Huddles and Harmonies (part 1)

Chapter Rating: R

1

Staccato Heart

I stared obstinately at the sheet music before me, as though willing it to catch on fire. Chopin was the bane of my existence. These stupid fucking five-note fortissimos made my hand hurt.

I could choose a slower, easier piece, but I was too far invested in this one. We had to play a Chopin piece as part of our exam in Advanced Music Theory. Even though I’m at Charlesburg University on a choir scholarship, they required Advanced Music Theory I and II. It was asinine. My voice couldn’t be my main instrument; I also had to master an expensive, carpal-tunnel-inducing instrument.

I also had to play with earphones in because my roommate is utterly allergic to classical music. Esther wasn’t a bad roommate, but she was clearly sheltered and traumatized. Her mother had nearly been arrested for trying to do bed checks in the dorm rooms despite her adult daughter being 20 and on a scholarship. It had been extremely awkward coming back from dinner to see a scandalized 62-year-old woman holding up my vibrator that was buried beneath my clothes in my drawer.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry…she’s done that to me my whole life.” Esther cried after a screaming match with her mother led to the latter being escorted out by campus security.

I felt sorry for her, but I was considering changing rooms. She needed help I couldn’t give her and my constant need to practice annoyed her. My electronic keyboard had a headphone jack but the keys still made mechanical sounds when pressed. She was hyper-vigilant about noises and she became over-stimulated quickly.

I turned off the keyboard, giving a last sour glance at the sheet music. Fuck you, Chopin.

I checked my phone, seeing messages from my sister. Miranda was still in Charlesburg High School, pissing our mom off with her “homosexual perversions.” I’ve known Miranda was gay since she used to make her Barbies kiss and had a Daisy Ridley poster. Mom came from a Mormon family, and her biases still ran deep.

Mir: Spanish fuckin blows. Hate senor flopsweat. Honestly think he’s a pedo

I rolled my eyes. She thought every male teacher was a pedophile.

Heather: put your phone away and take notes. Don’t be chatGMTing either.

Mir: gee thanks MOM ;P

Heather: fuck you ;P

We loved each other. Our relationship strengthened since I moved out and she turned from my annoying little sister to my best friend.

Mir: you tellin me you haven’t met any man meat or whatever you heteros call attractive boys over there?

Heather: I’ve been studying, M. most of these boys are frat rats with binge drinking problems

Mir: another reason I’m glad I’m a big lezbo lol

She was unapologetically gay. I’ve driven her to plenty of Pride parades that are 2-3 hours away in bigger cities. It pisses Mom off, but then again, what didn’t piss her off these days?

Hester Martin (yes, that was really her name) is our very unapproachable, narcissistic mother. She has many mental problems that she refuses to admit she has. Growing up with her was a constant battlefield. I think another reason having Esther as a roommate bugs me so much is that her intrusive mother reminds me so much of my own. Always prying, looking for any perceived wrong, finding reasons to fight.

I had to invent my own language just to keep a private diary. It was a series of dots, slashes, stars, and hearts. I taught it to Miranda before I left. Miranda wasn’t even supposed to have a phone, but our father snuck her one under the condition she wouldn’t have it out in front of Mom. He did that but couldn’t bother to counteract her terror, so honestly, I thought he was as culpable as she was.

I collected my books for the English class that was supposed to start today. I don’t know why the class didn’t start at the beginning of term. I was good at writing in high school, even took AP classes for college credit, but I was awful at analyzing literature. I found myself hating Shakespeare, thinking of him as the original snotty, pretentious theater kid. I swore if I had to suffer through Othello again, I’d drop the class in a heartbeat. But no, I had to have a college English credit. Because that helps so much with singing.

I took advantage of the empty dorm room to do vocal warm-ups while I packed my bookbag. Sometimes, people knocked on the walls because of the noise, but if they were going to have loud, raucous sex at 3am, I was going to sing all I wanted.

