The Composer: Chapter I

Music is, and has always been, all I ever think about. Percussion, melodies, and harmonies reach me everywhere I go. From the steady rhythm of footsteps across the linoleum floor to the whistling of the windswept reeds outside. Even as I perch on a stool, hovering an envelope over the granite-topped island, I hear a drumroll in my head, accompanied by the sounds of the coffee maker and those I mentioned previously. 

“Well? Are you gonna open it or stay frozen in fear?” 

I shake my head but don’t make any effort to tear open the envelope. 

Aubrey goes for it, a few fingers brushing the corner as I retract my hand. She frowns, and I beam with self-satisfaction. 

I wag my finger at her before turning my attention to the paper casing. I lift the corner and shimmy my finger between the fold. Aubrey rolls her eyes as I carefully drag my finger along the seam until I cleanly reach the other end. Then, I pick the letter out of the envelope but don’t unfold it yet. 

“Ben!” she scolds. “Come on already!” 

“Alright,” I relent, smoothing out the creases in the paper as I hold it up to the light. 

I adjust my glasses and clear my throat. “Dear Benjamin, We regret to inform you…”

“Nice try,” Aubrey says, raising a blonde brow. 

I smile behind the thin curtain of paper between us as I read truthfully, “We are delighted to inform you that you are accepted to the Music Composition Program at Dreysden Conservatory.” 

“Oh, Ben, I knew it!” Aubrey exclaims. “I’m so proud!”

I bow my head, dark hair tangling with my lashes. 

Aubrey laughs, but the sweet sound fades into bitter silence. I look up and note how she nibbles her inner lip. “It’s only a few hours from here, Bri.” 

Aubrey’s eyes narrow. “Why do you insist on calling me that? You know I hate it.” 

I shrug, not revealing that inciting her wrath was meant to distract her. It worked.

Aubrey shrugs back and chuckles. “Ok, fine. I’ll let it slide… this time.” 

I smirk and get up from my chair as she slides into my arms. “I’ll miss you,” she whispers. 

“I know,” I whisper back, and she bats my arm.

“You’re an ass,” she brands, rather appropriately, I think. 

As I pull up to the Conservatory, my breath catches in my chest. The building looks like a prison, and not a cool old-fashioned dungeon type. A single stout square made of some sort of gray stone, speckled in shadowy deposits of dirt and moss, stands atop a steep hill like an abandoned acropolis. However, the architecture of this place wouldn’t have matched the glory of such a structure, even in its prime. 

“Ben?” Aubrey asks. “You’re never this quiet.”

“It’s less charming than I envisioned,” I admit. 

“And that surprises you?” she inquires with a hint of sarcasm. 

She’s right. Nothing has ever lived up to the impossible expectations that my imagination cooks up–nothing except for her. She has exceeded my most fantastic reveries. 

“Ben?” she prompts, rousing me. 

“Sorry, no, it doesn’t surprise me. But you have to admit, this place is still wayyy below even my standards,” I say. 

Aubrey peers out at the gray block for a moment before turning back to me. “I’m sure the inside is nice.”

I laugh. “I’m sure it will be.” 

I park the car in a small lot at the base of the hill, and we hop out. Aubrey takes my hand as we trek up the steep hillside. By the time we reach the precipice, I’m out of breath. 

“Imagine how my legs will look by the end of the semester,” I comment. 

“Is it too much to ask for a six pack to go with those toned legs?” Aubrey asks, poking my belly playfully. 

I pout my lip out, and she squeezes my hand. 

We continue until we reach a large, beige door. I push it open and wedge my foot against it, waving Aubrey through with a dramatic bow. 

She giggles. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“My pleasure, Madam,” I reply, following after her. 

A fresh cloud of mildew hits me like a brick wall, and I wrinkle my nose. Aubrey doesn’t even flinch. 

The hall is as beige as the door, from the floor to ceiling tiles. The equally mundane walls are lined with lockers, and I am instantly reminded of my high school years, along with a sour taste in my throat. It is only eased by the feel of Aubrey’s fingers intertwined with my own and… whatever that sound is. 

It’s coming from somewhere further down the hall but reverbs past us, filling the narrow passageway. It starts soft but grows steadily to a crescendo. Violin carries the most, but there are other string instruments too: viola, cello, and bass. Then, there are brass and wood ones: flute, trumpet, sax, and even oboe. There’s a drum and acoustic guitar also, adding a layer of modern spunk to the original classical sound. It’s not a composition I’m familiar with; I wonder if it’s an original. If so, the composer must be an instructor or a student prodigy. 

Aubrey smiles. “You’re in the right place.” 

I nod and realize I’m swaying along with the piece. My face heats up, and I suddenly feel the urge to kiss her. She beats me to it, and my cheeks go straight past red to white hot. 

When we break apart, I see a figure in tweed out of the corner of my eye and nearly jump out of my skin. “What the-?”

“Well, that was entertaining,” the girl says. “I assume you’re on your way to Admissions. Me too.”

“You’re a new student?” I ask, dumbfounded. 

“No, I’m an admissions counselor,” she says, hands on the long tweed blazer running over her hips.

It would explain the outfit. 

“I assume you’re the chauffeur since you’re clearly not bright enough to attend,” the girl continues. 

I scoff, but Aubrey jumps in before I can. “Actually, he’s been accepted to the Composition Program.”

“Seriously?” the girl asks. “Then, I guess securing a position at the top of the class will be a cinch.” 

Aubrey bares her teeth, and I hold her back before she can do damage. I give her that look, and the fight leaves her eyes. 

I clasp my hands together. “Which way to Admissions?” 

The girl leads us down the hall, staying a few steps ahead all the while. 

“I’m Ben,” I call after her. 

“Royal,” she replies. 

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s a biblical name for sure, but I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, Royal is my name,” she corrects. “Friends call me Roy.” 

“Nice to meet you, Roy,” I say. 

“I said friends,” she fires back. 

I can feel Aubrey’s skin boil and run my thumb over hers, reassuringly. The look I gave her meant, Let me fight my own battles. She releases her grip a little, but she narrows her eyes at me. This roughly translates to, you call rolling over fighting your battles? 

I know she’s afraid of what could happen when she leaves—that I won’t stick up for myself and become Roy’s bitch. So I silently promise that I’ll be fine with a wink. I may not have a fighting bone in my body, so to speak, but I’m a hell of a composer. I’ll beat her where it matters. 

As we round the corner, Roy disappears into a doorway. As the door swings shut, the label clearly reads: ‘Admissions Office.’ 

Aubrey and I look at each other before going in. Waiting for us on the other side is some sort of colloquium made up of teachers and students alike. There are about twelve people in total, all crammed into a room not much bigger than a public single-person bathroom. 

Every head turns as we enter, and I look down nervously. 

No one says anything as we slink behind the first row of students, landing next to Roy. Oh goodie! 

She gives me the side eye, and I smile brightly at her. 

The instructors at the front of the room go quiet, and the students obediently follow in their stead. Once the room is dead silent, the man at the center, flanked by teachers on either side of him, addresses the room. His voice is not deep, but its volume is enough to command an army. He’d be great on the stage, I think. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we welcome you to Dreysden. Each of you has been carefully selected, as we believe you will both enrich and be enriched by our Music Theory and History programs,” the man—who must be the Headmaster—begins. “That being said… students in those programs will continue orientation with the respective head of their department. Composition students will remain here.” 

He waits as the teachers on either side of him lead the majority of the students out of the room. Once they are gone, only the Headmaster, two boys, Roy, Aubrey, and I remain. The shorter of the boys slouches with his hands in his pockets, a slight grin tugging his cheek. The taller fiddles with a chunky silver ring on his finger, eyes fixed on the tiles at his feet. 

The room is horribly absent of noise, and I begin to wonder if anyone’s even breathing. Then, the Headmaster’s polite smile recedes, and his eyes scan us impassively. They linger on Aubrey, and her hand tenses. 

“Are you a student of Composition? Forgive me, I don’t recall seeing your face on the roster…” he says. 

“I’m with Ben-Benjamin,” Aubrey blushes, hand still caressing mine. 

“Ah,” the Headmaster says. “Then, you’re free to go. Have a pleasant trip.” 

Aubrey and I look at each other. We haven’t even seen my dorm, let alone said our goodbyes. 

“Unless, of course, you think you belong here,” he adds. “Why don’t we do a little test?”

He curls his finger beneath his chin thoughtfully. “Can you tell me the notes, interval, and key of the first bar of Chopin’s Etude Op. 25 No. 6?” 

Aubrey freezes, her hand dropping from mine without warning. 

I turn on the Headmaster. “That’s not fair! You can’t expect her to know such a complicated piece by heart.”

The Headmaster raises a brow. “Can’t I? I assume that everyone who belongs in this room would find the task elementary.” 

I clench my fist, but Aubrey takes it in her hands. “Ben, don’t. Don’t ruin your future over me.”

I shake my head decisively, but before I can tell the Headmaster what I really think of him, Roy steps forward. “The correct sequence would be G sharp and B in the key G sharp minor, using a minor third interval of rapid double thirds,” she says, ending with a sideways glance in my direction.

“Precisely,” the Headmaster says, looking at me while addressing her. “It seems your peers are more than capable, Mr. Shiron. Based on your applicant portfolio, it appears you are as well. So, I suggest you say your goodbyes and refrain from allowing your personal life to interfere with your work here.”

I am silent, unable to voice the bitter cocktail of rage and shame stirring in me. If I could tell him—and Roy—off and walk out the door, I would. But the song in the hall creeps up in my mind again, and I remember that I’d amount to nothing without this school. It would set me apart from hundreds of equally gifted composers—give me a chance to write something truly profound that could be heard by millions. Even Aubrey couldn’t compete with that, not that she would ever threaten my dream. 

She gives my hand a squeeze and stands on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. As her mouth crosses my ear, she whispers, “Show him your talent. That’s our revenge.” 

I nod slightly and watch her leave without a word. I feel the cold grip of my hand in her absence, along with a widening pit in my gut. I can see Roy out of the corner of my eye, expecting a satisfied smirk. Instead, she gazes at nothing in particular, and an odd shimmer crosses her eyes. Then, it’s gone. 

The Headmaster addresses us as if nothing happened, “You have each been selected for this program due to the natural qualities that elevate you above others in this field,” he says, causing the slouched boy to grin to himself. “However, this does not mean that you are guaranteed to succeed, or even complete the program. Only one will graduate and carry on the prestige of this Conservatory.” 

I freeze, and the vaguely ironic silence returns. This is a music school, right? 

The Headmaster allows the dramatic tension to build. Then, he elaborates, “You will spend a week composing your pieces. By the end, a panel of judges, including myself, will evaluate your work and eliminate the weakest composers. At the end of the test, the student who will officially study under our tutelage will be decided.”

I glance at the other students. Roy looks forward, stone-faced, while the one boy spins his ring so fast that the symbol engraved in it barely shifts out of focus. The other boy catches my gaze and sneers. 

“That is all,” the Headmaster says. “Royal, please show your peers to the dormitory building.”

Roy flinches at her full name but nods. She moves toward the door, pausing on the threshold to beckon us. The other boys follow, but I hesitate. I feel the Headmaster’s eyes on me and turn to face him. His eyes narrow thoughtfully, but I see no contempt in them. I, on the other hand, scowl ferociously at him in my best impression of a feral badger. His expression does not change, and I feel his sharp indifference pierce my inflated sense of confidence. 

“You coming?” Roy calls. 

I walk toward the door without a word. 

Once outside, Roy leads us through the hall. She stays a few feet ahead, leaving the rest of us rushing to keep up. 

I keep my eyes on her back, silently scolding her. But I’m not sure whether I’m mad at her or the Headmaster. She certainly didn’t help by showing Aubrey and me up, embarrassing us both. This was before we even knew it was a competition. Right?

I consider that she might have known from the start. After all, she knows where everything is located, and the Headmaster charged her with guiding us. Who the hell is she?

Before I can ask, the cocky boy says, “Ben, right? I’m Clyde.” 

“Hey,” I acknowledge curtly. 

“Did you know about this test shit?” he presses. “I mean, what’s the point of bringing us all here if they’re only keeping one of us?” 

I shrug. “Maybe they couldn’t decide based on our samples and experience alone.”

“What else is there?” Clyde asks. 

“A real challenge. Something totally new, controlled by whatever rules and limitations they choose,” I guess. “We may have the skills, but they set the environment—the tools at our disposal.”

“And why would they do that?” Clyde asks. 

“Because only the best could create a masterpiece out of nothing—glass out of sand,” I explain. 

Clyde scoffs. “That’s ridiculous! But I guess we don’t have a choice, do we?” 

I shake my head. 

He nods and turns his attention to the other boy. “What’s your story?” 

The boy looks up, startled. “Me?” 

“Yeah, you.” 

“I am Einar,” he says. “English… I learn little before I come to this country.” 

“Where are you from?” I ask. 

“From? I come from Estonia,” Einar reveals. “I study musics there my whole life until I receive letter to come to Dreysden Conservatory.” 

“What made you apply here?” I ask. 

Einar takes his time to craft his answer. “I come to become best composer in America!” 

He smiles triumphantly, but as Clyde laughs, it fades, and he looks back at the ground. 

