It’s been weird coming to the West Wing rooms for practice ever since Aaron left Waverly. I remember most of my freshman year practically living in these rooms; practicing for his band and then rehearsing for school performances with the choir. We spent hours chatting and spending time with each other in these rooms, so needless to say being in one for the first time this year was… a lot.
A knock is heard on the door, assuming that it was Milo looking to practice for Mr. Kamalani’s quartet’s next period. I opened the door and to my surprise, it’s Weston.
“My fault,” Weston quickly said. “The secretary must’ve gave me the wrong room number to practice.”
“Ms. Janice is always giving out the wrong rooms,” I commented. “You’re here to practice for vocal?”
“Yeah, I figured to stop by here and skip lunch to get this song memorized,” he said, holding up his music binder. I opened the door wide for him to enter.
“Well you’re in luck; I’m also rehearsing for the shitshow Mr. Kamalani puts us through,” I joked as I welcomed him into the room. He smiled as he walked in, placing his things on the chair next to mine.
“Is it really that bad?” Weston asked.
“For me, no; other people in the class say otherwise.”
“So what you’re saying is that quartets aren’t as scary as everyone make it out to be?”
“I didn’t say that, I’m just good at what I do.” I smiled, only half joking with that statement. “What song is tripping you up the most?”
“Qui Tollis is driving me mad,” he answered, flipping through his music binder. He wasn’t kidding; his sheet music for that song has notes written all over it. “It’s like I can’t hear this baritone line for nothing when the first sopranos are screaming at the top of their lungs–“
“Hey, hey; there shall be no slander towards first sopranos,” I interrupted, smiling. “You’re talking to one right now–“
“You actually sing,” Weston emphasized. I feel my face getting warm, a little taken back. How would he know who’s singing the correct note? “You’re the only one that actually sings the note.”
“How would you know if it’s me or not?”
“Because if my note on the bass clef is a C, the first sopranos are singing the same note on the treble clef, just in the appropriate octave.”
“So you know your shit,” I commented, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll be fine then for Mr. Kamalani’s quartets.” It was nice talking to someone that actually knew what they were talking about in vocal; even more so, someone that was easy to talk to. I sat down in the chair next to Weston. “Did you study vocal back in San Francisco?” He shook his head.
“My mom put me and my brother in theatre as kids, but I was the one that stayed with it,” Weston answered, seeming to get comfortable in his seat. “I sang in an all boys choir in catholic school.”
“You were a catholic school kid? Dude.” I couldn’t help but laugh; he didn’t look like the kind of guy that grew up in a catholic school.
“I know,” Weston protested, raising his hands up. “Would not recommend it. Thankfully when I went into 9th grade, my family had to move and my brother and I were able to experience real school.
“How’d you handle it?”
“My brother, Mason, was able to adjust pretty quickly. He was always the popular one,” Weston explained. “I liked to be in my own space.”
“I get it,” I said, now getting comfortable in my own seat. “I’m the youngest of three in my family, but the age gap is so far apart that I spent a lot of my time either by myself, or hanging out with my best friend.”
“But something tells me you’re not so introverted,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re very outspoken in vocal class.”
“That’s because I’ve been singing with these people since freshman year.”
“If you were introverted, you wouldn’t have invited me into your rehearsal space.” I looked at Weston, now being the one raising an eyebrow, leaning back in my seat.
“I like you,” I said out loud. “You’re pretty cool, is what I mean–“
“You too,” Weston replied, smiling at me.
…
“Alright class,” Mr. Kamalani said, quieting the class down. I sat down in my seat, turning around to see Weston. He looks at me and smiles; I return one back. “I am going to start calling up random people in each section and test your knowledge on the pieces for the showcase.” Everyone sucked their teeth, not amused by today’s class lesson plan. “When I call your name, please come up to the front of the room without your sheet music.” The room went silent, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at my classmates. I looked over at Milo who, strangely enough, was texting someone on his phone underneath his desk. The last thing I wanted was for Mr. Kamalani to catch him, especially since we had plans after school to hang out.
“Milo,” I called out in a whisper. “Milo–“
“Ms. Castro,” Mr. Kamalani said. “Seems like you have better things to do than to listen to instructions.”
“I know my music,” I confidently said.
“Wow, talk about modesty,” Laurie added.
“Fuck off, Whore-ie,” I spat back as the class reacted.
“Enough,” Mr. Kamalani demanded. “Ms. Castro, first soprano–“
“What–“
“Ms. Humphries, alto–“
“Mr. Kamalani, really?” I stood up, from my seat.
“Ms. Castro, did I not say I’m calling random people up for quartets?” he asked, looking in my direction. When I didn’t answer, he turned his head towards the tenors and of course, Milo is still underneath his desk texting someone. “Mr. Kamalani, tenor–“
“What?” Milo finally looked up from his desk.
