A Thousand Perfect Notes

by C.G. Drews

‘You are worth more than a thousand perfect notes.’

Some people are born for sunlight and orange peel smiles and running on the beach and wild flowers in their hair. Other people are born for nonexistence.

He doesn’t look back. But he hopes her smile returns when he’s gone, because it’s a cruel person who steals smiles.

It’s easy to drag himself through life with his eyes closed and accept the hate – until someone bumps him and forces him to look up and realise life’s cutting him with broken shards while everyone else is dancing.

‘Dude,’ August says, ‘your eyes have this permanent devastated look, like someone stole your ice cream and stabbed your puppy and then told you sprinkles were illegal.

‘You shouldn’t kill things. Not dreams or happiness or animals.

If he were a piano, all his strings would have snapped.

If people cut him open, they’d never accuse him of being empty. He’s not a shell of a pianist – he’s a composer. Cut his chest and see his heart beat with a song all his own. Oh look, the world would say, this boy is hiding a universe of wonder in him after all.

‘There are some people,’ the blueberry says, ‘that you hope will slip off the stage and break both legs.’ ‘I feel you on a spiritual level,’ Beck says.

Music is nothing unless it fills your soul with colour and passion and dreams.

Sharing music is personal because music speaks, it feels, it breathes. And it always says something about you.

Beck holds the iPod like it’s his entire life and he wonders why his stupid feet don’t run after her and say something simple, something nice, like: Thanks, August, these songs saved my life.

He hates it because she is hope and tomorrow and he’s a goodbye and the end.

‘I think you have more than nine dogs,’ Beck says. ‘Oh, I have nine dogs,’ August says. ‘My parents also have dogs. Then there’s the turtle and an aviary for the birds outside.’ She glances at the budgie. ‘Most of the birds,’ she amends. ‘There are a few cats and a goat, but we’re only babysitting the llama.’ ‘Naturally.’

No, he likes her because there’s sunshine in her eyes and she knows the secrets to smiling.

‘I also know what you dream of.’ How much does she think about him? As much as he thinks about her? ‘Escape,’ she says, like she’s plucked the word from between the rusty piano strings that bind his heart together.

The room, the house, the air, all stink of money.

Let us hope, though, that you and I both feel the music this evening. Passion is more important than perfection.’

She is the girl his songs are for.

What Beck Keverich wants most in the world is to cut off his own hands – and let a girl named August teach him how to smile.

‘Oh stop it.’ She faces him, speaking clearly, and he hears her this time. ‘You are worth more than a thousand perfect notes.’ And finally, his hands stop trembling.