Semblance
Authors: Logan Patricks
Semblance
The Midnight Society: Book One
By:
Logan Patricks
© 2013
Strange Crow Publications
Amazon Edition
Now.
“You’ve got some fight in you girl,” he laughed, his vulture eyes narrowing on me as if I were a heap of bloody meat. “I’ll tell you what, because I enjoy a woman with brass, I’ll let you choose your own poison. What will it be sweetheart? A hollow-point bullet exploding through your little, broken heart or a thirty-two story plunge onto cold, hard cement below?”
I was standing at the edge of the world, my back against the abyss that threatened to swallow me whole. The chill of the early spring wind bit into my heels, sending shivers up my spine. I stared into the barrel of the rifle and resolved to myself that I was going to die. Despite being terrified, I still had enough spite coursing through my veins to curse at the bastard holding the gun, the same bastard that murdered a man I cared deeply for.
“You motherfucker,” I cried.
He smiled as he allowed my profanity to bounce off him like old rubber bands.
I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. I felt like cussing out the universe for having it end this way, but let’s be honest; every single decision I had made over the past month paved the yellow brick road that eventually led me to this not-so-wonderful land of loss and pain.
Aria Valencia, you naïve girl, you’ve made too many mistakes. If I could change the past, I would have done a dozen things differently. The only question was where to start my story?
#
Three months ago.
There were some days I seriously considered stripping at the Skin Bar a couple of blocks away from the university, just so I could make enough money for a nice hot meal and to save myself from another month of eviction threats from my red-faced Serbian landlord. However, the thought of my dad’s spirit, God rest his soul, scowling at me while I shoved my breasts into some pervert’s face was enough of a deterrent for me to think anymore into it. This was the life of a struggling music student, constantly fantasizing of ways to make ends meet.
Whoever said, “Money can’t buy happiness” clearly never starved a day in their lives.
I picked up the local campus paper and flipped through the classifieds. They were littered with jobs for servers, which I had tried my hand at before, and loathed with a passion. Consider it a character flaw, but I was far too blunt and headstrong to put up with anyone’s bullshit. Blame my dad for instilling in me a strong sense of pride and confidence from the day I was born up until the day he left this world.
Though people considered me a cheerful person, there were three sure-fire things that transformed this sweet, happy-go-lucky girl into a snarling beast that was best left imprisoned inside seven-foot thick steel walls.
The first was having my body inappropriately touched by drooling perverts. Unless you were my boyfriend, which no one was at the moment, then your hands were not allowed anywhere near my rear. Any attempts were met with an unholy wave of verbal profanities in addition to having all five of my fingers rake your eyes like they were dead leaves on a lawn.
The second was being judged unfairly, which was a constant occurrence for a classical performance music student. Every time I went on stage and performed one of Chopin’s preludes on the campus’s Steinway pianos—the most beautiful sounding instrument in existence—I was at the mercy of all the critics and their biased opinions. Granted, most of them left me with constructive criticism, there were the handful of critiques that infuriated me with their snooty perfectionism that made me want to give up this dream of mine altogether. But dad taught me never to quit and I always ended up picturing his Jedi spirit (yes I was a fan girl) and the look of joy on his face as I played. This carried me through the worst criticisms and those difficult times when I believed myself to be a failure.
Finally, the last item on my list of not-so-awesome things was hunger, which I endured a lot of lately. It was turning me into a Frankenstein-like-bitch.
I contemplated the serving job once again, almost giving into the temptation of having some pocket money, but decided that I wasn’t in the correct mindset to deal with people. Also the threat of having my ass grabbed by drunken frat boys was not worth it for minimum wage.
I felt my stomach rumble and cursed at it.
“Stop complaining,” I said to my belly. “I fed you a chocolate bar four hours ago.”
Great, I was standing in the middle of the street talking to my stomach like only psychos or pregnant women did.
Hunger had struck at my sanity once again.
“Oh Aria,” I wondered out loud to myself, “How are you going to survive another semester?”
