“Did you bring your form?”

“No.”

“Sarah, it was due last week!”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Vogel, I’ll write it on my hand.”

My orchestra conductor watches half in exasperation, half in amusement as Sarah adds another reminder to the back of her left hand.  Or rather, her left wrist.  Her hand is already blue with the smeared ink of several other reminders.  An epidermal to-do list.  Among the homework assignments and phone numbers, the message “Bring form!” appears to have already been written there, just below her knuckles.  She adds a few extra exclamation points to the new note on her wrist, just to be safe.

To an outside observer, it must be hard to believe that this rather scatter-brained seventeen-year-old is, in fact, one of the most gifted violinists my high school has ever known.  Concertmaster since her freshman year, pride of the music department, Sarah can play Bach’s infamously difficult Chaconne, but can’t seem to remember to turn in a permission slip for, of all things, an orchestra trip.  This forgetfulness is easily forgotten, however, in the light of her musical talent.

During class, Mr. Vogel usually seats underclassmen with upperclassmen, just to help pull them along, even if they won’t actually play together during the concert.  As a lowly sophomore and one of the few underclassmen first violins, I found myself seated next to Sarah, and often feeling a bit overwhelmed.  I’m no prodigy, but I can play well enough.  Sitting next to a prodigy, however, can make anyone feel like a complete beginner.  To hear Sarah sight read Dvorak, a task that makes most string players start whimpering within the first six measures, is enough to make most student musicians wonder just where exactly they’d been going wrong all these years, and why they were still bothering to practice at all.

Sarah caps her pen, picks up her bow, and looks expectantly at Mr. Vogel who, with a slight shrug, gives the downbeat.
 

The next day, I walk to my orchestra class as I always do, calmly unaware of everything going on around me, my mind on what I’ll have for lunch.  My thoughts are suddenly interrupted and my path blocked, however, by a rather panicked-looking girl holding a cake of violin rosin in her ink-stained hand.

“Can I borrow your pants?”

It takes me a moment to register what Sarah has just said.  “My what?”

“Your pants, can I borrow them?  Just for this class period.”

I look down at my black corduroys, then back up at her wide eyes.  Not knowing what else to say, I try, “Okay?”

“Great!”  Sarah grabs my hand and pulls me into the nearest girls’ room.  A girl fixing her eyeliner in the mirror looks up in surprise as Sarah enters the bathroom at a dash, me at a stumble.  After setting her rosin on the edge of one of the sinks, Sarah starts undressing and explaining.

“I’m supposed to play in a quartet for some guests of the school during this class period.  Vogel wants us in all black.”

“And you wore…”

“Jeans and a red T-shirt.”  She appears to have already swapped shirts with someone, but her faded jeans are resolutely unblack.  “Quick,” she cries, motioning frantically for me to remove my own pants, “I haven’t even tuned yet!”

I kick off my boots and take off my pants.  Sarah, a bit taller than me, pulls them on quickly and just manages to button them.  A little too much sock shows, but it’s close enough.  I pull on her jeans, rolling up the cuffs a bit to keep from tripping.  The girl with the eyeliner watches us in the mirror with a confused expression on her face, the liner still only halfway to her eye.

Sarah slips back into her shoes and runs out the door, calling a hurried “thanks!” over her shoulder.  After a few seconds, the door bursts open again.  I wordlessly hand her forgotten rosin cake to her.

“Did you bring your form?”

“No, but I’ll write it on my hand.”

If Mr. Vogel knows about yesterday’s clothing switch-off, he’s not saying anything.  Sarah played her performance, and we both met up in the bathroom to return each other’s pants.  Today, there is no need to swap clothing, but the permission slip is still MIA.  Next to me, Sarah is rummaging in her bag, checking all the pockets for the pen she’s mislaid.  It’s a strange feeling, being simultaneously awed by someone’s musical gift and amazed by their persistent forgetfulness.  It doesn’t seem at all unusual when an average high school student forgets a homework assignment, but it’s somehow harder to believe that someone with a talent worthy of Julliard could forget her own concert.  Who would have thought that such a person is a regular teenager?  I’m just contemplating this new revelation when Sarah resurfaces.

“Can I borrow a pen?”

I smile and reach for my bag.