the slim woman with long black hair. "I can see the resemblance," he said, again with the smile.
Ms. Parker smiled too. "You have a beautiful smile, Elliott," she said. "Thank you again." She handed him a folded piece of paper before closing her purse.
He blushed even as he set the picture and the paper on his desk and began to collect his books and notes. "It's no problem," he said. "I'm glad to help." And that was honestly true---though he did hope Ms. Parker would not take long to come for her sister. What in the world could he find to say to a strange woman if they were stranded at the airport for a while? . . . Well, actually, what would he find to say to a strange woman if they were stranded at the airport for five minutes?
Maybe he would get lucky and she would be talkative and monopolize the conversation. Or maybe she would be quiet too and not mind long stretches of silence. She looked like a quiet person.
"Well . . ." Ms. Parker interrupted the reverie. "Is there anything I can do to help you, Elliott?"
Elliott started. "Oh no . . . thanks," he said as he glanced up at her.
She nodded. "I'll just get going, then," she said. "I'd better pack for the seminar. . . ."
He nodded too. "Good luck."
She laughed. "I'll need it," she said as she turned to walk back down the aisle to the door.
Elliott only watched for a moment before returning to his task of gathering everything together for the journey home. It almost felt mechanical and automatic as he loaded books and papers into his briefcase. The only new thing was slipping the photograph and the flight information into one of the parcel's pockets before shutting and locking the lid.
Some people found him paranoid, but for him, locks were a blessing and something to have wherever possible. He had been bullied as a child until he had learned how to fight to defend himself. Still, when he was in a building of education, fist-fights were certainly inappropriate. He had learned other ways of protecting himself and his belongings. One of them was always standing his ground, just as he had done with those class clowns. Another was locks, preferably with combinations.
He sighed, taking his briefcase by the handle and moving to walk out of the room. His footsteps echoed in the empty space, belying his feelings of isolation.
"Mine is the Kingdom of Shy," he sang to the deserted classroom. "I'm a consequentially lonely guy. And don't try to lend me a smile; I've got grins piled up to the sky."
He shook his head, placing his hand on the doorknob. Songs were coming to him out of the blue again, songs he had never before heard. It was so eerie when that happened. He had just brushed it off to begin with; after all, he must have heard the songs somewhere and just not consciously known it. But after a while it had started happening with such frequency that it did not seem coincidental at all.
He was not a believer in the supernatural; he believed in cold, hard facts. Ideas far removed from his comfort zone had admittedly come to him---that he was channeling someone long gone or that he even was that person reborn---but he had refused to entertain them for long. Still . . . could he really keep doing so? What other explanations were there?
With a sigh he stepped into the hall and headed for the door, bathed in the morning autumn sun.
****
The concert hall was filled to capacity. As the last notes of the song echoed and then faded, the audience clapped and cheered below the fancy stage. The red and blue lights shone on the grinning man for whom they were applauding, clearly displaying his young age. He bowed, then straightened. They wanted an encore.
"Arigato!" he called. "Domo arigato. I do have one . . ." He signaled for the clapping to cease. "One more song for you tonight. You've been a great audience." He looked out over the smiling, welcoming faces. "It's always a joy to come to Nihon. I feel like it's my second home."
He brought the microphone near his lips as he began to sing. The audience quieted altogether, listening with rapt attention.
Didn't hear a tone, are you, Hello?
I never hear a tone, I guess you know
I can't remember what I called to say
Thought you might be home on Saturday
I really can't believe it's been a year
It took a little time without you here
I'm guessing you survived alone somehow
It's good that I can joke about it now
I still avoid the park at Christopher
Never wanna feel the way we were
Unless I'm in a hurry for that train
And that's the only newsstand open late
People change, everyday, change like you
I got all the time in the world
People cry all the time, cry like me
We got all the time in the world
It's been so long that no one even asks
And everybody's walkin' on the grass
Grass that took a while to reappear
I'd forgotten green without you here
Christmas came and went upon this bench
Tryin' to justify what made no sense
Now the ivy's overrun the tears
But it could never hide what happened here
People change everyday, change like you
I got all the time in the world
People cry all the time, cry like me
We got all the time in the world
Fillin' in the conversation by myself
Fillin' in the reason why you leave me leavin', leavin'
Thinkin' back; the hope we had was more than mine,
The hope we had was more than mine
More than mine, I know it makes sense to you,
More than mine
Just make it make sense to me
Maybe I'm alive beneath the snow
Maybe you're too petrified to know
I can't believe that you would tell me lies
How could I have missed that in those eyes
Maybe if I only heard your voice
I would understand you had no choice
Though I'm glad it's clear for you to see
I wish that you could make it make sense to me
People cry all the time
Cry like me; I got all the time in the world
Flowin' in and out your life
By tomorrow mornin'
Flowin' in and out my life . . .
People change, everyday
People cry all the time
People change, everyday
For a moment there was silence as the audience processed the deep lyrics. Those who did not understand much English were still touched by the poignant melody. All rose, giving the singer-songwriter a standing ovation. He smiled, bowing again.
