Subway Notes

{A short story}

The last note bounces off the dirty tile walls.  Yet another train charges in and the halls are filled with people, pushing past one another to get to their destination.  I loosen the hairs of my bow gently placing my violin back in its case, scooping up the handful of coins and dollar bills.  I latch up my case, placing it in a bulky gym bag, and make my way through the hubbub, up the gum-plastered steps, and into the crisp, though not fresh, air.  I pull my hood up against the wind and break into a jog, so as to get home on time.  I fish around in my coat pocket as I go for my keychain, amongst gum wrappers and tissues, and open the unattractive black door unto the tiled entryway of our apartment.  Looking around, I knock on the first door to the left, and hand her my gym bag.

“Here you go, Mrs. Cole, thanks again.”  She pulls her long cardigan around her against the hallway chill.

“Of course, Sophie, but you really should tell her.”  She smiles. 

“I know, I know.  I will.  Soon.”  I don’t think I will though.  I smile at her and turn to the old staircase behind me. 

I jog up them two at a time, for the four flights to our apartment.  I have no need for a gym membership, that’s for sure.  Besides, the gym is for rich people.  At the top I rest my forehead against the frame for a second, and then turn the tarnished doorknob into the apartment.

“Sophie, it’s about time dear.  How was work?” My mother stands over our stove, nearly filling our small kitchen.

“Oh, it was good, you know.” We both wince as a ruckus fills the room, my brothers dash through, fighting over some toy they have.  Jonathan rushes into the bathroom, and slams the door behind him, locking his brothers out. 

“Settle down, boys!” she yells at them without turning away. “Well you look awfully tired.  What are they having you do?” She wipes her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, and turns her attention back to the bubbling pot over the stove.  I realize she’s no longer paying attention to me.  I’ve gotten off the hook again, thank goodness.

“Just the usual-“

“Hand me the salt there, would you?” I do, and then leave, sighing. 

I walk through the crowded hallways at school towards the lunchroom we are all being crowded into.  I spot Lindsey and drop my things next to her.  She’s already munching on her sandwich, engrossed in a new book.  I sit down next to her and start eating my own meal, pasta salad. 

“You look terrible,” she says, not even glancing up from her book.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You know, you’d probably get more sleep if you told her.” She’s got crumbs all over her lap and licks her finger to turn the page.

“And you wouldn’t have such a lot of stains on your laundry if you just sat up,” I say, emphasizing the latter as I brush crumbs off the table in front of me.

“So listen,” I say, “how am I going to get my pay-check if I only get bills and coins?”

“Well, smart one, you said you had it all figured out.  Did you just expect to hand over the change and say ‘here’s my pay-check mom’?” she finally glances up at me, reproachful.

“That’s not a bad idea, right?” I thought it made sense when I planned it all out.

“Well for starters, you wouldn’t be getting cash, also, are you even making enough?”

“I am, I’ve made at least $8 an hour, sometimes even more.” I take a bite of my pasta, chewing slowly. 

“What if I just say I already cashed it?  That works, right?”

“No.  That’s way too simple.  I’ll have to do it for you, I’m definitely not letting you near my computer again.” She finishes chewing, still contemplating her price, I know she has a price.  “But I want a pound of the best gummy bears, and since it’s such last minute, you have to sleepover this weekend.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, I guess I’ll do it.” I grin at her as she returns to her reading. 

Lindsay crafts a paycheck for me, the company name printed on the top, ‘Jane’s Exchange’ is a local clothing store that I would like to work for.  But as I didn’t get accepted, I only hope this is legal. 

It’s quite easy to fool my mom.  Not that I enjoy it, but it is for her own good.  I flash her my snazzy paycheck, she congratulates me on my first real job, and I’m able to slip her, in cash, part of my paycheck.  It may not be much, but it helps her cut back on her hours so she can stay home with the boys. 

We are all seated around our table, mom at the head, me at the foot, and the three boys on the sides.  We all grab hands, and I clasp tightly their grubby fingers.  Later on I help with homework, and mom sings them to sleep.  We have our way of life. 

We squeeze through the isle of the bus, Mom has several canvas bags of groceries, and the boys are hanging onto her coat.  I’ve got Ryan in my arms, his red cheeks clashing with his puffy green jacket.  We went to the grocery and picked up the boys from their friend’s house.  We push into our apartment, worn out, and drop the groceries on the floor. 