Just mad that you're not getting any. my inner voice opined. I often argued with my conscience like this, a habit formed from a lonely childhood. Miranda was six years younger than I was, so she was still a baby when I was in elementary school. I didn't make friends easily, preferring to be alone in the sandbox. Teachers suspected I had autism, but Mom wasn't about to spend hundreds of dollars on a child psychiatrist.

Sex was not a priority for me, though it permeated campus life. The first orientations had been meetings about campus sexual assault, boundaries, and practicing safe sex. If only we had this information in middle and high school! Though I hadn't been a girl that guys wanted to date. I had cystic acne, braces, and a plump, awkwardly-proportioned body. Mom monitored my outfits like a military drill instructor. I wasn't allowed to shave until I was 16 (though I did it in secret) and forbid us from wearing swimsuits without a long T-shirt over it.

If she could see me now. I had shaved legs, armpits, AND trimmed pubes. I was a downright little harlot! I even swam in just a swimsuit!

Still, her frequent need to put me down to feel superior had fucked with my mental health. When I looked in the mirror, I heard her voice pointing out every little insecurity.

"You need to get a chemical peel for those acne scars."

"Are those stretchmarks? If you didn't get seconds of every meal, you wouldn't have those!"

"Oh, you don't look as fat in that dress. You should wear black more often, it's slimming."

And she wonders why I don't call her anymore.

I set off from the dorm hall to the Winchester Humanities Annex where the classroom was. Charlesburg University was a gorgeous campus in any weather. In the autumn, the trees are turning red and orange, leaves fluttering in the wind. Study groups circled the big oak tree in the middle of the quad. There was a fountain in front of Winchester that held a huge bear sculpture. The face bared its teeth in a fierce roar while its large paws swiped at a football. Pranksters liked to paint mustaches, glasses, and boxers on the bear, only to be ordered to remove their artwork and restore its original brass coating.

Just as I'm heading up the stairs to the Winchester building, the nearby gym doors open and an entire procession of jocks spills out onto the quad. As much as I would like to say I ignored them, I didn't. As soon as I got into the Humanities building, I peered out of the glass doors at the sweaty group of men, half of them bare-chested even in the autumn chill. Rippling muscles, drops of sweat beading down their abs, shorts slung low enough to see the beginning of their V-lines. What was it about that part of male anatomy that made me weak at the knees?

I shook my head, feeling like a pervert. This was no better than men ogling at women during volleyball games. Of course, this only led to thoughts of the men in those short shorts--

God, when did my thoughts get so horny? Blame it on religious repression, I guess. Now that I was out from under my Mom's fascist suppression of anything moderately risque, my hormones were making up for lost time. I blushed, remembering when Miranda had mailed me an early birthday present just after term had started. I had been utterly mortified to open it to see purple silicone and a charger. I texted her angrily in our made-up shorthand just in case Mom discovered her hidden phone.

Heather: g, did u srsly -> me a [eggplant emoji] (Girl, did you seriously send me a vibrator?)

Mir: y, ev g nds a [eggplant emoji]. evn us [rainbow flag] (Yes, every girl needs a vibrator, even us gays.)

Heather: im gonna X u (I'm gonna kill you.)

Mir: [pointing emoji] thnk me l8r (You'll thank me later.)

Heather: how d u evn git th pst medusa? (How did you even get this past Mom?)

Mir: [axe emoji] me no qs, i tll no lies (Ask me no questions, I'll tell no lies.)

I swore that I would never use it, but curiosity got the best of me and I tried it out when Esther was out for the night.

Let's just say, I was in danger of burning the damn thing out.

I headed to the classroom, my mind in a haze as I chose a seat in the middle of the amphitheater-tiered desks. I saw an outline of a syllabus on the whiteboard and sighed.

The Great American Novella - Class Project

- You will each pair with one person, creating groups of two. You'll find the list of assigned partners in the corresponding announcement.

- I will give each group a scrap of paper with your genre written on it. You will write down both members of your group and genre on a clipboard for my gradebook.

- Your groups will each write a first draft of a novella, which is a novel less than 40k words.

- Assignments will include readings and project updates to be turned in on Canvas.

Learning an exhausting Chopin piece, practicing for the Solstice Choral Concert, suffering through Statistics, and now I have to write a fucking book?!

