A HIGH
SCHOOL DUET
I
had played many duets,
pieces
for piano four hands
with
people in whose hands
I
had very little interest.
So
very different are you
from
the musical partners
of
my past, your demeanor
of
warmth and openness
like
a welcoming embrace
to
those you meet. Little
the
time, and never enough
is
that which we spend
in
band and algebra.
You,
a virtuosi of the
French
Horn, playing
with
such an ease and
authority
far beyond my
meager
efforts. In truth,
however,
I find myself
hampered,
distracted,
utterly
captivated by you,
my
glances to the side
to
watch you undetected,
often
my downfall, getting
lost
in my music
warranting
me a highly
arched
eyebrow and a
a
quizzical look by
our
band director.
Rehearsal
ends and as
our
horns are mutually
placed
back into their
cases,
our band director
singles
us out. I, expecting
a
reprimand for my lack
of
musical concentration,
am
ready to confess to
anything
to spare you
embarrassment,
but,
a
proposition instead
is
placed before us,
a
French Horn duet for
the
Spring Concert. In
great
eagerness I accept,
sending
simultaneously
a
silent prayer for your
assent,
which quietly
you
give.
Practicing
in earnest,
doubly
on my part,
avoiding
embarrassment
not
my primary goal, nor
wanting
to impress you,
for
my deepest want is
to
make more than just
music
with you. Courting
in
high school, an
encounter
with a caste
system
as sacred as
the
Hindu, harboring
aspirations
far above
a
person’s station a
dangerous
precedent.
A
Junior asking a Senior
on
a date, recklessness,
abandoning
protocols
passed
from one generation
to
another, unwritten as
they
may be, as unheard
of
the love between a
Capulet
and a Montague,
a
love story not wanting
to
emulate. The burning
question
always on the
tip
of my tongue, waiting
to
be voiced during that
rare
moment of rest in our
afternoon
duet rehearsals,
but
never spoken, trepidation’s
silence
always winning.
The
evening’s concert comes,
you
arrive sick, in spite of
nausea,
blinding migraines
and
feverish brow, the show
must
go on. My heart aches,
compassion
for your condition
dictates
that repeat signs
be
damned, and so it must
be,
but alas, unaware are
you
of this change. The band
plays
its numbers, our duet
is
next, our chairs and stands
placed
in front of the band
we
begin the duet so long
practiced,
our goal finally
before
us, I playing straight
through,
you playing the
repeats.
Horrified, fumbling,
finally
finding you in the
jumble
of measures, notes
and
staff, our horns unite
once
more somehow,
someway
and finish
the
duet together.
At
concert’s end home
you
go to your bed
in
your Aunt and Uncle’s
house,
and I to the
backseat
of my parent’s
car.
Overheard on that
ride
home my parents’
conversation,
how you
impressed
them and
how
is it I had not asked
you
out on a date?
Waiting
a day for you
to
heal, determined not
to
be swayed by again
by
fear nor the unspoken
protocols
of High School,
I
approach you in band
and
boldly ask you out.
And
you say … “Yes.”
©
2015. The Book Of Ruth, Deacon Bob Wagner OFS. All rights reserved.
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