"Arigato!" he called as he straightened and waved. "You've been wonderful. Sayonara. Sayonara!" He waved again as he hurried off the side of the stage, the applause and cheers ringing in his ears.
His manager was right there waiting for him, his chubby face aglow. "Scotty! That was beautiful!" he exclaimed, laying his hands on the kid's shoulders. Nevermind that Scott was twenty-one; he was a kid to the gruff, middle-aged man. "Debuting your new song on the last night of your Japan tour---it was perfect!"
Scott grinned, sweeping his blond curls away from his face. "I like to go out leaving something to talk about, Louie," he said.
"And you've done that!" Louie chortled, slapping him on the back. "Now, go get packed for the flight to the States. There's only a break of a few days before the U.S. tour starts."
"I know, I know," Scott said, heading for his dressing room.
He could not help the yawn that tore free as he entered the small space and turned on the light. What he really felt like doing was laying down on the couch and going to sleep. He loved coming to Japan, but he hated the long flights both to and from the Land of the Rising Sun. He was always drained and jetlagged for ages afterwards.
Maybe just five minutes wouldn't hurt. . . .
He yawned again, kicking off his shoes before sinking into the plush green softness. Absently he reached up to the back of the furniture, pulling down an old black trenchcoat to use as a quilt. He did not remember why he had it or where it had come from, but it was one of his favorite possessions. Ever since he had become famous, it had been one of his trademarks. His wildly permed hair was another. His freshman album's cover depicted him dressed in the coat and waving while a light breeze tousled his curls.
Now if he could just figure out what was missing. No matter how good and well-received his concerts were, it always felt like something was being left out. It was one of the most aggravating and puzzling mysteries he had ever encountered.
Louie was tired of hearing his concerns in that direction. "You worry too much, Scotty," the man had frowned after hearing about it several times. "What could be missing? Every song, every note, is perfect! And you interact with the audience! Nothing's missing!"
But he felt that way anyway. Even now, he felt it.
He rolled over, yawning again as he brought the couch pillow closer to him. His flight did not leave for twelve hours. He could sleep before packing. There wasn't really that much to pack here. . . .
Sleep descended on him quickly, immersing him in a strange and vivid scene. It was nighttime . . . most likely during a new moon, since it was so dark. He was kneeling on the debris left from a collapsed building, heartbroken as he cradled a body in his arms. His voice choked from his lips, singing the same song he had debuted tonight in Japan.
"People change, every day . . ."
He started awake, his eyes flying open as he heavily breathed, staring at the back of the couch.
"What was that?!" he gasped, sitting up straight. The trenchcoat tumbled to his lap, but he barely noticed. Instead he ran a shaking hand into his hair. Somewhere in the distance, his clock was ticking.
"Who was that?" he asked the lonely room as his heart pounded in his ears. Had he been holding someone alive? Dead? Had the person been alive but died later? And why had there been such intense emotions of horror and heartbreak on his part? He must have known the person. More than that, they must have had a special connection.
What was he even thinking? It could not have really happened. He would remember something like that. He looked about as old in the dream as he was now. And he had just written People Change before coming to Japan.
With a sigh he pushed the trenchcoat off of his legs and swung them over the edge of the couch. He had better pack. When he started having dreams about cradling lifeless bodies and singing newly-written songs to them, it was time to just forget about sleep for a while.
But the desperation and pain in the dream-him's voice would not be so easy to forget.
****
Back in the States that evening, the Metropolitan Opera House was also filled to capacity. Not only was the season's newest opera premiering tonight, but it was starring their latest goldmine of talent, a young man who had joined two seasons previous and had been consistently popular with patrons and critics alike. His bass voice and tone were velvet, they praised, and his range was incredible. He had garnered quite a gathering of fangirls since his debut, and they always made sure they were in attendance at every performance.
He was also infamous as far as reporters were concerned; he turned down every interview they tried to get. His manager was about to go insane.
"Look, Barry," he said now, pacing the man's dressing room moments before the curtain would rise, "the reporters really want to talk to you about your role in this new opera. Can't you give them five minutes?"
Barry grunted, adjusting his bow tie in front of the mirror. "You know what to say to them," he said.
"You not saying anything stirs up more rumors than if you answered, say, five questions," the older man said in frustration, throwing his hands in the air. "I don't know why you're so opposed to it."
"I don't like reporters, Barlow," Barry said in a flat tone.
"You like hardly anyone," Barlow grumbled. "In fact, other than your family, have I met anyone you like?"
The question was ignored. "If I give them five minutes, will you leave me alone?" Barry looked at him in the mirror.
"If you give them five minutes, I won't say another word about interviews for the whole season!" was the reply.
Barry turned to face him. "The season's just starting," he pointed out.
"I know," said Barlow.
"I'll hold you to it," Barry said with a warning finger.
"I'm trustworthy!" exclaimed the desperate man. "Please, don't make me get on my knees and beg!"
Barry gave him a long look. "It's tempting," he said.
"You're nothing but a sadist," Barlow fumed.
Barry's expression never changed from the usual deadpan, even though inwardly he was amused. "Five minutes," he said. "I won't answer anything past that time limit. And if you say one more thing about interviews this season, I'm getting a new manager." Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the dressing room and backstage.
