It was to my mild annoyance that I received another comment on my supposed excellence for my most recent accomplishment. Certainly, only an eighth grader with exemplary playing skills would ever be allowed to perform in the entrance hall of Jones Hall preceding a concert by the Houston Symphony Orchestra. However, I always considered my skills to be work-based rather than talent based; for one, I had started playing the french horn a year earlier than was normal for my school district, and had practiced several hours a day since then. I’m quite sure that there are others in my band whose talents match or almost match mine, so it is inaccurate, in a way, for people to claim that my talent was far superior to others, and that was the sole reason for my success. However, this time, the compliment was received not by a friend, family member, teacher, or other random adult, but by Mason Wallace, a boy I disliked possibly more than anyone else on this planet.

I yearn not to hate or despise, but my feeling for him was the closest I’ve gotten. You probably think that by some stretch, by the end of this story we will end up friends or even lovers. I assure you that there is not even an infinitesimal chance of this. I suppose there is an astronomical chance of friendship if he was to puncture the over-inflated balloon of his head or at least demonstrate some minor amount of typical human social skills, but I highly doubt it. This boy’s was about as annoying as the bounds of annoyance could possibly go.

“Well, well, well, looks like Ashley’s good enough to play for the Orchestra.” He said as he walked in.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’ve come to listen to the fine arts, obviously. Why else would I be here?” he replied.

“I never would have imagined that you, of all people, would listen to classical music. I wonder, if classical music boosts intelligence, why you have been apparently unaffected.”

“I suppose you’re here to show everyone in the gulf coastal plains that you can play Flight of the Bumblebee?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

And this is why he frustrates me so. He makes me out to be some sort of show off, even though I am clearly not. Simply having exceptional skill at french horn does not make me a show off. It is not like I consider myself above lesser players; I know that if they had given my level of effort, they could easily outshine me in chair tests and other competitions. Just because I like practicing in the band hall every morning does not mean that I am trying to impress; maybe I just like the resonance. I have tried to explain this to him, but he is too much of a moron to believe me. Besides, I have never played Flight of the Bumblebee in the band hall.

“Why don’t you just piss off and leave me alone for once?” I replied waspishly.

“Ooh, please tell me where you get your comebacks,” he sneered, “I really wasn’t expecting that one.”

Luckily, at that moment my father returned from his exciting excavation to the restroom. It so happens that we were performing horn-euphonium duets my mother had originally composed for the performance of her and her sister. My father, being almost equally skilled at euphonium as he is on trombone, his signature instrument, was happy to oblige in this demonstration, he being an alternate for the orchestra.

“Good morning, Mr. Davis.” Wallace said, immediately perking up his manner. Of course, he only put on this show for teachers and other adults; among the students he showed his “true colors,” to use an overused phrase. Did I mention that my father is the band director at our school?

“Hey, Mason,” my father said with something of a grimace. “How’s it going?”

“Very well, sir.” Mason replied politely. He then stuck out his tongue at me and walked off while father was picking up his instrument. Father looked somewhat confused to see Wallace had already left, and asked me, “Were you two arguing again?” He, of course, knew all about our disagreements.

“Not really.” I replied, somewhat untruthfully.

“Not really, huh?” he said skeptically. “Well, then, what do you say we play next? How about we play Winter Leaves just one more time?”

I groaned. Indeed, Winter Leaves was one of mother’s best works; it was a simply stunningly beautiful work that traveled across landscapes of all sorts of sorrow and serenity. However, we had already played it three times.

He chuckled. “Come on Ashley, it’ll be the last thing we play, the concert’s about to start.”

“Fine,” I said. I was then proceeding to empty my water key when father suddenly said, “I didn’t know you were coming, Alyssa!”

Indeed, my mother was standing before us, and father was gazing at her fondly as usual. However, mom looked grim.