A Beautiful Melody by Lilliana Anderson Page B

playing the old piano we had in one of the music rooms at school, I loved the sound, and wanted to be able to listen to it every day.
    Slowly, I walk around his lounge and dining room, picking up books and pictures, looking at each one in turn. Theo obviously cares a lot about his family, there are heaps of photos of him with his brother, their parents, grandparents, and a fair few photos and framed articles featuring the band and their music.
    Studying the photos on a bookshelf, one in particular catches my eye. It’s slightly obscured by other frames in front of it, but the picture is unmistakably identical to the one I see on the wall at my parent’s house. “Oh my god,” I gasp, reaching out to pick up the small frame.
    I study the picture, remembering the day it was taken. I was a part of a school performance where we were exploring the use of classical instruments in modern music. There are five of us in the photo. I of course, played violin, Marcus played an electric guitar, Aramis was on keyboards, a girl named Christy, used the cello as a bass replacement, and some guy with red hair that I don’t remember, played drums.
    I remember we all practiced for that performance for a solid month. I think I still have the recording of the song somewhere at home. I touch the picture lightly, running my finger over my image as I smile at the blissful look on my face. Marcus has him arm draped over both mine and Christy’s shoulders, we both look like we’re about to break out into fits of giggles. We’re flanked either side by Aramis, who stands next to me with his arms crossed and his black lips pursed, and the red-headed dude, who’s trying to look cool next to Christy.
    Grinning, I move to place the photo back on the shelf. Although, I was so engrossed in the memory that I didn’t notice Theo had come back into the room.
    “What are you doing?” he asks suddenly, startling me so that I yelp, the photo frame falling from my hands and crashing onto the hardwood floor.
    “Oh my god! I’m so sorry. I was only looking because that’s me in that photo. Shit, I’ll buy you a new frame,” I babble, kneeling down to pick up the pieces at my feet. I retrieve the photo from the wreckage and pause as I notice writing on the back. It says ‘ Classically Modern Concert. November 2007. Theo, Naomi, Marcus, Christy, Damien’. “What?” I question, flinching back as Theo snatches the picture from my hands.
    “Leave it. I’ll clean it,” he demands , collecting the broken pieces of the frame roughly, then trying to carefully pick up the broken glass. “God damn it,” he yells as he nicks his finger on a sharp edge. Immediately, he sticks it in his mouth, getting up and throwing everything he collected into the rubbish.
    I quick ly pick up the last of the glass, and chasing after him, I retrieve the photo.
    “Are you cut badly? ” I ask quietly, placing the photo on the bench top.
    “No, I’m fine. I just need a Band-Aid,” he growls, moving past me. His eyes drift toward the photo and his brow deeply furrows. He opens a drawer and pulls out a box of Band-Aids, fumbling with the packaging as he tries to stem the flow of blood from his finger.
    “Here, let me,” I offer , taking the box from his hand and removing a strip of plasters. As I peel the paper away and wrap it around his finger, neither of us speaks. All is quiet except for the sound of our breathing. I feel the wet tips of his freshly washed hair brush lightly on the top of my head as he leans forward, watching me. As I finish, I look up at him and meet his eyes. He’s so close that I can smell his soap and shampoo, and I find myself wishing he wasn’t wearing the fitted black t-shirt he’s now put on.
    “Thanks,” he mur murs, keeping his eyes locked on mine.
    For the moment I’ve forgotten about the photo, I’m still holding his finger, smoothing my thu mb over the plaster strip I applied as we just… stare. I can’t work him out. There’s