I. am. a. SINGER.

Incensed, I considered leaving. This was bullshit.

But Mom's voice was in my head again.

"What, you couldn't take a simple book assignment? I think they wasted that scholarship on you."

I was not seriously going to do this for a hypothetical thing that she would totally say but hasn't actually said?

Being traumatized makes you do really stupid things.

"Good afternoon, class. Welcome! I am Wilma Enori, your humble English professor." a wispy voice issued from the front of the class.

Oh, dear Lord.

Prof. Enori was a middle-aged white woman wearing a technicolor, crocheted shawl over an equally vibrant dress. She looked like she belonged at a Grateful Dead concert, not teaching college English.

"Yes, my outfit is a bit much. I try to dress a little goofy each day to cheer up my students. It probably won't make you forgive me for piling onto your already towering workload, but I'm hoping we can make the most of it. Yes, I see your concern about the assignment at hand. I can assure this, this was not my idea." she said, her tone shifting, becoming hardened, "The powers that be and who donate the most have decided English lessons need more nationalism. So, yes, you will have to play along. I always find little ways to protest, however, especially in the genres I've chosen."

I begrudgingly began to like her. She was being honest, at the very least.

"I have already assigned you a partner in the announcement section of the Canvas webpage. Please, use your laptops or phones to access that now."

I open my phone, finding the app and locating the class. The announcement only posted live at the start of this class. I scanned the list, hunting for my name. I found it, Martin, Heather, next to O'Driscoll, Kiaran. That sounds like a name from a Celtic romance novel.

"You may all shout your names to find your partners. If you're shy, put up your hand and I'll shout for you." Prof. Enori stated.

I looked around awkwardly, scanning the faces of people in class. I wasn't one for drawing attention to myself, at least not in casual settings. While I sang and performed in a choir, I wasn't exactly a social butterfly. Maybe if I just stayed put and quiet, I could find my partner in the people who are left.

"Kiaran O'Driscoll!" I heard a clipped accent announce from behind me and I abruptly turned around...

...to see the most beautifully built man with a cut jawline and stunning sea-green eyes. I blinked, not sure if he was real. My heart drummed against my ribs in crescendoing staccato and a blush crept up my neck. I felt very hot in my turtleneck sweater and all too aware of my body. He was tall and wide-shouldered. I could tell he was muscular, even under his green sweater. His auburn hair was curly and unruly, a dust of 5 o'clock shadow shading his lower jaw.

He smiled and his lips moved, saying words I did not hear. I was falling in slow motion into those green pools and the sight of his dimples punctuating his lips made me wonder how'd they feel against my own.

"Huh? What?" I asked stupidly, reality crashing on me like a tidal wave.

"Are you Heather Martin?" he asked.

He was Irish! Not too far off from the Celtic romance, then.

"Yes. Nice to meet you." I said robotically, all other English words failing to permeate my foggy, lovestruck brain. He held out a large hand and I shook it, easily dwarfing my own.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no.

Oh, God.

I was doomed.

I had developed crushes on many people throughout the years, all of them private like the rest of me. All of them inevitably dated people far more attractive than I could ever be. I wasn't ugly, but I was plain. I never really got the chance to experiment with makeup or clothing style. I gained a bit of weight in my first year due to me realizing I could eat as much as I wanted. Regular walking and the occasional swim slimmed me back down, but I was never going to be below 150 lbs. That requires discipline I just wasn't accustomed to.

"Alright, Kiaran D. and Heather M." Prof. Enori said, approaching us with her clipboard. "Your genre is going to be sports romance. That is a romance when one or both characters play a sport and fall in love. Are you find with that genre or you want something tamer?"

"No, that's fine." Kiaran confirmed before I could answer. "Appropriate, since I'm a linebacker."

"That's the Charlesburg Bear spirit!" Prof. Enori said, grinning while punching the air.

Sports romance.

Sports romance.

Those usually include sex, right?

And I was writing it with a gorgeous Irishman athlete.

This was going to end in tears.

