Sehun

            The morning sun stretches a radiant white wash against the sky blue canvas. It’s too bright that Oh Sehun uses one hand to protect against the blinding light. It’s not enough, though, and he squints.

            In his other hand, he carries a case; inside of that case, amid faux velvet, red cushions, lays an oboe. A normally unknown or less stereotypical instrument—everyone expected him to play violin, piano or flute—the oboe was the center of Sehun’s entire life. Waking an hour earlier to catch the music room at school, empty was a daily happening, now. The idea of playing out into the echoing walls, sound reverberating and swallowing up his thoughts, it was an endearing thing: like a drug, even.

            His high school band is not enough for Sehun. There is no talent: no talent whatsoever. Each day, they practiced, and each day, he cringed from his rather isolated seat in first chair. There had been one person with whom he’d been on good terms: Suho. As lead trumpeter since the boy’s freshman year, his playing was certainly not cringe-inducing. It had been, instead, awe-inspiring.

            Sehun had entered the upper band during his freshman year and Suho had immediately taken the younger under his wing. It was kind of odd for an upper classman to befriend a newcomer, yet he had.

            Sehun misses Suho more than he likes to admit.

            The light is tamed as Sehun waltzes through the door of the dark school. With a nod to the familiar janitor lurking about, he makes his way down curved hallways and into the arts wing. At the end of the corridor, one door waits like the glimmering gates into heaven. It’s glorious. How such a simple morning can still excite Sehun is beyond him.

            Perhaps he’s hopeful Suho will be standing behind that waiting doorway; though he never is.

            The stand and chair are arranged exactly as he wants them, as if the director had expected him. Sehun though nobody knew—besides his mom, Suho and the occasionally observant janitor. How had someone thought to place a chair and stand in the center of the room like so?

            Deciding not to ponder for one moment more, he places his case on the chair and opens it, relishing in the almost gaudy fabric in which the instrument lays.  He inhales the fragrance, though he can’t describe the sensation if he were to try; all that comes to mind is familiarity.

            And the instrument is now in his hands, fingers caressing the smooth, jet-black surface. Fixing the double reed into the tip, he smiles and then brings it to his lips; he plays. He plays a simple note, but, to him, it’s the beginning of a beautiful Mozart Concerto. The note sings out into a dazzling vibrato before reclining into silence. The silence then enchantingly blurs into the sultry lines of Rhapsody in Blue before casually slipping into another something from Eric Whitacre.

            It’s as if he knows no time. His instrument doesn’t—switching the era is as simple as changing the song; it’s time travel. Then, it comes by surprise when he’s jolted awake with the unbearably out-of-tune wailing of the warning bell: five minutes until class begins.”Time for class.” He mutters sarcastically. For a moment, he weighs the option of skipping first period altogether. The way Sehun sees it, chemistry is entirely useless, particularly in the world of music.

            Then, his band director’s bass shouts erupt over the buzz of student voices in the hallway. “Hey, you, there, stop kicking that ball! You’ll hurt someone!” A chuckling Sehun lays the oboe to sleep, the soft, protective fabric acting as a blanket,  before gingerly shutting the case: a silent ‘see you later’ of sorts.

            He makes his way out, quietly floating through the hall like an unimportant wallflower.

            There’s the band director, now holding his jaw in pain and scolding a couple of students who have only mischief written across their faces—no guilt.

            There are the popular girls, to whom only makeup, hair and kpop truly mattered. The white powder caked about their faces is, by no means, attractive to anyone, and, while one of them tries to imitate the singing from a Girl’s Generation song, even the most tone deaf cringe at the lack of quality.

            There are the jocks, tossing about a baseball as desperate girls look on from afar. Every once in a while, one of the boys will wink at those girls, teasing them into fits of pathetic sighs and squeals.

            There are the nerds, clustered in a herd near the water fountain, discussing homework, argyle sweaters or something of the sort. Sometimes, Sehun stands at the exterior of that herd, for one of his acquaintances associates with them. “Minseok!” He calls, but to no avail; the boy is wrapped up in an intense conversation about Star Wars and wookiees, as inferred from the strange sounds coming from the herd and the use of pencils as substitutes for light sabers.

