Sedate: A Short Story

~Elisa Mase
It was the last day and I just couldn’t bring myself to just leave like the rest of the students who are going to rush over to Newport where we are going to have our senior beach party. Instead, I lingered in the room a little longer, dawdling. The beach is an hour away and I’ll probably arrive late but that wouldn’t matter. I had my silver Canon and Serene Mack, my friend to take the photo.
“Is he here,” she asked, my camera in her hand, feeling bored.
“He should be,” I replied, looking at the spotless tiles of the soundless music room and the walls lined up with photos and everything our teacher could have thought of to encourage the band students. Panels of trophies lined up on the shelves on the wall-an array of color.
The director’s office was a bit open and I heard paper shuffling. I knocked on the door.
“Yes? Who is it,” asked a tenor voice in an American accent, which is to say, without an accent.
“It is m-,” I stopped myself.
“I,” I corrected, “Sienna Bach.” Yeah, I’m Chinese, but I have a Vietnamese last name-very common for Cantonese. People used to ask if my dad is European, but as far as I know, he’s not. Serena and my teacher are of European descent though…
“Hey, Miss Bach and Miss Mack,” he welcomed us in, giving a glance at our blue gowns with his sharp deep-set watery blue eyes.
“Hi,” I said, “Mind if we take another photo?” We had taken photo during the graduation ceremony, but it was so quick-a photo of an embrace-a fence had separated us…
“Nope,” he replied.
“Sure, where,” he asked kindly, slurring the words. “Outside,” he suggested in inquiry.
“Sure,” I answered him back causally.
A moment later, we stood outside, right in front of the rose garden. Naturally, I went over to his left side. First thing he did was to put his left hand on my shoulder and arm, pulling me close to him. I laid my hand on his back, copying him. Serene fumbled with my camera and it took such a long time that my teacher turned to me and whispered, “What is the matter?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, my eyes looking up to the sky with small freckles of lights, a bit worried. Leaves of a nearby maple fluttered in the wind, hiding a star here and a star there. My hand started to feel heavy, yet I didn’t take my hand away; I didn’t flinch, letting him hold my arm, guiding me toward him.
“Is something wrong,” I asked Serena, taking initiative.
“Nah-the camera was in Chinese, but I’ve got it all figured out. It’s in English again. I think I accidentally switched it-sorry.”
Two flashes of lights and it was finished.
“Thanks,” I told them.
He opened his arm and I embraced him.
“I-love-you,” he muttered quickly in my ear; the sound of it brought back sweet memories.
“I-love-you, too,” I said on tempo and I stood on the tip of my toes, like I was doing count phrases, and I felt my lip touch skin, the shaven hair barely felt, soft. He touched the back of my head, looked into my eyes with tints of sorrow and delicately touched my lip with his.
“I’ll always be your teacher, though,” he reminded me, smiling or rather, smirking.
“So I can call you whenever I need help,” I asked.
He laughed. “I would expect you to be more independent,” he said.
“I’ll always be your student,” I said, burying my head in his chest, touching his sternum, the warmth enfolding me. Then, just like it had started, it ended abruptly. He studied my eyes as I studied his and we exchanged looks more than we had exchanged contact information (which was only once). Then he went on an analytical view on choices and the future. I listened and did not interrupt.
“I’ll always remember you,” I said when he finally ran out of words to say.
“So would I,” he responded, looking at me. I almost felt sorry for Serena for having to wait, but she got a phone call from her boyfriend and was engrossed in the conversation.
I remembered how I did not start off being greatly liked by him. I was good at my instrument, but not perfect; later on, I learned that it was his instrument, too. As days went by, I noticed how similar we are, and yet at the same time, two different people. He would correct me when I do something wrong; sometime he gave me the “are you kidding” face and other times, he merely corrected me, but I always knew that there were more emotions and feelings in addition to that.
He would warn me to be careful and would jump into his student’s conversations. He would defend us, saying that “some are just better than others”. He was not emotionless-well what would you expect from an Italian? He spent more time than our parents do and his effort to teach seems endless. Music was not the only thing he taught.
Awkward moments, we had it all. At first, I would walk from class to class, not greeting him. One day, he stared at me while walking, his eyes never leaving me. At that time, I didn’t have my glasses or my glasses wasn’t working well for me-I forget which-but I didn’t not recognize him until he said hi to me. There were other times, times when I was in a hurry. I wanted to get from one side to the other and I would open the door and bump right into him or nearly bump into him; it happened several times. In class, he told us that we attract the things we think about to our lives and it just makes me wonder if he knows. If he does, which is very likely, he hid it well.
“I liked how enthusiastic you were in my class-always trying,” he said and I smiled.
“I like how you taught more than just music, how caring, and how dedicated you are,” I told him.
“Come by some time,” he said.
“Yes, dad,” I replied playfully, right before Serena came back, clueless of chemistry.
He rested a hand on the top of my back and said, “I’ll miss you both.”
Serena smiled, holding back her resentment. She had never really like him-thought he was too strict. I turned to study my teacher’s face, but if he did notice it, he did not show it.
“I’ll see you,” he began and then stopping in midsentence, emphasizing the eccentricity and making Serena raise her eyebrow.
“When I see you,” I finished his sentence and he smiled, relieved.
We locked eyes in a silent farewell and I wonder who I would become. We would go our separate ways, like we are just strangers on the street. I wonder if I would recognize him as my teacher years and decades from now… and I wonder if he would remember me. But just before we part, he held my hand and handed me a book.
“I wrote this for you.”

Source: http://clariannelexis.blogspot.com/2010/08/sedate-short-story.html