Perfecting Her Scales
“Again.”
Mel’s fists clenched at her sides, but she was determined not to get angry this time around. If her father was forced to find her yet another coach, she was going to be in some big trouble. He’d only reminded her of that about a dozen times before her lesson. She was about 30 minutes in and they still hadn’t gotten through her stupid warm up scales.
This is a waste of time.
She took a deep breath to center herself before attempting yet again to start the first of a seemingly endless set of arpeggios. “Aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa.”
It’s just not fair.
Just because Thalia had won all those choir awards in school and Clio had gone on to sing professionally didn’t mean that Mel should have to stand there and be subjected to this kind of torture.
Her father kept saying that if her older sisters had been able to learn, then she should be able to learn – but Mel honestly didn’t see how those two things were connected at all. Her sisters were nothing like her, and everyone knew it. They were tall, blonde and gorgeous, none of which were words that could ever be used to describe Mel.
It seemed to her as though they had taken everything before she’d even been born. By the time she came around her sisters had grabbed up all the brains, looks and talent, leaving her nothing. She was shortest in the family, chubby, average in every way. She had dark hair that drew attention to how pale she was all the time (because of course she couldn’t get the spray tans to work on her the way they worked for her sisters.) This meant that on top of being the worst at everything, she also had the hardest time passing for human.
On the fourth set her voice cracked, the piano stopped, and she got a glare from her instructor. “Again.”
The skin over Mel’s knuckles turned even whiter as it stretched thin, her fingernails digging into the palm of her hand as she tried helplessly to suppress her fury.
“Aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa,” she started again, doing her best to focus on hitting each note perfectly instead of jumping over her music stand and killing Mr. Miccoli. The visions of him screaming in pain and her hellish lesson ending at last seemed almost too tempting. Her father would find out though, he always did, and she didn’t think he would stand for it this time around. After all, Mr. Miccoli had been flown out all the way from Italy – as if that made him special.
If I was a thousand years old, I’d use all the money I had saved up for something a lot cooler than musical child abuse.
“Aa-aa-aa-“
“You’re flat. Start over.”
She glared at him, and for a moment she said nothing. He pressed the key to start her off and she did nothing in response, too angry to even attempt to sing. Her vocal chords were tense and she wasn’t sure she could get any sound out at all in that particular moment, let alone produce a note that would be found “acceptable.”
Don’t do it Mel, she told herself. Don’t do it, or there will be hell to pay.
He hit the key again, impatiently. She could feel her cold blood grow uncharacteristically warm, then start to boil. He continued attempting to prompt her with that same first note over and over – the sound grating on her nerves. He continued to hit it. She continued glaring at him.
This man is really starting to test my patience.
“Listen here, young lady.” She hated being referred to as ‘young lady’. It was all she could do to stand still as he started on his little rant. “I taught both of your sisters, training them from the time that they were old enough to walk until they sang sweeter than birds. They were both quite successful, as was I. I was leading an orchestra in Italy of all places, sure that my days of teaching stubborn, ungrateful brats were far behind me. Then your father called in a special favor and I flew all the way back here to coach you as well. So help me God, I will not be out of your life until you have mastered your voice and neither of us will leave this room until you make it through your scales!”
He was red and flustered and Mel could smell his anger – though it did nothing to rival her own rage. “And if I walked out of that door right now?”
He stood from the bench, meeting her eyes. He clearly didn’t know how dangerous she could be. “You may do so, over my dead body.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa.” She sang out to finish her the last set, thus completing her warm up.
“Stunning,” said her vocal coach. “You really do have quite the amazing voice.”
Mel shrugged as if to brush off the compliment, though she was smiling inwardly, quite pleased with herself.
“I can’t believe your last vocal coach gave up after just one session.”
She bit her lip as she flipped through her sheet music, looking for the piece she had selected for practice. She had found the loveliest little song about the fate that befalls those who tempt evil, and was intent to learn it in the original Italian.
“My father was furious about it,” she said casually in response. “He paid a fortune to bring Mr. Miccoli back out to the states to instruct me, and then he just bailed without giving any notice. We never even made it past my warm-up scales.”
Her new instructor shook his head. “Such a shame, I can’t imagine why. You’ve got such an excellent range and so much enthusiasm – I almost feel like you should be the one coaching me.”
The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. She couldn’t help it. “You know, I’d like to be a vocal coach I think.”
After all, you are what you eat.
