Chapter Text
"two, three, four.. two, three, four.. two, three..."
A hand rises in the air, brandishing a baton. It lingers for a beat then flies downward. An orchestra responds, letting out a flurry of chords that fill the room. With strums, with a flick of the wrist, with a breath, they all follow two hands guiding them to the perfect symphony. One moves down, left, right, up, while the other raises a pinky. A pair of eyes coax notes to be played, new harmonies are born with a sniff, and hearts swell along with the melody as a fist is held and a flat palm is slowly raised, then swiftly loops and clenches, ending the piece. The audience wastes no time to jump out of their seats and cheer. They beg for an encore, throw roses, and chant the conductor's name:
"Quin-cy! Quin-cy! Quin-cy!"
He turns around and throws his arm on either side before taking a bow.
BANG!
His head meets his desk as he dozes off while daydreaming in class.
"Johansson," his math teacher begins, "let's try paying attention to the material that'll be on the test that's half your grade."
Johansson groans while lifting his head and every pair of eyes meets him, with all lips up-curled. This is the closest he'll get to captivating an audience, he thinks.
"You definitely shouldn't be sleeping in Math," jeers a voice behind him, "you'll need to calculate quickly as a cashier." Stifled giggles are heard throughout the classroom. Johansson moves his long, curly blonde hair from his face and snaps around to see Harold, the owner of that voice, grinning and looking back at him with a sinister glean in his eye. Harold was the hugest bully of Johansson's, and a friend of William Emerson III, who sits beside him chuckling while scribbling in his math notebook.
William is his mortal enemy. He prevails wherever Johansson falls short. In every one of his strengths, William outshines him. In art, dance, theater, academics, and worst of all, music, he succeeds and leaves Johansson in his shadow. Sometimes he feels William's only purpose in life is to make sure he doesn't win.
Johansson quickly averts his gaze and turns to face forward again, rubbing his forehead where it bumped the cold, wooden desk. Since William's the most popular guy in school, and his friends constantly tease him, Johansson doesn't bother making any more of a scene telling Harold off and tries to focus on math. He opens his textbook and flicks through the pages until he stops on the class's current lesson. Skimming through paragraphs, he reaches a hand-drawn doodle of himself with his eyes crossed and tongue stuck out. Someone must've snuck it into his book when he was distracted. Under the doodle is a note that reads:
"Johansson Quincy SUCKS EGGS!!!"
Johansson hisses and rests his chin on his palm. That sentence is scribbled on every blank space in each textbook, desk, bathroom stall, and chalkboard in the school. It doesn't phase him anymore, not even the raw eggs that get snuck into his lunch bag. The teacher hands an assignment to everyone, giving Johansson a stern look as he receives his. He picks up his chewed-up #2 pencil and copies as many notes as possible from the chalkboard before it's erased.
"divide the 5, then add, 1, 2, 3, 4...1, 2, 3, and....1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and...2 and 3-"
The 12 o'clock bell rings, startling him awake from yet another daydream. William is the first to gather his things and walk out the door. the rest of the class follows him, pairing up with friends to gossip and sit together in the cafeteria. Johansson grabs his clarinet case from under his chair before heading to lunch alone.
Lunchtime was one of the worst times of day for Johansson. Every friend group and clique has their self-assigned tables, and he's been rejected from each one of them. The only table left is the rickety, outdated bench that conveniently rests in front of the school's trash cans. He sits facing the other students, watching them laugh and goof around with each other. He opens the bag lunch his mom had packed for him that morning. Inside is a Tupperware container filled with Swedish meatballs and a sandwich bag with three of her homemade oatmeal raisin cookies along with a bottle of lukewarm water. Attached is a note that says "For Joey. With love, Mama." He smiles a bit before opening the container and forking a meatball into his mouth. He closes his eyes to savor one of his favorite foods.
