The Third-Floor Bedroom (Inspired By Harris Burdick)
I was a plain girl. Limp brown hair framed my face, the color of peachy silly putty, and milk-chocolate eyes. At school and most of the time at home, I was just what I looked, like: ordinary. But if you caught me alone in a room with a piano, I am not modest enough to refrain from saying that you would never want to leave. Music flowed from the piano, domesticated and tamed by my fingertips as I stroked, note by note. As much as I loved the works of Mozart and Bach, I mostly enjoyed writing my own music. I could spend hours on end replaying, putting tidbits of songs together, scribbling notes onto sheet after sheet of blank notepaper. However much I was entranced by the glossy, dark instrument, I lacked one thing: confidence. I would grow up to be a “house mother”, as I called them, or a nurse, or a lawyer. Never would I see my name in a thick book of music, accompanied by beautiful notes. But all of that was about to change. On a pleasant day, I was alone in the house, bound to the piano, testing out scales and chords and scrawling down potential titles on the tops of sheet music. It all began when someone left the windows open. My ears tuned to the melodic flow of the ebony and ivory keys, I did not notice a noise from the third-floor bedroom. After I abandoned my joy to make lunch, I sensed a bit of a fluttering noise from upstairs. Almost as if paper were being blown from the desk. But after a minute, it slowed and ceased. Shrugging it off, I returned to the piano, experimenting with an #A. Just when I had finished the phrase, I heard the doorbell chime, shattering the song. Ding-dong! I stood and hurried to answer the door. When I pulled back the door something amazing happened. Fourteen slender paper birds blew from the gusty tug of the wind onto the hearth. They were the same wallpaper birds which were a design of the wallpaper on the third-floor bedroom. Not even closing the door, I almost didn’t realize that this was irregular. I am guessing I was a bit numb from shock. I walked slowly to the piano and began to play the first scale in the song I had been composing. In a whirlwind I was suspicious didn’t come from outside, the wallpaper birds rose, slower than life, as the song built into climax the birds flew in a flurry around me. Just as I was nearing three-quarters through my song, the sound of the doorbell rang again, accompanied, by a timid knock on the partially-open door. “Martha? Benjamin?” The voice of our next-door neighbor, Mr. Watson, spoke quietly. The birds, who had stopped circling me, flattened against the wall. Mr. Watson’s plump, spectacled face peered inside. “Erica? Was that you playing? You should play in the Town Music Festival, I dare say. You have serious potential, I’m quite impressed! Quite a beautiful composition. Are either of your parents home?” I grinned in spite of myself.
As Mr. Watson wrote out his message, placing it by the corded phone, Erica’s plain face glowed with pleasure.