Sealed in Scotch Tape

Sealed in Scotch Tape - Sophia Mu (Newark Academy, 10th Grade) 

“You need to practice more.”

My mother’s words spill from the same spiel, unraveling from a crimson spool that is

sewn into my cells, as I can almost piece together each word that comes out.

Competition. Portfolio. College. Eric. Katharine. Not enough. Work harder. Just need to

practice more. Talent. Quitter. Lazy. Don’t throw this away. Be mature.

Each accusation frivolously thrown stays suspended in the air. Sometimes, I wonder if

she listens in reverse, picking out each word I say and twisting it into a slab of unrecognizable

terrine.

So I stay stubborn and silent, tracing the lanes chopped into white dashes instead of her

words.

Ah, right. I haven’t taped Prokofiev Sonata No. 4 back together.

I was meant to play this piece for the NJMTA competition, but my teacher took one look

at my dismal playing and decreed that I probably shouldn’t.

Without the stress of competition, there was no need to practice.

Whether out of fear or laziness, I let the hazy lines of dissatisfaction and uncertainty meld

into the prickly thorns of hatred and fear.

The drooping corners of pages four and six drew no sympathy from me as I let the piece

dissolve into three separate sections.

- - - - - - - -

My mother and I usually paste the pages together, my thumbs holding onto the edges

while she hovers above uneven cracks with each long strip.

We press and fold, mechanically maneuvering as efficiently as possible under the lamp-lit

desk, usually because my lesson is in about ten minutes and I forgot to put the piece together.

The scotch tape seals withstand several weeks of abuse before succumbing to wear and

tear, ignored by yours truly until the pages are dangling together, on the precipice of separating

back into printer-born singularity.

So we repeat the process, sealing each wound with translucent bandage, each cementing

the flow of staff and phrases once again.

—————

From inside the car window, the dashes dovetail into solid lines. My eyes shift to the dark

reflected in the rearview mirror.

“Do you hear me?” She always asks.

So I answer.

“I’m quitting.” My mind is soaked in red-hot fury, and I stab her with these words.

It’s almost painful how she reacts. As if I had told her I was moving out and never

visiting again. She unleashes the same words, but they are toothpicks against the knife I’ve held

behind my back for ten years.

I raise my voice against hers, volume pushing against the air until I’m afraid it will crack

the windows. But I don’t back down, because I need to finally pierce the blockage that sticks

inside her ear, and get her to listen.

“At my next lesson, I’m telling her I’m quitting, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

My ultimatum runs down my cheeks, and I’m not sure if I actually mean it. But it’s

enough to finally elicit a jolt, a chill, something other than her default scream.

She tries to convince me otherwise, but I’ve taken her shields and covered my ears. We’re

almost home, but the blood spilt in the arena cannot slip out the windows and begone with the

wind.

My mother tells me the next morning that it’s kept her up all night. I don’t care.

She extends an olive branch, but it’s not woven from the same red silk.

They are the same words, but they’re sculpted by different thoughts.

Invest towards the future. Play for yourself. Not me. Your enjoyment. Yourself.

It’s difficult when the luster of trophies and medals are the only things that seem to catch

her eye, even as she shoves them into the wine cabinet. But I can begin to see sparks of a new

reaction collide.

And at the dead of night, we retreat under the lamp-lit desk, pressing patches of scotch

tape to the eroded gaps, where it will crack again and bring us back to this place.

But I hope,

No, I pray,

That it will stay for a while.