Dear Diary,
I stared absent-mindedly at the cars passing by as I stood on the corner of Brightson Avenue and Allegro Boulevard, next to the new boutique that had opened in the town surround Inglefield. I looked down at the bags in my hand and reflected for a moment on the advantages of having rich, divoriced parents who didn't bother you about your non-essential spending on your "emergency" credit card.
Suddenly, beautiful violin music filled the air and shook me out of my reverie. I looked down the street corner to see where the music was coming from, to no avail. The music reminded me of the music my parents played in my room when I was five. They were convinced that having me listen to classical music would somehow make me smart. I chuckled to myself. It'd made me smart enough for Mt. Inglefield.
I once again broke from my nostalgic reminising and looked down the other street. On the corner, a couple of blocks from where I was standing, stood a guy in a worn out jacket with a violin, producing the most excellent music I'd heard in awhile. And this is not to imply that Mt. Inglefield doesn't have an excellent musical program, either. My mouth dropped open when mystery violinist turned to face me. He looked my age!
I walked down the block and watched him in awe. He was cute. Adorkable, really. He had slightly curly cheasnut hair and deep cheastnut eyes. There was something about him and his music that was so sad, but so optimistic.
"Bravo!" I called when mystery violinist finished his performance. People around us clapped and moved on. "What were you playing?" I asked.
"A piece from Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto," mystery violinist answered and grinned. "It was shit, though."
"Really?" I asked, shocked. Sounded bloody brilliant to me.
"It's your fault, too," he replied. "I couldn't stop staring at you."
I grinned at him. He seemed so sweet. Could I help but love him and his lame flirting? "My apologies," I replied with a genuine smile. "How old are you? You seem my age."
"15," mystery violinist replied. "My name's Thomas. You?"
"Marie-Claire," I answered. "You're fantastic. Why are you playing on the corner? You seem like you should be playing with the London Philharmonic."
"Starving artist, I guess," Thomas shrugged.
"Do you go to school around here?" I asked, shifting my bags in my hand.
"I'm not going to school at the moment," he replied melancholily. "I had an attendence problem at my last school because of little stints like this, and I was recently dismissed."
My mouth dropped open. "You cannot be serious. You have to try out for the music program at my school. It's fantastic, really. And they have great scholarships. You'd get in, absolutely."
"Where do you go?" Thomas asked, with a distanct look in his eyes like he was indulging me so I could feel like I helped some poor, straving artist.
"Up the way, at Mt. Inglefield," I replied nonchalantly. It was Thomas's turn to look surprised.
"That's a pipe dream. There's no way a kid like me could get an audition there. Nothing looks more appealing to schools like that than 'homeless broke high-school drop out'," Thomas chuckled.
I frowned. His argument had merit, but this guy was too good and too sweet for me to leave him like this. "I could get you an audition."
Thomas smiled sadly and began to pack up his violin. I noticed for the first time that it was starting to get dark. "That's really nice of you... Marie-Claire, right? But I'll do fine on my own."
"You don't believe me!" I exclaimed. "Well, at least let me get you dinner. Your performance earned you that." Thomas looked at me, unsure. "Please, I'd feel awful if I left you like this."
"Okay," Thomas nodded. "I'm bloody starving." Thomas pulled his bright green cap over his messy hair and smiled. He looked like a little kid.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new mission. Marie-Claire Delaflute, cleaning up your streets, one brilliant music prodigy at a time.
I stared absent-mindedly at the cars passing by as I stood on the corner of Brightson Avenue and Allegro Boulevard, next to the new boutique that had opened in the town surround Inglefield. I looked down at the bags in my hand and reflected for a moment on the advantages of having rich, divoriced parents who didn't bother you about your non-essential spending on your "emergency" credit card.
Suddenly, beautiful violin music filled the air and shook me out of my reverie. I looked down the street corner to see where the music was coming from, to no avail. The music reminded me of the music my parents played in my room when I was five. They were convinced that having me listen to classical music would somehow make me smart. I chuckled to myself. It'd made me smart enough for Mt. Inglefield.
I once again broke from my nostalgic reminising and looked down the other street. On the corner, a couple of blocks from where I was standing, stood a guy in a worn out jacket with a violin, producing the most excellent music I'd heard in awhile. And this is not to imply that Mt. Inglefield doesn't have an excellent musical program, either. My mouth dropped open when mystery violinist turned to face me. He looked my age!
I walked down the block and watched him in awe. He was cute. Adorkable, really. He had slightly curly cheasnut hair and deep cheastnut eyes. There was something about him and his music that was so sad, but so optimistic.
"Bravo!" I called when mystery violinist finished his performance. People around us clapped and moved on. "What were you playing?" I asked.
"A piece from Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto," mystery violinist answered and grinned. "It was shit, though."
"Really?" I asked, shocked. Sounded bloody brilliant to me.
"It's your fault, too," he replied. "I couldn't stop staring at you."
I grinned at him. He seemed so sweet. Could I help but love him and his lame flirting? "My apologies," I replied with a genuine smile. "How old are you? You seem my age."
"15," mystery violinist replied. "My name's Thomas. You?"
"Marie-Claire," I answered. "You're fantastic. Why are you playing on the corner? You seem like you should be playing with the London Philharmonic."
"Starving artist, I guess," Thomas shrugged.
"Do you go to school around here?" I asked, shifting my bags in my hand.
"I'm not going to school at the moment," he replied melancholily. "I had an attendence problem at my last school because of little stints like this, and I was recently dismissed."
My mouth dropped open. "You cannot be serious. You have to try out for the music program at my school. It's fantastic, really. And they have great scholarships. You'd get in, absolutely."
"Where do you go?" Thomas asked, with a distanct look in his eyes like he was indulging me so I could feel like I helped some poor, straving artist.
"Up the way, at Mt. Inglefield," I replied nonchalantly. It was Thomas's turn to look surprised.
"That's a pipe dream. There's no way a kid like me could get an audition there. Nothing looks more appealing to schools like that than 'homeless broke high-school drop out'," Thomas chuckled.
I frowned. His argument had merit, but this guy was too good and too sweet for me to leave him like this. "I could get you an audition."
Thomas smiled sadly and began to pack up his violin. I noticed for the first time that it was starting to get dark. "That's really nice of you... Marie-Claire, right? But I'll do fine on my own."
"You don't believe me!" I exclaimed. "Well, at least let me get you dinner. Your performance earned you that." Thomas looked at me, unsure. "Please, I'd feel awful if I left you like this."
"Okay," Thomas nodded. "I'm bloody starving." Thomas pulled his bright green cap over his messy hair and smiled. He looked like a little kid.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new mission. Marie-Claire Delaflute, cleaning up your streets, one brilliant music prodigy at a time.
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