When he opens them up, he's surprised to see that the bag of his mother's cookies has vanished from the table. He looks up and finds his cookies in the hands of none other than William Emerson III, who takes a seat in the chair beside him and throws his feet onto the table.
"Hello, Joey." he mocks his mother's note in a nasal voice.
"William." Johansson greets back, without turning his direction.
"This won't take long, I wouldn't want to keep you from your entourage." he motions over to the trash cans. "Just wanted to let you know in case you haven't heard from Grime. I've been chosen to be first chair at our next recital. Again."
"Congratulations."
"A---nd you're second chair! Again!"
"Yep. Can I have my food back now?"
William puts his feet back on the floor and leans forward while running his fingers through his slicked-back hair. "Mmm, I don't know. Maybe, if you admit I'm your superior."
"Not a chance in Hell."
"Fine. Then I hope the old woman's a good cook."
He pulls out a cookie and takes a bite. Johannson continues eating. He's never cared for oatmeal raisin, anyway.
Harold and another one of William's lackeys approach the table a few moments later. "Hey Quincy, I think you dropped something from your lunch over here." she says, and Harold reaches out a closed hand to Johansson. Confusedly, he holds out his hands to retrieve it. Harold lifts his arm and forcibly throws a raw egg into Johansson's palms, cracking it and causing yolk to splatter all over his lap and face. The two students burst out cackling, and soon so is the entire room. Johansson's only able to gasp and look down in shock at his soiled clothes.
"What the hell?!" William darts his eyes to his friends, and then to Johansson, who shoves him aside to run out of the cafeteria. He picks up his clarinet case and runs after him.
Johansson's vision blurs as his eyes well up with tears. He dashes into a nearby restroom and locks himself in a handicap stall. Catching his breath, he looks around and notices "Johansson Quincy sucks eggs" is plastered on every surface of the stall like propaganda. He leans against the wall and throws his head up. 'Why me?', he thinks. 'Why must every 11 minutes of my life be filled with misery?' He pulls his Discman out of his pocket and presses play before putting on his headphones. Solitude in E minor plays on a loop.
William rushes into the restroom not soon after. "Johansson?" he calls, "Are you in here?"
"Go away," Johansson mumbles, "you've already done enough."
"I had nothing to do with this!"
"Yeah, right."
"Really! I was only relaying what our band teacher had told me. It's not like I would choose to sit with you any other way."
Johansson scoffs, "Right."
"Just come out or I'll come in there."
"I can't. I'm on the John."
"I know you aren't. You suck at lying."
He doesn't respond, hoping William will walk away on his own after getting tired of teasing him. Instead, he hears footsteps coming in his direction then a head appears above the stall door.
"What the hell, man?!" Johansson takes a step back. "What if I were actually using it?"
"This toilet's been out of order for almost a year now. Everyone uses this stall to hide from teachers and do the nasty."
"Gross."
William hoists himself up from the toilet and swings over the stall divider. "Oh God, look at you!" He almost forms a smile seeing Johansson covered in egg, but quickly throws a hand over his mouth.
"No need to rub it in." Johansson sits in the corner of the stall and turns the volume up on his Discman. William cringes at the thought of sitting on a bathroom floor and grabs a loose roll of tissues, then reluctantly crouches down in front of him. He reaches out and Johansson flinches and moves his head. "What're you doing?"
"Just trying to wipe this egg off of your face."
"I didn't ask for your help. I can do it myself."
"Just let me do this, bro"
"I'm not your 'bro', bro. Haven't you heard of boundaries?"
"Listen, I feel bad for what they did, so let me help you out."
"Why do you even care? You're the one who started the whole 'egg' thing. Don't try to redeem yourself now."
William starts wiping the yolk off of Johansson's chin.
"You think I care if I have your forgiveness? I was simply raised with manners."
"Bullshit. Where are your manners when you spread stupid rumors about me?"