            He slips into his classroom before almost everyone arrives. Unfortunately, there is one girl, the one who comes early to flirt in science speak with the teacher. She has more metal to than teeth, though, so he can’t imagine the Mr. Park actually looks at her.

            Maybe one could stick magnets on her braces; that could be an interesting science experiment.

            He sits on the opposite side of the room, far away from brace face, but, nonetheless, she tries to bother him. “Oh Sehun!” She flings a paper ball at his head, much to his chagrin. “Oh Sehun?” Inside, he’s seething.

            His mother always tells him not to let his temper get to him, though. As much as he wants to rage at the girl, he decides to take in a breath and let out whatever irritation he can with an exhale.

            “Oh Sehun, are you deaf?” Metal-mouth shrieks; at this point, mother’s morals are basically discarded out the window. Turning around, he’s visibly shaking and she looks unnerved.

            He explodes, “What do you want?”

            She points to the oboe case sitting just to my left, flashes of curiosity, offense and terror switching in her expression, “I only wanted to know what was in the container you have, there. You don’t need to be so rude.” The girl huffs and turns around, practically whimpering in her seat,—Sehun would like to think she’s mulling over her embarrassment— when the student begin to flood into the classroom, filling the uncomfortable silence with the rowdy laughter and conversation of High School students.

            And, when they’re all somewhat sitting in their seats—a few of them dangle off the table tops instead of properly resting in the chair—the teacher nervously scurries in, avoiding eye contact with the notoriously chaotic students and managing only a glance at his star students in the front row. “Good morning, students.”  He stammers, and Sehun notices he’s staring at the wall, “I have a lab planned for today. I hope we can get through this without injuries, this time.” He pretends to focus on some paperwork at his desk, “Please turn to page 62 in your packets and listen carefully as I read the instructions. It’s important to understand that these are guidelines that are meant to be followed for this experiment. Instructions are not optional.” He looks up and, with pleading eyes, cries, “Please.”

            He sends them off to their lab tables, wary of any groups that look even slightly suspicious.  Sehun finds himself huddled at a lab table with a group of brains, listening in amusement as they seriously discuss the ‘intense chemistry at hand.’ Sehun has a gift for pretending to be smart when he’s not, so one of the kids asks him, “What do you think?”

            To which he plainly responds, “I’m in perfect agreement with you,” when, in fact, he has no idea what was actually going on.

            “If Sehun agrees with me, that means I’m right!” The boy concludes. Unknown to the now beaming-in-admiration nerd to his left, Sehun is almost failing this class. All that’s keeping him afloat is the lab work that he copies word-for-word from his partners. “Sehun’s smart, after all.” Sehun has this boy totally beguiled.

            Luckily, without injuries or much thinking involved, Sehun makes it out of Chemistry: then, English: then, Math: then, Gym, although barely. He survives until lunch, in which he collapses on a table and lets his head rest for a good ten minutes, or so he thinks.

            He’s tapped on the shoulder and drowsily looks behind him to find one of the other oboe players looking at him, worried. “You’d better not sleep through Band. I really don’t know how Mr. Nam would react to the absence of his woodwind protégé.” He rolls his eyes, obviously a little sick of the special treatment Sehun gets in the music department; honestly, Sehun thinks the boy should practice more, and then maybe he won’t be last chair. Of course, he doesn’t say this out loud.

            “Thanks,” He garbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes; he’s a little regretful, now, as he begins to realize that he won’t eat lunch that day. “I owe you one, Kyungsoo.” The boy nods his head knowingly before checking his watch, widening his eyes in shock, and sprinting off towards the music wing.

            The band is the same as ever: awful sounds left and right and nobody really knows what to do with their instruments. As they rehearse one of Sehun’s many oboe concertos, the director frequently asks the band to play quietly. He practically asks them not to play at all, or is that exactly what he’s asking?

            Band ends: then, World History: then, Music Theory: then, study hall is supposed to start. Sehun, however, manages to slip out of the school, unnoticed, and take the first bus home; study hall is just a bother. And, when he arrives home he jokingly exclaims, “Bed, I missed you!” and continues that nap from lunchtime.