“Well, out of all the composers in the world, Dresyden selected you. I’d say you have a good chance,” I admit. “But you have some stiff competition.” 

Einar meets my eyes, and the brightness returns to his pale face. 

“Out here,” Roy shouts from up ahead. 

We exit through the back of the building into the courtyard, and I tug my sleeves down to shield my wrists. The semester starts in early spring; Dreysden goes by its own schedule. The program will run through spring into summer and resume late fall. 

Plants of brown and beige span the brick pathway through the center of the square, branches blowing in the frost-bitten breeze. I mirror them, shivering from head to toe. Then, I spot a patch of pickwick crocuses. The striped purple petals lay themselves bare, prostrating before the sun despite the chill. I feel the urge to pick one, but think better of it. Not with the others around. 

We continue to another building, nearly identical to the main Conservatory but much smaller. Windows line the structure on two levels, and several of the blinds are open to welcome in the sunlight. I hope I’m on the top floor. It would be fitting, considering I’ll come out on top. 

I briefly wonder what will happen to the other rooms once my opponents have left. Will I have my pick of them? 

Inside, we continue through a hallway with red and gold carpeting and pictures of past students hung along the walls. We head to the end, where there is an alcove with a pristine elevator that must have been installed long after the original building was constructed. Roy doesn’t wait for the elevator, turning instead to the door to the stairs. 

When we enter, she begins to climb two steps at a time up the concrete stairwell. I hesitate as my eye is drawn down instead of up, where a smaller set of stairs leads to a door labeled ‘Basement.’ The adventurer in me calls me to investigate, but I remind myself that it’s not the time to be distracted. Besides, the door is probably locked to keep students away from whatever ancient mold is growing in the dank, old space.  

We head up onto the next floor and down a blue and silver carpet. No pictures line the walls; instead, bits of instruments–a violin bow here, a trombone mouthpiece there–are hung in glass cases. Bronze plaques engraved with the names of past masters stand out against the wooden rim of the cases. In my mind, I replace the nearest one with ‘Benjamin Shiron,’ accompanied by many accolades, and smile to myself. 

“Here we are,” Roy says, stopping beside one of the doors. “You two are sharing this room,” she says, pointing to Einar and me, and then to Clyde, “You have the one next door.”  

Clyde smirks at her, but it disappears as she reveals, “And I’m at the end of the hall.” 

Clyde’s mood swiftly improves as he professes, “I have my own room!” 

Einar and I look at each other awkwardly. 

“Don’t worry,” Roy says. “In a week, the whole hall will be cleaned out.”

“Are the other programs competing?” I ask calmly. 

Roy turns to me as if she forgot I was there, “No, they just reserve this floor for the preliminary round of composition students until the program actually begins.”

She talks as if the students aren’t people but things occupying space. 

“Once you are weaned out, this floor will be used for the higher-level musicians as well–first chairs and whatnot,” she continues. “Weren’t you wondering where the musicians are? Hint: they aren’t here until the end of the week when we start practicing with them. I suppose I shouldn’t expect that level of observation from you.”

“Perhaps not. After all, you would know better than me, being that you’ve been here longer than the rest of us,” I retort.

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything. 

Clyde’s ears perk up. “What is he talking about?”

Roy’s face flushes, but her expression remains impassive. “I live here,” she reveals.

Now it’s my turn to be slack-jawed. 

“My grandfather is one of the financiers of this school and the Chinese representative on the Board of Treasurers,” she goes on. “So, he sent me to study music here in America and keep the board members overseas honest.” 

“So you’re, what, his spy?” Clyde accuses. “And a cheater! There’s no way the judges won’t pick her. Her grandfather’s probably paying them under the table.”

Roy’s face reddens, and the familiar glimmer I saw at orientation returns to her eyes. 

“Believe what you want,” she says. “But if I win, it’ll be because I earned it on my own.”

She storms down the hall before Clyde can press her further. We all watch her enter the door at the very end. Then, Clyde turns to us with a promise, “I’ll watch her. If that bitch is stealing someone else’s work, I swear I’ll tell the instructors. And if they’re on her side, I’ll make sure she can’t write, play, or sing a single note.” 

Neither Einar nor I says a word, and he takes this as his sign to leave. When he’s gone, Einar says, “I think we should tell someone, yes?”

I shake my head. “No, let her prove herself to him.”

Better than giving Clyde a reason to be gunning for us, too. If it comes down to it, I’ll interfere. Though if it were on Roy’s behalf or Clyde’s, I can’t be sure.