Stars -- [OPEN]

Chan-song Melodi Pyper wasn't supposed to be out this late at night. But mother told her to go out around the university and get some fresh air. Truth be told, she didn't want fresh air. She wanted to be back at her piano, feeling its soft, worn wooden keys and playing in D minor. D minor was the key you played purple in, and she was trying to capture a purple violet into the essence of the song.

But mother locked her out of the music room and ordered her out of the institution. She opened the giant front doors, shoved me out, and locked the door. She pulled my hair and screamed for a few moments, then decided that was a bad idea. First of all, she wanted to keep her hair nice and well-groomed. Second, screaming produced the worst bright neon yellow lights in her eyes.

So she huffily ran down the steps and here she was, sitting in the lawn of the observatory.

She hisses angrily and sits with a chuff on a park bench underneath a tree, tapping her foot and sighing. She couldn't get the song out of her mind, keys running up and down, searching for the right tune to describe the delicacy of the petals, the rich color in the center.

She is so distracted that she barely notices the stars above or the girl a few feet away.

I hum, reaching the point where I have to change key. The light yellow middle of the flower looms in my vision. How do I trasnfer from a D minor to the yellow key? I stop, then start again from where I had composed.

I reach where I need to change key, and stop yet again. Frustrated, I tap my foot on the ground.

"Maybe a D natural?"

I look up at a girl. She has brilliant red hair and intelligent, bright eyes. Red gives off nice, warm sounds. C major, F major. I smile at her, but continue humming.

I reach the yellow part of the song and then say distractedly, "No, no. Yellow is G major, and the yellow in a violet is real light, so it has to be higher notes. And it has to be delicate, no banging on the keys."

I start my humming again, reminded of what notes I needed to use. Somehow, I made the switch easily this time, and the notes began to write themselves in my head.

I look back up at the girl and motion for her to sit down next to me. She helped, in a strange way, so I won't mind her talking to me now.

"So you're writing a song about flowers?"

"Well of course I am," I say incredulously. "What do you think I was humming about?" Often, I forget that most people don't see the world as I do, where every voice, every object, every sound, brings music and color to my mind. I snort anyways and cross my arms, still humming.

Her voice has an airy color to it, much like the bright yellow of a violet flower, but in a different key. It would make a beautiful sonata, something about the night, with dancing. I'm totally distracted by this new prospect, and all thoughts of the flower fade from my mind.

I look up at the night sky and see the twinkling stars. They match, her voice and those stars. Weird.

I'm jolted back to reality when the girl returns to sit on the bench. She hands me a strange flower, a violet. I don't take the flower. I remember that I was writing a song about violets, but now, it seemed juvenile. I wanted to write the night and this girl. It was more complex and beautiful anyway.

I shrug and say, "I don't need it anymore, thank you."

I have no shame staring at people and objects. Some think it's weird. Well, actually, most people think it's weird, even my own parents. But they just don't understand. What if they saw a song in every object, every color that graced their vision? No one else saw the world like she did, and that made her special. She had a right to stare. It helped her unravel the music from the object and make bold new songs that reverberated in her heart and told her exactly what she was looking at.

Some of the old musicians had her sight too. Mozart, whoever that was, probably someone thousands of years ago, wrote a song about the stars. With twelve movements all about the different sheen to them. But mine would be different. I'm determined.

"So, what kind of song do you want to create next?"

I shush her, but reply quietly, "Song about you. And stars." I start to hum again, as if a person down below is consumed by the sounds of cars and chatter. But then, they look to the night sky above, the deep blue F majors, the bright G majors that represented the stars.

The wind picks up a bit, so I decide to add that into the song. Wind rustling thin clouds, covering the stars. Night light tinges them silver, breaking through the fog with starlight. I want to convey a sense of loneliness, yet great importance. Isn't that what everyone else feels when staring at the night sky?

I stare intently at the sky. What do I see? Just G and F majors dot my vision, fill my mind. Sometimes, I wish I could think straight for once, instead of with this weird outlook on life. I sigh, suddenly stopping my humming.

"Hey, what's your name?" the girl asks.

I resume my humming for a few seconds, a bit nervously now. Then, I reply, "Chan-song. But it might be easier to call me Melodi." My eyes dart to her, then back up to the sky. "With an I," I add.

Then, I ask, "And your name?"

I smile. It's a name that suits her well. I stop humming for a second as I let the word reverberate in my mind. Galaxy... I return to humming as new notes add themselves to the song. Galaxy's name gives off a reddish-yellow aura, like bright pinpricks in my eyes. It's a beautiful name. I add staccatos here and there to highlight the pinpricks and then turn back to her.

She's nice, unlike most people I've met. I say, "So you go to school?" I think it would be neat to go to school, even though I'd be distracted most of the day. I would never get good grades, but school doesn't have to be all about grades. I would get to meet people, interesting people like Galaxy.

I can see the song unraveling in my head. Even as the song writes itself, I tuck it back into the bookshelf of my mind. I try to focus on talking to Galaxy. I can come back to the song later.

So she does go to school. Well, that's sort of what I expected. Most people go to school. I mean, everone except me. I listen to her explanation, nodding slightly. Is it really that bad?

I say, "I used to. When I was little. But I don't think I was really good at anything there, so my parents took me out."

My dear, loving parents. They didn't want me to go to school, so they removed me and started homeschooling me at the institution. They've always said I'm too weird for my own good. Maybe them taking me out of school was a way of salvaging their pride. Whatever it was, I don't think they did it for my benefit.

I sigh again and hum my sad song.