Gravity by Amanda Miga Page A

instruments; singers warming their voices;
dancers stretching their bodies; Mrs. Rubio bouncing hands play
Mozart’s piano sonata number eleven; Alla Turca (Allegretto).
    Her face lights up as I enter the room. “Ah,
Alexander!” I love the way she says my name with her heavy Spanish
accent. Her fingers, swing into a less choppy, familiar tune. The
key strokes are slowed down and they connect smoothly together.
    “That’s beautiful. What is it?”
    “Rolling Stones.” Her brilliant teeth bring
me to smile. “Tony let me borrow his CD.”
    “I’ve never heard them like that.” I look
closely at her joyful expression. Her face looks thirty-something,
but the minor lines around her eyes reveal she's older. Her smooth
skin and dyed red hair trick the eyes. “Have you looked in to the
schools I recommended?”
    “Ah…” I avert my eyes.
    Mrs. Rubio presses her fingers down like a
child throwing a tantrum, the keys blare out noise, destroying the
song. “Alexander!” I've seen that penetrating gaze before. My
adoptive mother does it when my grades aren’t to Aisling standards.
“You must stay with your passion. Your dancing, your singing, your
music, Alexander. Isn’t it what you want?”
    “Yes. It is, but—"
    Her slender frame gracefully rises from the
piano bench. “No. No. No, but! You listen here,” She points
to my heart. “Not here.” Her finger springs off my forehead.
"You're parents give you trouble?"
    "No, not exactly."
    "Then you are de problem, Alexander. De
head."
    She's right. If she only knew how much of de head is a burden to me. Sometimes I want to tell her I
can read minds because she's the only one that gets me. It sounds
pitiful just to tell my teacher and not his friends.
    Her painted fingernails daintily motions to
the piano. I don't hesitate and place my books down. I know what to
play for her. Mrs. Rubio motions to another student to dance with
her. I begin to play a popular love song I always thought Bobby
Darin sung best. I don't need the music sheet; I know it by
heart.
    I'm good at this. I have to be if I want to
stay sane. I can feel everything fall away from me like I'm a bird
lifting off the ground. It's the only time I can focus and not hear
thoughts; my parents’ thoughts; my friends’ thoughts and my own
thoughts; only music makes me feel at peace.
    Everyone is dancing and singing; some grab
their instrument and play along.
    Mrs. Rubio and the other students who love to
dance take a partner. She scoots me off the bench and she takes
over flawlessly. "Go Alexander! Show me your stuff,” she winks.
    She told me I move passionately like Fred
Astaire. She thought I should pursue a music and dance career. I've
always thought that would be a new beginning for me. Music seems to
be the only option anyway. It's a no brainer. But it always changes
the moment I leave the music room. It’s like that dream only lives
there. Leaving it, I become a different Alex—the one that has to
pretend to be an honest student, a good athlete, and a loyal best
friend.
    In this room I don't have to act or lie.
    I walk over to Beth, a violinist who usually
taps her feet as far as dancing goes. She’s stunned when I offer my
hand; I broke the social barrier between seniors and freshmen. I
pull her up and cradle her stiff little body into my arms.
    "Don't worry. I got you."
    I can't hear her; the music blocks all the
voices I would normally receive. There isn't a need to use my
ability to know that Beth is nervous. I start out slow and show her
the steps.
    "Follow me."
    She tries her hardest and she begins to
loosen up once she gets the rhythm down. I swing her around and she
smiles frightfully. I sing to her which makes her blush. I would
normally find her vulnerability useful to what I usually want from
girls, but dancing with Beth, I want her to be comfortable and
enjoy what music does for us both. It isn't about getting another
notch on my belt, as Pete always says. It‘s about Beth and