But as he went, the blunt words were still in his ears.
"You like hardly anyone!"
An exaggeration, of course---though when he thought about it he doubted his long-suffering manager had met anyone he liked other than his family. There were acquaintances, of course, mostly people from the opera, but no close friends. He would not say he preferred being alone, but it was difficult to find anyone whom he wanted to get to know better.
He would not admit it, but he did wish for that.
The director hurried over to him. "Five minutes to curtain call," he said. "Are you ready?"
"Of course," Barry grunted.
Without thinking he placed a hand in his pocket. But then he frowned. What was in there? He pulled his hand out again, holding on to a strange, rubbery object.
The director gawked. "What's that?!" he said in disbelief.
"It looks like a rubber fish," Barry said, a bit of a frown on his features now.
"I can see that, but why do you have it?" the director demanded.
Barry just gave the man a Look. Did he really think he had to worry about some practical joke being enacted?
The director sighed. "Okay, okay, nevermind. Just don't bring it out on stage." And he hurried off to find the other performers.
Barry returned his attention to the rubber fish. He had no idea why he had it. He had never put it into his pocket, let alone bought it in the first place. Maybe someone was playing a joke on him. It would be just his luck.
Mel was the resident joker among the company. And here he was now, rushing to get into place before the curtain went up. Barry grabbed hold of his arm.
"Hey Mel, did you put this in my pocket?" he asked, holding up the mysterious denizen of the deep.
"What's . . ." Mel squinted, coming closer. "Is that a rubber fish?!" he exclaimed. "Gee, I never would've thought it of you, Barry. . . ."
"We don't have time, Mel," Barry said, now highly unamused. "Before the curtain goes up, tell me---did you put it in my pocket?"
But the other opera star shook his head. "I've never seen the thing before," he said.
Barry grunted in annoyance, shoving it back into his pocket. There was no time to get rid of it at the moment. But after the opera was over, and after he fulfilled his half of the agreement with Barlow by giving a five-minute interview, he was determined to find out who owned the thing---and why it had been given to him.
He did not appreciate the joke.
****
The key turned in the lock, the old door creaking open as a hand reached through the gap to feel for a light switch. A bare bulb clicked on, illuminating the small apartment as its resident stepped inside. With a sigh he shut the door behind him, then peered into the paper bag he was carrying.
"I made just enough for dinner tonight," he mused, setting the meager groceries on the cracked and chipped dinette table. Then he pulled out the single chair, sinking into it as he dug into the bag. "And a few nights after this. Ramen, Ramen . . . and oh yeah, more Ramen. Good thing it's cheap. And tasty."
The tall man leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms above his head. "Oh! Sean, you've outdone yourself," he declared. "Maybe tomorrow you'll even get enough to cover breakfast. That is, if you want a little variety. Who'd think singing on street corners could be so productive?"
He lived alone in his shabby apartment near a bad side of town, but he did not particularly like the solitude---so he made up for it by talking to himself. Sometimes he felt less lonely when he heard his voice, yet other times he only felt moreso.
Right now it was the latter. His shoulders slumped as he leaned over the table, pulling out the newspaper from inside the bag. "Might as well check the Want Ads," he mused. But it was always so fruitless. No one was looking for new hired help in these troubled times. At least, no one was looking for someone with his skills. The best thing he could do was to work for himself. Still, he could not always just sing on street corners.
He turned the pages, his eyes glazing over with boredom. At last he exhaled, flipping back near the front of the newspaper. "What have we here---the Entertainment section," he mused. "Scott L.'s coming back from Japan to do a U.S. tour. . . . Hey, I like his music. . . . The new opera season's started with that Barry guy. . . ." He yawned, pushing the paper aside. "I guess it's too much to hope that either of them would need someone to do odd jobs."
Next, he reached back into the bag to retrieve his mail, which he had stuck there in order to have less to carry. "Ads, ads, and more ads," he said. "Something here for the local university. . . . I barely have money for dinner. As if I could get together the kind of dough to take even one class."
But he looked it over anyway. It seemed to be advertising the Physics department in particular. The Advanced Physics class was taught by some guy named Elliott. He had graduated from college not long ago himself, but they had been so impressed with his knowledge that they had wanted him to teach the course. He looked nice enough from the picture . . . intelligent . . . maybe somewhat shy. . . . He was blushing, albeit slightly.
Sean frowned to himself. There was a tugging on his heart that he could not explain. Maybe it was because he really wanted to look into trying to get a job somewhere with one of these people. But it seemed to go beyond just getting a job. And that was just outlandish.
He snorted. "Yeah, like you'd be able to make friends with any of these guys," he said to himself. "They probably have tons of friends in their own social classes. Look at them---international singers, opera stars, college teachers. . . . You're just an outcast compared to them. They wouldn't have time for you."
He rubbed his eyes. He had better make dinner and go to bed. When he looked at the pictures long enough, he started to believe that he already knew every one of the depicted people. And that, of course, was preposterous.
"I wonder," he mused, "whatever happened to my rubber fish."