Every summer, when the sky had reached its bluest and the monarchs came out to dance around the jacaranda trees, I returned to Mariposa Music School. It was a music camp that had everything: world-class faculty, masterclasses, seminars, concerts, and chamber music. It was the chamber that most excited me; I would scan over my inbox daily the weeks prior, eager to discover whoever I was to play with.

The camp sent me three emails for my chamber assignment with three different groups of people. It settled on a duo consisting of myself and a violinist named Theo Sato. Something about that name rang a bell, the syllables already planted in my brain. It clicked almost immediately; he was the son of a piano teacher, Mrs. Sato. He had been there last year, though I had never seen him, only heard of him as if he were nothing more than a passing ghost.

“So, did you get your chamber assignment?” My teacher asked.

“Yeah, I got Theo Sato.”

“Oh really? Mrs. Sato’s son?”

“I think,” I scanned her reaction, ready to gauge whether I should anticipate the best or the worst with Theo.

“That’ll be fun! I heard he’s funny, Mrs. Sato’s kid,” She smiled at me, eyes crinkling up in the corners into two rising suns. My teacher was the glass-half-full type of person, with a big heart and personality even bigger.

“How old is he?”

“I think he’s your age— like fourteen? Fifteen? I don’t know.”

Hence the image I built of Theo Sato in my head: a fun boy my age, who was certain to be a gifted musician with such musical parentage. A quick search on the Internet only proved to fuel my warped image, with a video of him about a year ago popping up on the website of some competition. He’d had short hair, cropped close to the scalp and sticking up. He looked like the average teenage boy in my grade, nerdy in an approachable way.

It was the second day of the camp when we first met. I sat at the piano’s bench, looking straight ahead at my binder of sheet music, fingers sweaty from nerves. Waiting in the dark little practice room was like sitting in a birdcage, ensnaring me in nerves. Every other second, I glanced at my phone, propped up against the sheet music rack. No reply to the messages I had sent, besides a brief text hours before. As soon as Theo arrived, if he did, the summer’s chamber music rehearsals would begin. Just waiting was almost as nerve-wracking as a performance, my stomach full of fluttering butterflies.

Running through the music helped calm my nerves, my hands getting used to the patterns of the piece. Deep in the music, I didn’t notice a dark figure cross the shuttered window and stop in front of the door. So many people crossed by the room, all of them just strangers walking by. I glanced at my phone once again. Open the door. A text from my dad, standing outside, read.

I sprang from the bench and rushed to open the door. Standing there, framed by the gentle noon sunlight, was Theo Sato. I uttered a quick greeting as I shut the door behind him. His hair was jet black, and cut in a longer style. Mrs. Sato was a jocular woman with a hyena’s laugh, probably embarrassing to have as a mom. Unsmiling and tall, Theo was as dissimilar to his mom as a Mrs.ied fig is to a fresh mango.

Without a word, he pulled a wooden chair over and sat down, unscrewing his bow and setting his violin on his knee. His mouth was pursed, lips curved in what could either be a suppressed smile or a grimace. Eyes downcast, hair falling over his forehead, he seemed to have already sequestered himself in a world of silence. There was an air of awkwardness, neither of us knowing what to say. After stumbling over a few sentences, I asked, “Okay, do you want to start from the beginning?”

“Okay,” His voice had a soft tenor to it, like the sound of a cello, words brisk. “Um, just saying, I’m sight reading this so it might be bad.” He pulled his chair closer to the sheet music stand, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as he scanned the music.

“Oh, don’t worry. That’s fine,” My words were robotic, an automatic politeness I had been raised to have. At the moment his lack of preparation had seemed almost humorous, but it became more of an indication of his incompetence than anything else.

By the end of rehearsal, I had come to two conclusions about Theo: one, he was a good sight reader and two, he was not “fun,” as my teacher had assumed. He left as quickly as he had come, not a farewell said. Alone outside, I texted my dad to take me back to the comfort of home, not wanting to spend another moment in the snowstorm I’d found myself in. As a commuter, I spent much of my time at home, especially when I couldn’t find a practice room, only meeting the other musicians at lunch.

My opinion of him soured the more and more I got to know him, like a bright red apple that you soon discovered to have a rotten inside. He never smiled or waved at me when I passed by, ruining any of my hopes of becoming friends. Was I just not cool enough for him to acknowledge me? It wasn’t as if he was anything special.

Our first rehearsals with the coach jabbed my confidence down a few more tiers. She was young and friendly, with a pleasant face like that of a bunny’s. But being bit by a bunny was still painful, especially when it happened over and over. It seemed as if she seldom criticized Theo’s lackluster playing, instead turning her remarks to me. I felt a lump grow in my throat; I had practiced so much more than him and yet seemed so much worse. In front of them, my hands grew clumsy, unable to work the volatile keys of the camp pianos.

We were able to perform at the first student recital, albeit extremely under tempo to a humiliating extent— his fault. We were set to perform midway through the program, so I arrived a little time after the program began. As lonesome as the moon on a starless night, I simply stood there and waited for a few minutes. There were announcements upon announcements of the program being changed, people dropping out of the concert, and people wanting to play earlier.

By the time we played my hands felt clammy, even as I tried my best to wipe the sweat that had dried on them on the black cotton of my dress. But I emptied my head of disquiet, filling it with farcical affirmations, mustering all the confidence I had as I walked to the stage. There was an irrevocable lack of chemistry between me and Theo, a distance that had not yet been breached by those ten days of working together. As an ensemble, we were like two separate islands, only connected by the sliver of rope that was our coach. It went well enough, at least on my part, and I felt the flush of satisfaction rise in my face as we walked out, nudging around the corners of my mouth and pushing them up uncontrollably.

