Page 30 of Scars Like Wings

They made quick work mixing up the drink. Their speed made me wonder if they were a witch or something. It wouldn’t surprise me. Witches tended to work in the service industry since they could easily use their magic and blame it on a sleight of hand for more tips.

I reached for my phone attached to a wristlet to pay, but they stopped me with a bejeweled, manicured hand. “You’re with Nat-Nat, right?”

“Uh, I mean, kinda?” I shrugged. “But I can pay for my drink! At least let me send you a tip!”

“No, ma’am. This family is overpaying me for this event,andwe get to keep tips. I think I can let a few drinks slide for free. Plus, pretty girls shouldn’t have to pay for drinks.”

I shook my head. “The drink, fine. But let me at least tip you for being so sweet and beautiful. And for telling me where you got those earrings!”

The bartender sent their head back, cackling. “Deal, honey!”

I sent them money, and they sent me a link to their earrings that I would definitely be drunk-buying later. They waved as I left.

I made my way through the crowd to reach the second level. I finally found the DJ booth behind the railing overlooking the formal living room. A skinny white guy manned it, doing typical DJ things like jumping with only one headphone over his ear. People danced near his stand, but the railing was surprisinglybare and empty. I stepped up to the bit furthest from the booth and looked down below.

It was a literalseaof people downstairs. They danced, forming waves crashing against the walls. Somehow, I was still able to spot Simone’s dark green waves as she danced with Cole, her smile brilliant. Maisie was harder to find, but I did find her against the wall with Cody because, well, of course. I smiled at them both. After the shit those two had been through this past month, they truly deserved to let loose. Seeing them happy made me happy. I genuinely wished for them to have the best night they could.

Okay, this was starting to get sad. I had to find some fun, or I might start crying.

I sighed, considering my options. I definitely wasn’t going back downstairs to be jostled by the crowd and feel embarrassed again. Plus, up here, I realized it was cooler and the air fresher. My nose wasn’t inundated with perfumes, cigarette smoke, patchouli, sweat, and a thin undercurrent of body odor that I had tried to ignore downstairs. Was there anything to do up here aside from acting like a groupie with the DJ who definitely didn’t know how to talk to women?

Well, this is a mansion, so therehadto be something.

I pushed away from the railing. The hallway seemed to stretch ahead forever, and there had to be at least ten doors. I didn’t try any of the closed ones, not wanting to come off as a rude guest. Instead, I found the first open door that wasn’t an insanely fancy guest bathroom—the last door at the end of the hall.

Flipping the lights on revealed an orchestra room. It was like an indoor amphitheater. Three levels led down to a stage with microphones and spotlights suspended from above. An aisle led down to the stage with music stands and chairs. On either side of it were instruments on stands or in cases on tables. The smaller,lighter instruments were on the first level close to the door, and the size and weight of the rest grew as you got closer to the stage below. The collection of instruments was as diverse as it was impressive. It was a variety rivaling even Everlore University’s inventory. There was so muchpossibilityhere.

Marveling at the space, one particular instrument on the second level caught my eye. I stepped down the stairs and went straight to it. It was a black cello, glossy and stunning.

Gods, when was the last time I had played?I had taken some orchestra classes in college and joined a community orchestra while I was studying my masters. I had even done a Christmas performance and briefly done some gigs in a string quartet. But I stopped because it just felt… like I didn’t belong? It felt like everyone else wanted their place more than me, who was just doing this as a hobby instead of as a lifelong passion. I never wrote music. I just wanted to play to flex the muscle.

Staring at the gorgeous cello, I had an overwhelming urge to play for the first time in two years. My fingers twitched to feel the strings underneath them, take hold of the cello’s neck, feel her vibrations, and drag the bow across her strings. I looked back up toward the door. Was it rude to play someone’s instrument at a house party? Would they mind? I mean, the door was wide open. If they didn’t want someone here, they would have locked it, right?

Fuck it. What was it that Maisie always says? It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Quickly, I downed my drink and sat the empty cup down. Then I grabbed the bow and cello to make my way to the stage. I sat down on a chair close to the stage’s edge, leaning the cello against me. I placed the bow against her strings. I put my fingers in the proper place along the neck of the cello.

I took a deep breath.

I exhaled long and slow.

I closed my eyes.

And I played.

As the room filled with the notes of the song, I realized I had forgotten howbeautifulit was. It had been so many years since I had playedthissong. It was old yet new, haunting yet optimistic, soft and delicate yet powerful and profound. I could feel my closed eyes tearing up with emotion.

One of my first memories was a random Saturday morning when I was about three or four. I was running around the house when I found Mom’s violin in her office. To this very day, I still remember the smooth gloss of the deep redwood, the black strings, the brilliance that exuded confidence. It was so pretty my tiny hands couldn’t resist reaching out to touch it?—

“Would you like to play it, baby Byrd?”

I turned. Mom stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. The French doors were fully open. Her afro curls were pineappled on top of her head, her face bare of the makeup she usually wore during the workweek. Her skin still shined with more radiance than any highlighter could produce. Cherry-red nails and her obsidian pendant stood out against her peachy-pink silk nightgown with a matching silk robe. She looked like a black Hollywood starlet.

“Yes!” I answered, nodding my head enough to shake my ponytails into my face.

Mom’s smile widened. She entered the room and bent to grab the violin. She sat in the rocking chair in the corner to the left of the door. I scooted close to the front, mindful of the rocking chair’s legs.

“This is a violin, and it is a string instrument. My mother bought me my first one when I was a little older than you are now. She preferred the piano and her mother liked the harp, so we can see if you like the violin or the harp or the piano or something else entirely when we go get your instrument.