            The life of high school student Sehun is a boring one for most onlookers. For weeks, he does the same thing day in and day out, scoffing at the ridiculous antics of his classmates and counting down the hours…minutes…seconds until school lets out. Upon returning home, he checks his mailbox, hoping for the one letter that will turn his life around.

            It’s not there.

            One month ago, he auditioned for the Seoul Youth Symphony Orchestra, aiming to play with true musicians, rather than rambunctious teenagers into whose arms random instruments were —seriously, why else would Chanyeol be playing the flute?

            Last year, he auditioned as well, but his tone had been premature and, therefore, he’d been denied. After dedicating the last year to perfecting his sound, overall, Sehun is sure he’ll get a different response than before.

            So, where is that letter? For one month, for thirty days or more, he stares in agony, out the window, as the mail man places a stack of letters in the mailbox. A reactive mixture of nerves and hopes, Sehun asks his mother to only tell him about the mail if there’s a special letter from the Seoul Youth Symphonic Orchestra.

            Today, it doesn’t come. Sehun tries to think positively, but he’s not naturally an optimistic kind of person.

            He’s frequently reminded that he’s not good enough. His father, upon returning from work, takes sudden interest in the is-Sehun-accepted-or-denied situation at hand. Over kimchi and rice, he asks his son, “Sehun, what’s going on with this Youth Orchestra business?”

            The boy eyes his father curiously, for he never takes interest, “They haven’t gotten back to me about my audition. I don’t know whether I’m in or not.”

            “Your cousin was accepted to Seoul National University and you can’t even get into a Youth Orchestra, easily? Sehun, you could have been an okay student had you forgotten your music shenanigans. You ought to change your priorities.” His father’s stern look is unsettling.

            Two more weeks pass before Sehun receives any type of notification. It’s bleak outside; the sky is all shades of grey, frightening storm clouds looming up ahead. It’ nearly spring, meaning the almost-everyday rain pour was almost upon them. How long has it been since he’s felt the droplets on his skin? How long has it been since he’s tasted the salty rain as it falls down his cheek and onto his lips, like a tear?

            How long has it been since he’s cried?—because he’s crying now, head buried deep into a pillow, fists drawn tightly. Those fists pound angrily into the surface of the mattress.

            On the floor, crushed into a tiny ball, is a letter. Within this letter are words that Sehun doesn’t like. He doesn’t like these words at all: denied: rejection: sorry. “Not good enough.” Sehun whispers, huddling with his knees cradled into his chest, “I’m no good.” 

            From just outside the door, his mother whimpers along with him, at a loss for answers for the son whose dreams were slipping away.

            He manages to hide his disappointment when he’s around people. For his mother, he stomachs the dissatisfaction. She always asks Sehun if he’s okay; he responds with a nod and something sort of like a grin, only entirely fake. His father avoids him because he doesn’t know what to say; he assumes a terse, “I told you so,” would be too much. He’s afraid to speak.

            Sehun pretends he doesn’t notice the sad look with which his band director stares at him. It’s not an affectionate, sympathetic of gaze, either; it’s a disappointed, pitiful and it makes Sehun feels more so like an insignificant piece of dust than ever before. He doesn’t speak because he’s afraid he’ll let the emotion run right past his lips, so he keeps it bottled up.

            More often than not, he lets his thoughts completely consume him. Sinking into a bought of depression that has him skipping school sometimes once or twice a week, Sehun almost-despises his many years playing the oboe. He almost-despises joining band in the first place.

            He almost-despises it enough that he marches his way down to the office for the Seoul Youth Symphony Orchestra on a cloudy mid-spring day, just in an attempt to get some closure. Feeling the stone path passing beneath his thin loafers, Sehun thinks: maybe this is a bad idea. He peers in the first window, hoping to see a reason to bolt, but the interior is an intimidating normal, much to his fortune—or misfortune—and he pushes through the glass door and doesn’t look back.

            There’s a white sign that points him in the right way, straight towards the director’s office at the end of the hallway. On the walls are countless portraits of famous musicians who started out in this very building. Sehun sighs, thinking that he’ll never have a chance to be one of them, before shaking his head clear of this thought, reeling on anger and hurt, and a bit of hope.