“Perhaps if you were paying attention, you’d know what we were doing today.” Mr. Kamalani said. I slowly walk to the front of the room with Milo.
“Dude, what are you even doing?” I whispered to Milo. “You know that’s fuel for your dad–“
“And Mr. Ashmore, baritone.” I watched Weston nervously get up from his seat, and finding a place at the end of the line. The four of us stood up at the front of the room, waiting for Mr. Kamalani to pick the song to test us in.
“Alleluja”, Mr. Kamalani said. Fuck this fuck-ass song. I looked at Milo, looking down to the ground as the thoughts ran through his head. “One, two, three; one, two, three,” Mr. Kamalani counted us in for the song and we began singing. This song in particular has no singular part where all of us are singing in the same measure. so it was crucial that we knew our music perfectly.
We started singing the song; some nervous notes between the four of us definitely were made and heard. I kept looking over at Milo, barely singing any of his notes to the song. I could see Weston trying hard to hear Milo’s notes, as both the tenors and bass lines have similarities in this piece. Before we could even salvage the song, Mr. Kamalani abruptly stopped us.
“Stop, stop,” he said, sighing as he gets up from his seat. “What’s going on? We don’t know our music?” Before I could say anything, Weston is the first one to speak up.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kamalani,” he began to say. “I was having a hard time finding the note and threw everyone else off.” I turned my head in his direction, not understanding why he’s taking the blame. Dude, it was Milo fucking us up. Mr. Kamalani stood in front of us, thinking before he spoke.
“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Ashmore; for future reference, please make sure that your notes are all together, as one wrong note can throw the rest of the ensemble up.” Weston nodded his head nervously.
…
I decided that today was going to be a West Wing type of day, as I needed to get some work done for my classes. Of course, I was now expecting company during these type of days, and a knock is heard on the rehearsal door. I get up from my seat and opened it as Weston stood there smiling.
“Hey,” he greeted me before coming into the rehearsal room. “Ready for that U.S History exam tomorrow?”
“Wait, that’s tomorrow?” I asked.
“Mollie,” Weston said before snickering. “You need to be paying more attention in class.”
“I pay attention to the things that matter.”
“An exam is an important thing that matters, Mols,” Weston emphasized. I looked at him, not realizing just how long it’s been since someone called me Mols. Mols.
“My ex used to call me that,” I openly confessed without any repercussion. “Sorry; I didn’t mean to trauma dump on you or anything–“
“It’s okay,” Weston responded. “Is there a particular nickname you like to go by?”
“Technically, Mollie is the nickname,” I began to explain. “My full first name is Mollie Sue… hence why my ex called me Mols.”
“Mollie is good enough,” he said with a smile. Why was it so easy talking to this boy? What was it about him? “I don’t mind if you call me Wes, though. Sometimes it’s just easier to shorten it then say the entire thing.”
“Is that a nickname you would like to go by?”
“The thing is no one calls me that.”
“Then why offer it?” I laughed. Thankfully, he also laughed along.
“Maybe I’m trying to make it catch on!”
“Okay, Wes,” I teased. Weston shook his head as he smiled, flipping through the pages of his textbook. “By the way,” I began to say. “Why did you take the blame?”
“Take the blame?” He asked. He genuinely seemed confused.
“For the quartet. Why’d you take the blame?”
“I genuinely messed up–“
“You didn’t.” I simply stated. I stared at him as he stared at me. We both know you didn’t fuck up that quartet.
“I know it was Milo,” Weston confessed. “He started the note on the wrong measure. I didn’t want his dad to call him out on it in front of the class.”
“You know Milo?” I asked. “How do you know him?”
“He sat at my lunch table one day,” he began to explain. “He seems pretty cool.”
“Milo’s my best friend,” I stated. “His dad and my oldest sister are married.” It was something I normally didn’t share with people, but there was something about Weston that I was able to trust. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.
He nodded before sighing. “I figured I’d take the blame since I’m fairly new, y’know?”
“I get it, but don’t let him slide,” I spat back, raising an eyebrow. “He knows better than that. You want me to yell at him?”
“No, no,” Weston said as he laughed. “But I appreciate the support.” I smiled at Weston before he looked back down to his binder, flipping through the pages in it. Weston was mysterious in an open way, if that makes sense. He feels familiar, like I’ve known him in some past time, yet he feels refreshing; something I haven’t felt in a really long time.
“Mollie.”
“Huh?” I snapped out of thought.
“Let’s study for that U.S. History exam you were so excited about that you forgot ’bout it,” Weston teased. I rolled my eyes and smiled, taking my binder out from my bag.
Letters From Liz. 