"Okay, fine. Maybe I went too far with the egg thing, but I'd never encourage anything physically harmful to you. I'm not that kind of guy." He moves up to his cheek. "We were just teasing you a little, what was the harm in that? Now shut up and let me get your nose."
Johansson doesn't waste his breath telling William how it is. He's a talented, popular, rich boy from an elite family. He probably genuinely doesn't understand the concept of bullying. "Ugh, stop that tickles."
"Geez, there's some in your hair, too."
William gets closer to Johansson and gets rid of away muck from his forehead. From this close, Johansson could count every freckle on William's skin. He observes every detail of his rival's award-winning features. The sharp and defined edges of his jawline, the gentle curves of his lips, and the prominent bridge of his nose. He can't help but notice the signature Emerson family unibrow upon his forehead. His hair is naturally Spanish gray, flowing down and stopping before his shoulders. Every strand is perfectly in place, without a single kink or curl. Johansson has always admired his rival's well-sculpted physique.
He gazes into William's eyes and notices his flushed cheeks. Suddenly, he looks away and pulls his hand back.
No one says anything for a few seconds. William stands and dusts off his pants then holds out his hand to Johansson. "Lunch is halfway over, we should get back so no one gets suspicious."
"I'm not going back." Johannson curls up and puts his head onto his knees.
"Oh, come on. I said I was sorry."
"No, you didn't. Besides, my clothes are still covered in eggs. I'm not moving."
Williams sighs and reaches for his burgundy blazer. With a swift motion, he takes it off and throws it on the floor next to Johansson, along with the tissues. "It's obviously too big for you," he says, "but it'll cover up the stains until you can change. Don't worry about giving it back."
Afterward, William opens the stall door and picks up the black case that Johansson had left behind. "Here's your clarinet," he says, holding it out to him. "You left it when you ran off." He places it inside the stall then turns to leave but pauses. "Don't tell anyone about this. Wouldn't want anyone thinking I tolerate you."
"What if someone asks how I got your clothes?"
"No one will. They don't spare their attention on you any other time, so just stay invisible." He grins then closes the door and departs, leaving Johansson alone to collect himself.
After a few minutes have passed, Johansson has finished cleaning himself up and has tied William's blazer around his waist to cover up the dried egg on his jeans. "It smells like him." He thinks, scrunching his nose, but he can't pinpoint the scent. He steps out of the stall and stands in front of the restroom mirror, making sure that no stains are visible. He turns on the faucet and washes his hands. His thoughts are in shambles. How could his rival act so caring for his well-being? Especially when he's been part of this whole Johansson hate train?
He picks up his clarinet case and takes a deep breath before heading out of the restroom and to band class.
The band room is dimly lit and empty. He's the first student to arrive at his class since lunch is still ongoing. It was preferable to be early because now he could practice his music without judgment. He takes his clarinet out of its velvet-lined case and assembles all of the components. He imagines he is standing on an enormous stage, before a sold-out theater, every seat in the house shaking from the anticipation of hearing him play the first note.
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, feeling the music within him. He begins with slow, complimenting chords to warm up. Once he finds a melody he likes, he begins picking up the pace and changing the tempo at random. The piece goes from staccato bursts to long, drawn-out notes at unexpected and unexplainable times. The clarinet makes noises that anyone else would call stabbing, but Johansson finds comfort in his mess of trills. When he's finished, he thanks his fictional audience for their standing ovation and takes a bow before sitting in one of his class's folding chairs.
There's still a little time before lunch is over and class starts back, so he turns on his Discman and stares at the ceiling. Over the next few minutes, students fill the classroom and practice their instruments. Soon, the teacher joins in, and William arrives fashionably late, as usual. Johansson turns up his Discman's volume and daydreams as classmates and teachers alike swoon over William's perfectly textbook playing of the piece they're currently learning, Arietta, arranged for a clarinet quartet.
