Uno scorico di vita

It was 2:45 and Sister Margaret was chatting away at the junior class, which should have been dismissed 15 minutes earlier. Sugar sat tensely on the edge of her seat. Her teeth hurt because her mouth was glued shut. She felt the pain up into her palate and practically into her ears. Her right calf held the weight of her tiny frame while her left buttock was slightly raised from her seat in anticipation of sprinting from the chair. Though her cherished music case rested on the floor, she firmly held its handle in her right hand. Sugar’s brain was telling the nun to just finish-shut up. Panting! On your mark, get ready, set, go. There was a train to catch!

As Sister Margaret rambled on about the ticket competition Sugar mentally reviewed the path she would take to the train station. First, she had to get out of the school. It was late; it was a problem. She’d have to take a chance and sneak out the senior exit in order to catch the 3 o’clock. Otherwise, she’d have to run around the whole complex of buildings.

Usually, Sugar had enough time to leave through the ‘workers’ door (the door designated for those other than seniors) and leisurely walk to the train. However, pin-chin Margaret had stopped in “for just a sec.”

Miss Auditore’, the homeroom teacher, was patiently sitting, listening to pin-chin with her hands demurely folded on her lap. She mechanically nodded like a puppet from one side of the classroom to the other with a wide unconscious smile on her lips.

It was 2: 53; she would have to chance the senior ‘queen bee’ entrance. If she were caught, got a pink slip, she’d have to deal with it later. Her voice lessen was at four at the Ansonia Hotel in Manhattan. If she couldn’t catch the express, she would have to switch trains and take locals all the way down town.

She’d never make it on time. Maestro Polumbo was a professional coach and like many of the other musicians who lived at the historic hotel, his coaching was his livelihood. If you scheduled a lesson-you paid, no matter what.

The rain was smacking at the large classroom windows. The day had lost its April brightness. No hat, no raincoat, only a school blazer.

“Class dismissed,” said pin-chin. Panic! Sugar unclasped her case, felt in the pocket for the $18 check, snapped it shut, then like a cat slid from her seat and ran.

Not breathing, she hoped her deflated lungs would allow her to pass more easily through the horde of chattering girls.

The rough seam of the leather handle carved its way into her palm.

Fumbling for a token from her blazer pocket, she walked, nose-up out of the senior exit.

“Hey, Sugar,” yelled a familiar voice. Defiantly, she continued.

As she splashed through the puddles, the huge clock at the train station came into view. Always slow, it read 3:08. No chance.

Hoping that it looked like rain, she wiped away her tears as she settled on the 3:20 local.

The singing lessons with Maestro were a sacrifice for her parents. Perhaps there would be a miracle today: no one scheduled after her. It had never happened.

She snuggled against the cold metal wall, shivering.

The uniform was a problem. When she was little, no one bothered her because her mom took her down to her lessons. Guys liked to tease girls in uniform.

“Hey, little girl” whispered what was known as a ‘greaser’ who had just taken the spot standing directly in front of her. He winked and smiled as his knee began to rhythmically hit hers with the tilt of the train.

“You want some candy?” he said as he nudged his friend in the ribs and they laughed out loud.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the music in her head.

She left the train before them. Yet she had not gone unscathed. He had managed to get his knees between hers at least twice. However, she had remained calm and dignified, just like mom taught her. As the train hobbled along, she sat with closed eyes, mentality singing the Puccini aria she had so diligently rehearsed.

Sugar wanted to surprise her coach. She had repeatedly concentrated on the most difficult passages. She had practiced while looking in the mirror daring her chin to stiffen or her diaphragm to fall or her tongue to lift from the back of her bottom teeth. She had angrily pointed a finger at the mirror and chided the face for lacking concentration and sometimes-even talent.

Today Maestro would hear the fruits of her labor. She would support her high pianissimo notes with a calculated slow stream of air that started with a strong abdominal hold, which carried her breath to the ‘tippy tippy top of the head’ as Maestro would say. Interpreting from the heart, she would create a jewel!

She went out the wrong exit adding six blocks to her nine-block run. It was pouring. She protected the treasured case under her half-open blazer. She lifted her face to the rain. Her long auburn hair was sopping. She could see the reflection of black mascara rolling down her cheek-she was a martyr.

“Mi dispiace-sorry-only ten minutes left” said Maestro with sincerity.

She stood at the piano vocalizing while drying her face with the ever-present tissues that were kept for fits of hysteria known so well known to sopranos. Half way through the piece, the bell rang. Sugar took her music from the stand, slid it into the case, handed him the check, smiled at Maestro as he shrugged his shoulders "Uno scorico di vita, slice of life” he said.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar