Late Bloomers

He wasn’t all that interested in classical music, but an hour out of class was an hour out of class.

It wasn’t that he thought “normal” music was better, or anything, but the classical music he’d heard before was never interesting. He always supposed it was some lost in translation thing, something he was missing because he so used to messing around with synthesizers and auto tune and everything he could get his hands on.

The girl was dwarfed by the dark wood of the stage.

She was only a head taller than Mrs. Calle, with dark skin and silky hair that fell all the way down her back. A strange energy rolled from her, like clouds before a storm, and he caught himself staring a little longer as he sat down.

He wouldn’t call her cute, or hot, and yet -

“Alright, class,” Mrs. Calle clapped to get their attention, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl shrunk away sligtly. “This is Ms. Raine representing the local art university for our Choose a College program,”

Art school huh? He’d always figured they’d look a bit more snotty. She didn’t look snotty, but she did look out of place - like the korean vase full of fake flowers that his Mother had put in their living room.

Even if it was supposed to remind her of home, it always seemed lonely to him.

“ You see, Raine here is a traditionally trained singer! I looked her up on the YouTube before this - she has a beautiful voice!”

The girl stepped behind the mic, eyes distant. She inhaled deeply.

His eyes widened.

The breath was stolen from his lungs.

The music flowed from her mouth, pouring like water. She moved her hands outward slowly, as if she was pushing the water out of the way. The ocean was flooding the room with each boat, rising and rising until it slipped over his head. The bubbles rippled up to the surface.

Raine’s hair flared and floated above her like dark seaweed.

She hit one last note - high and rolling into the rafters, closing her hand.

Slowly the water began to subside, but his clothes were still dripping.

For a split second her eyes darted to his and he watched her swallow as if it were her first breath on the beach.

Mrs. Calle clapped and the rest of the kids joined in dispassionately, but he couldn't seem to remember how to clap.

———————————————————————————————————————

She dug her toes into the carpet, standing as still as possible. She’d never really been in a boy’s room before, eyes flitting around – rumpled sheets, sports medals, framed photos of his family. It looked so much more lived in than her own museum – like one. A feeling plucked a small cord within her.

“Come on,” He said, patting the keyboard seat next to him.

She smoothed her skirt and sat down.

He continued playing whatever felt good, bouncing along the path of nonsense notes.

“Okay, ready,” He stopped. “I didn’t write this one in english,”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Do you do most of them in english?”

“Eh,” He gestured. “It depends, because like – “

His voice bloomed like a flower, soft and delicate petals raining down pink over their heads. Refreshing like soft rain, warm like slanted sunlight.

“Which is like – why are you looking at me like that?”

“Um,” She said, cheeks warming. “I didn’t expect it to sound like that,”

He arched an eyebrow, hands resting on his thighs. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, just not … that?”

He opens his mouth again and the clouds parted.

“I think I sound a little better in korean,” He says. “But sometimes you really just need to say ‘fuck’,”

She sneers.