2

Don't Stop Believing

Chapter Rating: R

Kiaran and I exchanged email addresses before class ended.

"Maybe you ought to have my number, too. I'm more reachable by text than email." Kiaran offered.

Dazed, I nodded and we both punched in our numbers in each other's phones. Before the class let out, he smiled at me and I returned it nervously, feeling like my face was on fire.

During Statistics, I couldn't get him out of my head. The data charts on the board might as well have been window designs because I was lost in daydreams. I pictured combing my hands through his curls as he kissed me, the scruff of his beard tickling my skin as he painted kisses down my throat. It made me think of his lips in other places, his mouth and tongue exploring me intimately, making my toes curl--

Someone dropped their book in the floor and the thud broke me out of my filthy daydream.

God, I barely knew the guy and I was already fantasizing about him! The last thing I needed was a relationship this semester on top of everything else.

I returned to the dorm after a quick lunch to discover Esther's side completely barren. The only thing left was a half-folded piece of stationery paper.

"H, my mom is forcing me to move to an apartment because you're a 'corrupting influence.' She thinks I'm writing Bible verses right now to lead you on the right path. But I enjoyed having you as my roommate. I'm leaving my college email address below because it's the only one she can't access. I hope we'll keep in touch. Sorry, E."

I felt so sorry for her. Having a helicopter mom was an absolute nuisance. Luckily, my mom had enough of a "secret" alcohol addiction to placate her and she didn't think anyone who lived more than 3 hours away was worth her time, even her own daughter.

So, I had Statistics homework and more goddamn Chopin practice.

And a book to write.

With an hunky football player who I wouldn't mind being tackled by.

I knew next to nothing about sports, personally. The only sport I had tried was softball because my uncle coached it and my dad insisted I play. Uncle Rick quickly found out just how useless I was both in the outfield and the batter's box. Instead, I played the organ. A few boys on the baseball team would make jokes that I should "play their organ" at church sometime. I thought that was a compliment before Sandy Rodriguez, our softball team's pitcher, explained it was sexual harassment.

I didn't learn about sex from my mother as many other kids did. I learned from asking about risque jokes that boys in class made. The one time I checked out a library book about sex and human development, Mom called me a whore and bitched out the librarian. It wasn't even an adult book! It was a child-friendly book telling objective facts about sexual intercourse, reproduction, and sexuality! Her excuse for not teaching me was, "Your future husband is supposed to teach you about that."

So, a man I didn't even know yet was supposed to teach me about my own body? Purity culture is so weird. In church, we had lessons where the Sunday School teacher would pass around a bowl of individually wrapped bubblegum for each one of us to take. One of the pieces was unwrapped. The teacher then asked the class, "Why didn't anyone want the unwrapped piece?" The metaphor was somewhat ruined by a boy announcing that he liked to chew the gum he found stuck under desks.

My phone chimed as I lay in my bed. I checked the screen, my heart fluttering when I saw it was Kiaran.

Kiaran: hey, i have an idea for the assignment. tell me what you think.

He had attached a document titled ENG206assignment. I downloaded the file and opened it.

Heather Martin

Kiaran O'Driscoll

Brainstorming

Small-town girl moves upstate to college on volleyball scholarship. City-born guy on football team meets the girl at a party. They fall in love, but away games and college life keep them distant.

I chuckled as a song got stuck in my head.

"Just a small-town girl,

Living in a lonely world...

She took a midnight train going anywhere..."

Oh, God, I didn't want to criticize his efforts but it was too funny.

Heather: Isn't that a Journey song?

I hit send before I could second-guess it.

Oh, God. Oh, no. He was going to think I was a bitch. That was an incredibly bitchy answer.

Heather: sorry, it just sounded very familiar lol

Kiaran: aye, it does, doesn't it? lol

Kiaran: any improvements to suggest?

I opened the document back up. I rewrote the prompt below the first.

"A girl from a small town who wins a volleyball scholarship. A football player trying his best to get drafted. They meet at a party and sparks fly. But their love life is postponed due to the chaotic schedules of college sports and campus life. Can their love survive the distance?"