#
I plopped down on my bed, exhausted and utterly defeated. My pride had given way to my hunger and for the first time in a long while, I had succumbed to the charity of others.
Justin had bought me lunch at the pub, which I refused at first. However, watching him eat his delectable burger while working on our musical counterpoint theory assignment was excruciating.
I lied to him at first and told him I wasn’t hungry at all, but my stomach betrayed me and moaned like the chained ghost of Christmas Past.
“Oooooh, Cheeseburger,” it howled. “French fries with gravy, oooooh.”
It became such a distraction that finally Justin smiled and said. “Hey Aria, remember when you finished my music history assignment a couple of weeks ago? I still owe you for that one. Let me buy you a burger platter.”
I had to hand it to my study buddy; Justin knew how to word things in a way that didn’t make me look as pathetic as I actually was.
I gave in and nodded.
It turned out to be the most delicious burger in the world and I devoured it in a matter of minutes. I must have looked like a Neanderthal to Justin, but I
couldn’t have cared less at that point. I was lost in the finger-licking land of greasy beef and salty fries.
It was only after I had finished eating that I felt ashamed of accepting the meal. I hoped the look of guilt on my face wasn’t too noticeable.
“You have ketchup on your nose,” Justin laughed.
Damn it—guilt and ketchup. What an embarrassing combination.
The second I had some spare change I was going to return the favor and buy him a burger. I didn’t want him to get any wrong ideas from me.
Justin was cute in a hipster sort of way—tall and lanky, baby-faced with sun-kissed hair and a fashion guru—but he wasn’t my cup of tea. I didn’t even like tea.
I always fell for guys that were more hard vodka than earl grey.
I suspected Justin had a thing for me but I ignored it, hoping that he would eventually direct his smitten eyes in another direction.
Justin’s friendship was valuable to me, but that’s all I saw it being—a friendship. Being broke didn’t allow me the luxury of going out and meeting new people and so he became the centre of my social universe. I couldn’t lose the current relationship I had with Justin.
Not now, and probably not ever.
I stared at the water-stained ceiling of my cramped studio apartment, sleepy from the grease oozing through my bloodstream. I longed to pass out for the rest of the evening but sleep had to wait. I had too much work to do.
I needed to figure out a way to survive another semester.
I logged onto my computer and checked my email, hoping that today my inbox provided me with some sort of salvation.
There were two types of emails that I usually received. The first was daily group coupon deals, which I checked religiously, hoping for some miraculous discovery that kept me fed for another week. There was one this one time that I discovered a deal for four microwavable pizzas for four dollars at the local grocery store and I practically came at the thought of having a steady supply of food for a week. Before stumbling across the holy grail of pizza deals, I had honestly considered crafting myself a makeshift bow and arrows and entering into the wilderness to hunt for some dinner.
The second type of email I got was rejection letters. Each week I sent emails to fifteen local entertainment establishments that housed pianos, inquiring about potential gigs along with a link to my webpage with samples of my music. And every week I received either some form of rejection or no response. It was hard to decide which was worse.
I desperately needed someone to cut me a break.
However on this magical night in March while scanning through my emails, I discovered that the China White club had emailed me saying they had an opening for a pianist this Saturday night.
I read the email over and over again in a state of euphoria.
“Dear Ms. Aria Valencia,
The China White Supper Club is interested in having you perform for us this Saturday on the Thirteenth of March. Please arrive promptly at 5:00 pm so we can discuss the set list as well as fit you into wardrobe. We are looking forward to your performance as you’ve come highly recommended.
Management.”
For a moment I feared it was a joke. The China White was one of the more exclusive supper clubs in the city, one that only the elite dined at: movie stars, fortune five hundred business moguls, and people of social influence. If the wealthy needed to stuff their faces with succulent Chinese meals, they went to the China White.
It was unexpected and astonishing for them to contact me, especially since I never sent an email to them in the first place, but I was so giddy from the prospect of working the crowd at the China White—and getting paid for it—that I didn’t bother thinking about the logistics of it.