“Mom, when’s dinner,” Keenan asks while picking his nose.  He tucks his toes behind his other ankle, and sniffs. 

“We just got home, Keenan, what do you think?  Now go blow your nose.”  I hike Ryan up on my hip and start putting away groceries.  He starts sucking his thumb and leans his head against my shoulder. 

“Mom,” I say, trying to be casual, “Do you think I could just play in the subway?  I think I’d like it better than this job.” Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.  She sighs loudly, and ties her apron around her curvy waist before answering me. 

“Sophie.  I’ve told you before, you are better than that.”  She turns back to the stove.   Flicking on the gas, and opening the fridge with a satisfying squelch, it’s clear she hasn’t changed her mind.  I nervously bop Ryan up and down on my hip. 

“But mom, I think I would really like it.  I know I’m good enough! Mrs. Thomas says I’m terrific.”

“Mrs. Thomas is no help.  She put that in your head in the first place, but I only pay her to teach you how to fulfill your potential.  She’s sticking her nose in our business and I don’t appreciate it.”

“No, it’s not a bad thing.  What is music if no one is there to hear it?  I’m just playing to an empty classroom except for Mrs. Thomas, and she doesn’t count.  I want to share music, mom.” 

She brushes around the sizzling butter in the pan, and roughly chops up vegetables.  The steam is rising from the pan.  Ryan whines at me to let him down, and I slide him to the floor.  Picking at my dress, I feel like whimpering too. 

“Sophie, darling,” she starts saying reasonably, “I may not be able to give you the best, we may not always have money for extra things, but you do not need to make money.” I start to say something but she gives me the look.  “If you don’t like your job, then quit. But we do not need money so badly that you need to go to the streets.  I have not raised you to be a hobo.” Her word is law, and her law is final.  I’m doomed. 

My forehead is pressed against the glass, and my arms are propping up my chin.  It’s at least 1 in the morning, but I can’t go to sleep.  I roll over and press my hands to the ceiling.  The boys are lightly snoring in the bottom bunk, and all is quiet.  The lights from passing cars are flashing, and the passing whoosh is actually soothing.  I’ve always been fond of the rush, swoosh, and fade of the busy city.  If I squint my eyes the lights stretch, and the color exaggerate the rain drops on my window.  Each drop creates a beat, each swoosh of a car, a note, and the music fills my head.  Mother doesn’t understand the beauty of music for the people, but music is magic, and I cannot help but yearn for it. 

My blankets are all scrunched up around me.  My pillow is shoved to the side.  I pull my legs up and cross them, pointing and flexing my toes.  I twirl my hair.  And listen. 

I don’t go to the station the next day.  Or the next.  My fingers feel cold. 

I start searching for jobs, this time for real.  I apply at Jane’s Exchange again, the well-clothed girl barely glancing at it before throwing my application under the counter, and turning back to her conversation with the boy sitting on the counter.  

“You just need to play, you dork.”  Lindsay is her usual, helpful self. 

“I just can’t do this anymore, besides, I don’t have any more money.  So I don’t know what to do.  Help me Linds.”  Yet again, I can’t do it myself. 

“I’m telling you, you just need to play.  And I don’t mean during your lesson.  Like you said, that doesn’t count. So just go.”  Lindsay smacks her gum. 

After my lesson I take a train to central park.  Cliché, but it feels like maybe I just need the change.  I take out my violin, tuning it amidst all the dog-walkers and runners and bird ladies. 

I start playing.  I close my eyes.  I play any song I can think of for a while.  Then I start making things up as I go.  Just playing is such a relief. 

I pack up with a light heart and head home. 

When I get there, I don’t hesitate. 

“Mom, we need to talk.”

{so. much. excitement.  This past (oh how weird that it is over) school year I had a wonderful fiction writing workshop class and at the end of each semester my teacher would do a round up of "top stories".  This semester three of my stories made it.  I am just bursting with happiness at this.  These stories might be "published" as a resource for future classes, or maybe nothing will come of them, but I am just so glad.  This class has helped me grow as a writer so much, and I enjoy writing now even more than I did at the beginning of the year.  This class stretched me and made me think creatively, and I am bursting a little bit with happiness that my stories were included.  gosh. ok.}