I read it over and over again. It sounded like something you'd read on a Netflix summary of a rom-com, right? Right?

I updated the document and sent it back, my nerves getting the better of me. I stood up and went to sit at my keyboard. Rather than Chopin, I chose to play one of my own compositions. I had written it as an angsty teen, heavily minor key and morose. I didn't have to play with headphones on now and the nymphomaniac neighbors could think of it as background music.

One night, I was trying to sleep and it sounded like an orgy next door. I wasn't a prude, but it was 3am and the woman sounded like she was being murdered. Esther wasn't sleeping either and I finally got up, went to my keyboard, ratcheted the volume up super loud, and I played Beethoven's 5th symphony, sending a clear message. Even the RA couldn't fault me for that one because she was tired of hearing them fuck, too.

My phone chimed once more.

Kiaran: oh wow. you can actually write. i feel really novice now lol. that's really good. now for the hard part - actually writing it lol

He thought my writing was good.

He thought my writing was good.

I grinned like a fool, starting the piano riff to "Don't Stop Believing."

*

On Wednesdays and weekends, I worked at the local juice bar. It was a mocktail bar for under-21 students and non-drinkers. Many frat bros thought it was lame for not serving alcohol, yet that didn't stop them from coming in, already tipsy from their private supply. We knew they were underage, but we didn't call the police. That was much more hassle than having Gina, our 6 ft tall, 230 lbs bouncer boot them. She could deadlift 400 lbs and literally throw men into the trash bags next to the Dumpster.

I didn't mind this job. The customers were chill and enjoyed the atmosphere better than a rowdy bar. The pay was good and I could make $200 in tips on a good night.

Of course, we still had creeps.

"What's a pretty young thing like you working in a place like this?" one of them said.

I grimaced as he grinned, showing yellow teeth. He reeked of chewing tobacco and B.O.. From the greasiness of his hair, I could see he hated to shower as much as he hated to brush his teeth. I didn't even think he went to Charlesburg U. Maybe he's a trucker who thought he'd find drunk college girls in here.

"Beat it, Randy. You know you're not welcome here." Gina said, coming out of the restroom.

"Aw, man. I just want to have a little company." the sleazeball said, spinning on the bar-stool.

"You are a registered sex offender." Gina shouted, so the whole bar could here. "You are not welcome here. Get out or I'm gonna throw you out."

Randy, being the dumbass that he was, took his chances. A minute later, Gina was hoisting him up like he was no heavier than a log and sending him flying straight onto the pavement outside. The other customers clapped and Gina bowed.

Patricia Jones entered the bar, cackling at Randy, who was shouting obscenities as Gina stared at him menacingly. Trish and I had been friends since freshman year. She was short, stocky, and adopted a punk rock style. It was quicker to ask her what she didn't have pierced. Thorn and rose tattoos circled her arms, which were encased in fishnet lace and leather straps. She paid for college with AnyFans, posting NSFW content. I took her word for it that it did super well, not wanting to see photos of her naked body. There was nothing wrong with it, but I didn't see her that way.

"Hey, hey, hey, chica." she said with a broad smile. "Dirty Dr. Pepper with lime, please."

I had given the juice bar owner the idea to serve "dirty soda" drinks, inspired by the many soda shops I saw while visiting extended family in Utah. Their religion forbade hot caffeinated drinks like coffee and tea, so they compromised with soda. I poured a cold Dr. Pepper in a glass and added coconut syrup and half-and-half creamer. I topped it off with a squeeze of lime juice and served it to Trish.

She took a sip and sighed. "That's the shit, man."

"How's the choir behaving?" I asked her.

I had missed last practice due to debilitating PMS.

"Isolde is having a shit-fit over the Solstice repertoire. We all agreed to secular songs, but she was born again last weekend." Trish scoffed. "And she keeps implying I'm a devil worshiper, selling my body. Though, very few people on this campus know about my AnyFans, so how does she know I do that?"

She gave me a meaningful look.

"What have you been up to? Any exciting men? Other than Chopin, I mean?" she asked, taking another sip of her drink.