I replied within two minutes.
“Dear Management @ the China White,
I would be delighted to play for your fine establishment this Saturday. You will not be disappointed.
Aria Valencia.”
My destiny was waiting for me, whether I was ready or not.
#
By the time Saturday rolled around, I was high off of adrenaline. I felt like a fired-up athlete about to play game seven of a championship series. I was ready to go out there beating my chest and putting on the performance of a lifetime.
I burst through the doors of the China White, ready to tear the house down with my dexterous fingers and dazzle the eardrums of all that entered into the restaurant that night.
All I needed was someone to show me to the piano.
After a brief introduction and some pleasant conversation, Abraham Constantine, the owner of the China White, showed me to the dressing room instead.
He offered me a shimmering white gown that was more suited for an actress on the red carpet than a broke-ass music student in a Chinese restaurant.
I was nervous as I tried it on. I couldn’t help but feel like a peasant deflowering an outfit fit for a princess.
Thankfully Abraham’s kindness eased my nerves, his words as warm and soothing as chamomile tea.
“Lovely,” he smiled. “You’re like a princess wearing a glass slipper, but in this case replace the slipper with an elegant Vera Wang exclusive.”
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to wear this?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Abraham replied, rubbing his grey stubble chin. “This dress on another’s skin would be an absolute sin. If I were twenty years younger, I would have made you my queen in a heartbeat.”
“Your tongue is all sugar and spice,” I smiled. I always had a misconception of the wealthy, picturing them as eclipse-sized assholes that shat all over the simpler ways of life, while wiping their rears on the sleeves of the lower class.
Abraham certainly proved me wrong. He reminded me of my dearly loved and missed uncle, both in physical features and characteristics. He was in his late sixties, aged by his light grey hair and the crow’s feet around his eyes. However he walked and talked with vibrant energy that convinced me he was possessed by a twenty year old.
I also admired how he interacted with his employees, treating every one of them like his equal. I was surprised to see him consult with a baby-faced junior cook about the evening’s menu selection.
He treated me, a poor girl dressed in hand-me-downs, with respect at first sight, shaking my hand graciously and asking me what music I thought was best to set the mood for tonight’s dinner.
I had suggested some Chopin right off the bat, eager to show off my ability to perform his hauntingly beautiful and technically challenging pieces. I wanted the audience to witness my bravura on the ivory keys, hopefully garnering enough positive attention to get invited back for a second gig in the near future.
Abraham agreed to my choice, being a huge Chopin fan himself.
“The patrons should be arriving in about an hour or so,” Abraham said. “Do you need to warm up? Our grand piano is a modest Borgato, probably not one as spectacular as the Steinways you’re used to playing at the University.”
“Are you kidding me?” I was surprised. To call a Borgato modest was like saying a Mercedes was as nice as a bus pass. “The Borgato’s a stunning piano. You have excellent taste,” I said.
“As much as I’d like to take credit for making the selection, I can’t,” Abraham replied. “It was donated by a benefactor, the same person that requested for you to perform for us this evening.”
I was shocked and ecstatic to hear that someone with musical influence had heard of me, or even listened to me play, let alone recommend me for such an amazing gig.
“I don’t need a warm up,” I said. “I’m always ready to play.”
“How about we feed you then?” Abraham asked. “How does Peking roast duck sound?”
I had starved enough over the past few years to appreciate a free hot meal. “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl,” I replied.
#
I had performed countless times before in front of other music students and classical music aficionados. The people here tonight were different. They weren’t classical music gurus or music critics. They were just a bunch of rich people here to taste the incredibly delicious duck while listening to a few songs.
Would they appreciate Chopin and the beautiful complexity of his music?
I felt the smooth ivory keys underneath my fingertips. There was only one way to find out.
I hit the first note, creating an instant bond between my mind and my art. I closed my eyes and allowed the spirit of the music to possess me, my hands no longer my own but an extension of the piano itself. I was its vessel—its mistress—and the intimacy we shared was one filled with beautiful and majestic music.