Mel’s fists clenched at her sides, but she was determined not to get angry this time around. If her father was forced to find her yet another coach, she was going to be in some big trouble. He’d only reminded her of that about a dozen times before her lesson. She was about 30 minutes in and they still hadn’t gotten through her stupid warm up scales.
This is a waste of time.
She took a deep breath to center herself before attempting yet again to start the first of a seemingly endless set of arpeggios. “Aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa.”
It’s just not fair.
Just because Thalia had won all those choir awards in school and Clio had gone on to sing professionally didn’t mean that Mel should have to stand there and be subjected to this kind of torture.
Her father kept saying that if her older sisters had been able to learn, then she should be able to learn – but Mel honestly didn’t see how those two things were connected at all. Her sisters were nothing like her, and everyone knew it. They were tall, blonde and gorgeous, none of which were words that could ever be used to describe Mel.
It seemed to her as though they had taken everything before she’d even been born. By the time she came around her sisters had grabbed up all the brains, looks and talent, leaving her nothing. She was shortest in the family, chubby, average in every way. She had dark hair that drew attention to how pale she was all the time (because of course she couldn’t get the spray tans to work on her the way they worked for her sisters.) This meant that on top of being the worst at everything, she also had the hardest time passing for human.
On the fourth set her voice cracked, the piano stopped, and she got a glare from her instructor. “Again.”
The skin over Mel’s knuckles turned even whiter as it stretched thin, her fingernails digging into the palm of her hand as she tried helplessly to suppress her fury.
“Aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa,” she started again, doing her best to focus on hitting each note perfectly instead of jumping over her music stand and killing Mr. Miccoli. The visions of him screaming in pain and her hellish lesson ending at last seemed almost too tempting. Her father would find out though, he always did, and she didn’t think he would stand for it this time around. After all, Mr. Miccoli had been flown out all the way from Italy – as if that made him special.
If I was a thousand years old, I’d use all the money I had saved up for something a lot cooler than musical child abuse.
“Aa-aa-aa-“
“You’re flat. Start over.”
She glared at him, and for a moment she said nothing. He pressed the key to start her off and she did nothing in response, too angry to even attempt to sing. Her vocal chords were tense and she wasn’t sure she could get any sound out at all in that particular moment, let alone produce a note that would be found “acceptable.”
Don’t do it Mel, she told herself. Don’t do it, or there will be hell to pay.
He hit the key again, impatiently. She could feel her cold blood grow uncharacteristically warm, then start to boil. He continued attempting to prompt her with that same first note over and over – the sound grating on her nerves. He continued to hit it. She continued glaring at him.
This man is really starting to test my patience.
“Listen here, young lady.” She hated being referred to as ‘young lady’. It was all she could do to stand still as he started on his little rant. “I taught both of your sisters, training them from the time that they were old enough to walk until they sang sweeter than birds. They were both quite successful, as was I. I was leading an orchestra in Italy of all places, sure that my days of teaching stubborn, ungrateful brats were far behind me. Then your father called in a special favor and I flew all the way back here to coach you as well. So help me God, I will not be out of your life until you have mastered your voice and neither of us will leave this room until you make it through your scales!”
He was red and flustered and Mel could smell his anger – though it did nothing to rival her own rage. “And if I walked out of that door right now?”
He stood from the bench, meeting her eyes. He clearly didn’t know how dangerous she could be. “You may do so, over my dead body.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa.” She sang out to finish her the last set, thus completing her warm up.
“Stunning,” said her vocal coach. “You really do have quite the amazing voice.”
Mel shrugged as if to brush off the compliment, though she was smiling inwardly, quite pleased with herself.
“I can’t believe your last vocal coach gave up after just one session.”
She bit her lip as she flipped through her sheet music, looking for the piece she had selected for practice. She had found the loveliest little song about the fate that befalls those who tempt evil, and was intent to learn it in the original Italian.
“My father was furious about it,” she said casually in response. “He paid a fortune to bring Mr. Miccoli back out to the states to instruct me, and then he just bailed without giving any notice. We never even made it past my warm-up scales.”
Her new instructor shook his head. “Such a shame, I can’t imagine why. You’ve got such an excellent range and so much enthusiasm – I almost feel like you should be the one coaching me.”
The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. She couldn’t help it. “You know, I’d like to be a vocal coach I think.”
After all, you are what you eat.
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About the Piece |
This was originally written for a 24-hour horror flash fiction contest featured on Writing.Com. The word count limit was 1,500 and the prompt was "scales." This was the day's winning entry.
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