I blushed, not exactly wanting to divulge.

"Girrrrrrl, your cheeks are red!" she shouted excitedly. "Have you finally popped your cherry?" she added in a whisper.

"I haven't popped anything...it's just this assignment in English. With a guy named Kiaran." I said, flushing redder at the thought of him.

"Oooooooh, do you have a crush on a hot Scotsman, Heather?" she joked. "You need to ask if they wear anything under the kilts."

My eyes bugged out at her suggestion. "He is Irish, for your information! No, I'm not gonna ask that!"

"Oh, you're definitely catching feelings."

"I barely know him!"

"But you want to know him...biblically, I mean."

"Trish!"

She was enjoying this way too much.

The door chimed and I panicked as I saw a familiar auburn-haired guy. Oh, God. My skin felt like it was on fire. Trish turned around, puzzled by my reaction.

"Ohhhhh...is that him?" she whispered. "Oh, he is fine as hell!"

"Shut up!" I hissed at her.

"Girl, I will be your wingman. Wingwoman. Wingbitch." she muttered, chuckling to herself.

"You will be silent!" I told her.

He approached the bar. He had showered and changed into a black T-shirt with a metal band logo I didn't recognize. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed halfway up his arms.

God. Why was that so sexy?

My mind went hazy and almost drunk as I looked at him. He was a tall drink of water and I was a dehydrated bitch.

"Small world. Didn't know you worked here." he said, sitting at the bar. "Do you have non-alcoholic beer, by chance?"

Brain. He asked a question.

Brain. Brain, please.

"Uh, yes. We have Samuel Adams, Guinness, and Athletic Brewing Company." I said, hoping my voice didn't sound as squeaky as I thought it did.

"I'll take a Guinness, please." he ordered, his smile showing his dimples.

I busied myself pouring the beer.

If I didn't look at him, I could pretend to be a functional human being better.

"So," Trish started as I gave her a death glare, "did Heather here tell you that she's the lead soprano of the Charlesburg Choir?"

"She didn't. We only just met today in class." Kiaran stated.

"She's also trained in classical piano. She can play many songs by ear. I swear she's a music savant. She can probably tell what key the song playing now is in."

"No, I can't..." I tutted at her.

The song was "Beautiful People" by Ed Sheeran.

Do, re, mi, faaaaa. F key.

Shit, she was right.

"Chock full of talents, aren't you?" Kiaran commented. "You should add writing to your list."

Is it possible for my face to blush harder? Surely, I looked like a tomato with hair. My ears felt like they would emit steam soon.

"Need to visit the ladies room." Trish said, getting up, taking her drink with her. "No offense, but a pack of frat rats just came in, so I'm taking this with me."

Sure enough, a group of lumbering teenage guys piled into the juice bar. It was hard to believe they were college students. Many of them were blatantly trust-fund babies, wearing designer fashion brands and holding the latest iPhone models. They definitely weren't here for booze, so I could only guess they came to hit on women. Several female customers chose to call it a night as soon as they walked in, rolling their eyes as a frat rat wolf-whistled at them.

"Hey, sexy." one of them slurred across the bar. He had honest-to-God frosted tips and a pukka shell necklace. "Does a Dirty Dr. Pepper come with a lap dance? Though, I'd just settle for a sandwich. You look like you make good sandwiches. And give good head."

"Do you lads talk to your mums that way?" Kiaran cut in, all dimples gone in his thin-lipped rage.

"Who the fuck are you, Lucky Charms?" the dude threw in Kiaran's face.

I caught a whiff of strong liquor on his breath.

"Someone who's gonna to teach ya a lesson about respectin' women." Kiaran claimed, his accent thickening, standing up.

Before I knew it, Kiaran had the frat boy in a full nelson. He thrashed and yelled, looking very much like a scared little boy.

"Say you're sorry, you little gobshite." Kiaran barked in his ear.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Fuck, man. Jesus!" the frat boy screamed.

I stayed rooted to the floor, not sure what just happened. Trish came out of the bathroom, astounded.

"What the hell did I miss?" she wondered.