He had another performance coming up in a few minutes, evident by the tension held in his face. It was with some other chamber group that he seemed to have a heavy preference for that more than half of his time was likely spent on. As I watched him prepare to walk off, I wanted to fill the silence with something. Even forming words to say to him was a nervous process, fretting over each vowel for fear of sounding annoying or embarrassing, but I chose two words to say.

“Good luck!”

Theo blinked in surprise, eyes widening ever so slightly as he truly looked at me. “Huh? Oh, thank you.” At least that was something.

I had hoped that our ties would strengthen over time, that he would grow to consider me friendly at the least. Once again, his biting sighs and sparse words battered those expectations into tatters. July was approaching now, the summer heat sweltering as the days grew longer. I was to suffer through another week at the music camp, once again stuck with Theo. One positive: I was to move into the camp dorms, and potentially make more friends, instead of wandering around alone.

Theo remained as tightly buttoned up as a suit. Hours would pass before he sent a one-line response to my texts about rehearsal, and the few rehearsals that happened would hardly reach an hour before he darted off to loiter with his friends. So this was how he wasted his time, the business that prevented him from rehearsing. Disappointment sat in my chest, the weight of a dozen stones; what had I even been hoping for?

I have rehearsal with my trio.

Sorry, I can't make it. I have rehearsal with the quintet.

I have orchestra then sorry.

Theo’s messages were hastily and poorly written, almost as if he’d responded at gunpoint. They spoke of many other chamber groups that seemed to have priority on his schedule, pushing my existence into oblivion. This group filled half of my thoughts but was only a blip in his.

With their days occupied by orchestra and other groups, I was left to my own devices. My days were hardly cramped, just hours of practice and masterclasses and with luck, a chamber rehearsal. Occasionally, I would while away the spare time in my dorm, talking with my roommate. Resentment boiled in my stomach, rising so high that I felt sick not doing anything. It was so unfair that he got to participate in all that when he was reluctant to put any effort into any of it, unfair that I had to be stuck with just him and try to make do with that.

Sitting back and watching my time at the camp being wasted was a terrible feeling, gnawing at the corners of my mind every waking moment. My goal had been a solo performance and a chamber performance, ending my time at the camp with sweet success. It seemed as if that was completely out of my reach, but some foolish hope nagged me to do something about it.

I didn’t dare approach him. There was no way to split him from his friends, who were terrifying in the way only such a homogeneous friend group could be. The only person who could coerce him into doing anything was his mom. It was a reckless choice, but I was very well sick of his laziness. Goaded on by my roommate, I mustered up what little courage I had and approached Mrs. Sato, hitching her along. 

“Hey, Mrs. Sato. Theo hasn’t responded to my message in hours and I don’t know when we can rehearse. Can you tell him to reply?” As soon as the words left my mouth, a pang of regret hit me, thousands of possible consequences taking shape in a matter of seconds.

“Oh! Really? I’ll call him right now,” That was not the reaction I’d been hoping for. I watched, throat clenching, as his mom dialed the phone, “Come over right now.”

Shoving the apprehension away, I descended into giggles with my roommate. In a way, humiliating Theo by reporting him to his mom seemed like a well-deserved ramification with all his irresponsibility. Brow furrowed, he trudged over, mouth folding into a tight line when his eyes landed on me.

Choking on my laughter, I asked, “Hey, can you rehearse at one?” He looked as if he were desperate to flee, hands shoved in his pockets as he shuffled back, keeping as much distance as possible.

“Yeah sure, sure,” He flushed, glancing at his mom before returning to his friends.

“Oh my god, that was funny,” Mrs. Sato grinned at me. “You want to add me to the group chat? Yeah, yeah, I’ll make sure he answers.”

The responses flowed in much more steadily now. I found myself grinning at my phone every time I saw that dot of blue indicating a new message. But what had felt like a triumph soon became a useless act. Sure, Theo had to respond, but no one could force him to put effort in during rehearsal. His presence was punctuated by sighs and impatient glances outside, his uninterest clear. By then, whatever rehearsing we did would not be enough for a quality performance.

I don’t think we’re ready.

Okay, in my opinion, we’re not ready to perform.

The texts stung, though they sang a truth that I hadn’t wished to admit to myself. Any hopes were crumbled into a tight paper ball that I discarded in the depths of my mind. It hit even worse when I watched him perform countless times, playing in a diligent way that he had never bothered to try with me. It hadn’t mattered all the work I’d put in. The reality was that nothing had gone to plan, my expectations had been pummeled to dust.

We had worked with each other for two weeks. But there wasn’t even an opportunity for a meager bye, nor a “good job” or anything. He wouldn’t have been willing to say anything to me, either way. There hadn’t been the friendly boy I’d expected, nor the impressive performance that I’d wanted. Once my few friends had been whisked home and I was the only one left, sitting in the pews as the closing gala paraded on, I texted my mom a stream of frenetic messages, ready to finally escape from the birdcage of Mariposa Music School. It felt almost heavenly when her black car pulled into the parking lot. Leaning against the window, I dried my tears on the cuffs of my sleeves, leaving dark splotches cold against my wrists. I took the trio sheet music out of my binder, stuffing it into the back of my bag. Buried, just as anything about that summer would be.