            And that’s what brings him to knock on the wooden door, to take a breath to calm his nerves, and to wait for an answer. And, it comes, “Come in.” He steals one more breath before pushing the door open and glancing apprehensively at the chubby man squashed into his rather smallish chair. The man, well known Director Do, doesn’t look up, as if Sehun is that unimportant.

            On the inside, Sehun cries and wishes to secretly slip out and pretend that this idea never came across his mind, but the man looks up and there’s no escaping, now. His dark eyes stare almost directly into Sehun’s soul, analyzing him in a way that makes him tense and uncomfortable. Sehun tries to smile, but he believes it comes across as being awkward and pained instead of friendly; he wants to hide in embarrassment and run.

            “Oh Sehun, what brings you here?” The director knows his name? The director knows his name. “If I remember correctly, you auditioned in late winter for Oboe, right?” Sehun nods, shifting from side to side, “Well, if you have something to talk about, you should sit down.” The man smiles, breaking the predetermined impression Sehun originally crafted, “I won’t bite; I promise.”

            He feels a little bit reassured at this, and does as the director says. As the fabric of the chair molds into his body, the Director starts to fold his papers and set them aside, humming a tune that strikes Sehun as familiar, all the while. “Peter and the Wolf is one of my favorite symphonies,” Says the director, “The oboe part is absolutely splendid and makes the duck’s characterization so understandable. The composer, I really don’t know how he could make the sound of the duck, the cat or any of the others so realistic. I sometimes find myself humming the cat’s song—the clarinet song-- when my own cat ambles into the room. It’s perfect.”

            He continues, “But, here I am, rambling when you probably have something to say to me. Have you?”

            Sehun nods, and he knows what to say, but bringing the words to his mouth is harder than nearly anything he’s ever done before, so he fists his fingers into the material of his shirt for nerves’ sake and lets out a murmured, “Why am I not good enough?”

            Sehun stares into the eyes of the director, desperately hoping for some sort of clarification—be it tone problems, technicalities, whatever—so that he could go home and practice these imperfections away. Director Do stares forward, but his glance is cloudy, as if contemplating his words carefully behind those eyes. “How am I supposed to answer a question like that, Sehun?”

            “Honestly.” All he needs is a simple response.

            “That’s not what I—okay; Sehun, I’m going to tell you, summed up, what I told to the man next to me at the audition. I told him this; ‘That kid is alright, but he’s cold. He has some talent and discipline, but that’s it.’ Talent and discipline will wear one to the bone if you don’t have more: passion, love, emotion. Where is that? That’s what’s missing.”

            “Oh.”

            “You live through your music, Sehun. I can see that much in your eyes: your every breath is for your oboe, right? I was the same way for a long time. I played Cello and I would itch to play my instrument every day during class, doing nothing other than practicing. Even my sweetest vibrato wasn’t genuine. It was empty. It was cold. I wasn’t good enough.”

            “Upon the death of my mother a few years after graduation, I finally felt something. I felt pain and it translated into my playing. My lesson teacher said that the first time hearing me play after her death was likened to a rebirth for me in terms of musicianship; I’d brought tears to her eyes.”

            “Anyways, there’s a catch about playing with emotion. You see, it’s not something you can practice. It’s something you have to experience and translate into music. As I said, you live through your music; however, your music, instead, needs to live through you.”

            “You’re young, go fall in love or something; feelings abound, I’m sure there’s something you can do to find that emotion.” He nods and looks down at his papers again, gathering them into his hands and standing up, “Sehun, you’re only a sophomore, so I expect you to try out next year, and I expect you to play with everything in your heart.” The director leaves.

            And Sehun is left in that seat, worried. He runs his fingers through his hair in reflection, yet he has no idea how to make use of Director Do’s advice, so he, too, leaves. And, when he reaches the outside and sees the rain falling heavily from the skies, he doesn’t wait until the storm is gone. In fact, he barely notices the drops falling down his cheeks because they feel so familiar: just like tears.

            Screw Director Do for calling Sehun emotionless; emotion’s all he’s known for the last few weeks.

            If Sehun has no emotion, then these teardrops are nothing more than rain on a stormy night in spring.