William's eyes flutter and occasionally scan his sheet music. Everyone's still as he plays the piece, with a few people dramatically holding their mouths open with amazement. Johansson feels his cheeks burn, and his teeth grind. "Big whoop," Johansson thinks, "as if he's some master. With his stupid clarinet, and his ugly playing, and his dumb jacket, and his big nose...."
He bounces his leg and thinks up more insults to himself.
"Quincy," Mr.Grime, their band teacher, calls, "How about demonstrating what you've learned so far with William?"
Johansson gulps. He knows this piece by heart, but knowing William, they could play in perfect harmony with impeccable timing and he will still come out on top. He hesitantly removes his headphones and grabs his clarinet then stands next to William, who's wearing a fresh new burgundy blazer. His sheet music rests on his own personalized wooden stand, unlike Johansson's who didn't bring his music at all.
William murmurs, "Hey, was that you playing in here before class began?"
"Y-yeah, why?"
"It sounded like you smeared dog shit on your sheet music. Try reading the notes next time and don't embarrass me at the recital." He laughs expensively.
"How hilarious. You should add 'stand-up' to your resume, next to 'professional pain-in-the-ass"
"I've heard better comebacks from a-"
Mr. Grimes clears his throat and signals the boys to begin.
They press their lips to their clarinets and begin playing Arietta. To them, it was a relatively simple piece of music, devoid of any glissandos or difficult chords. William plays the lead while Johansson harmonizes and follows William's pace. As expected, William adds in a few trills to show off, once again upstaging him. Johansson rolls his eyes and his clarinet squeaks from his momentary lack of focus, earning a disapproving head shake from his teacher. He makes a fist, to say stop playing.
"Quincy, you have been at this for years and you're still making these amateur mistakes."
Johansson lowers his clarinet. "I'm sorry, it won't happen again, I promise."
"No, this has gone on too long. Emerson, I need you to be Quincy's tutor after school, and get him in ship-shape before the recital."
William holds his mouth open in shock. "Why me?" he interjects in disbelief.
"What? Why him?" Johansson chimes in, mouth also agape.
"Honestly, Emerson's the only one I think can help you at this point. If you're lucky, some of his talent may rub off on you." Mr. Grimes dismisses the two and works with his other students.
William looks at Johansson and groans. "You just had to screw up, didn't you? Now I'm stuck with your incompetence until the recital."
"Nothing that you shouldn't be able to handle, Mr. First Chair." Johansson sits back down and puts his headphones back on. William scoffs then pulls a fancy maroon fountain pen and a small cream notepad from his pocket and scribbles a note. "This is my address. I teach dance at 3:00 and have a gig at a cafe at 5:00 so you'll have to be there around 7:00." He tears away the paper, dismissively hands it to Johansson, and walks off to be with his friends.
Johansson evaluates his note. The paper is unlined and has an elegant curly 'E' surrounded by a circular vine in the corner. William's address is written in black with immaculate cursive. The ink is still wet, so Johansson fans it around before shoving it in his pocket and continues listening to his music until class is over. He has a hard time practicing while in class, though he is more talented than his classmates. He thinks at least. His playing is always met with comments about him 'trying too hard' or not being as good as William. He may still make rookie mistakes, but he tells himself everyone is just jealous of his aptitude.
An hour passes, then another, and the last bell finally rings as Johansson is daydreaming in Science. Grabbing his clarinet case, he hurriedly stands from his desk and leaves class. He can feel his heart racing as he thinks about going to William's house after school. Is it nerves? Maybe because he's never visited a classmate's home before. Or maybe it's the fact that his rival has upstaged him yet again, being his tutor of all things. "How dare they?" he thinks, "So what if I made a small mistake? It doesn't make William any better than me! Once I get there I'll show him-"
Johansson stops in his tracks when he realizes William's home is all the way across town, and he has no way to get there. He has his bike, but no way he could go that far without getting exhausted. He doesn't have any friends to ask for a ride with or money for the bus, so he only has one option.