A Symphony of Nevers

By Lia Strum

He was every mothers worst nightmare, a storm cloud of doubt and fire, threatening to obliterate everything in his wake. She lived a life of 100 percentcharged battery power and perfectly elliptical lies. It was unlikely, but then all things are unlikely.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Mar 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482806670

Lia Strum

Lia Strum has aspired to be a writer from a young age. She draws inspiration from her family and the world around her. She wishes to communicate meaningfully with her readers through her novels and promote literacy in developing countries.

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Copyright © 2015 by Lia Strum.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4828-0668-7

                eBook         978-1-4828-0667-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Contents

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Hunter

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Hunter

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Nora

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Hunter

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Hunter

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Hunter

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Hunter

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Julian

Hunter

Cassia

Scarlett

Cassia

Julian

Hunter

Cassia

Hunter

Scarlett

Julian

Mikayla

Hunter

Cassia

Hunter

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Hunter

Scarlett

Hunter

Scarlett

Penn

Scarlett

Hunter

Mikayla

Cassia

Scarlett

Hunter

Scarlett

Julian

Scarlett

Nora

Scarlett

Julian

To Mum and Dad who believed.

He was every mother’s worst nightmare, a storm cloud of doubt and fire, threatening to obliterate everything in his wake.

She lived a life of 100 percent charged battery power and perfectly elliptical lies.

It was unlikely, but then again, all things are unlikely.

Scarlett

Dinner is uneventful, as always.

My father chatters on about his day at work, occasionally being interrupted by my mother, who is supplying advice on how best to deal with an unruly employee or some uneven monetary figures.

My brother is in his own little world, the world of Messi and sports stars.

In the seldom event we do try to include him in conversation, he blabbers on unintelligently about nonsense, as little boys are prone to do.

Sometimes, we are interrupted by the loud thud of our tabby cat landing on the roof, signifying that she is home and expecting dinner upon arrival through her cat flap.

Sometimes, we are treated to a call from our neighbor, Dr Silvermann, who is yet again complaining about some fantastical and whimsical belief that we are trying to poison his Terrapins, when really it’s the Glens, who are on the other side of him.

And sometimes, my older brother calls from college, complaining about the injustice of the cafeteria servings.

But usually we sit in perpetual silence, waiting for our release.

Julian

I wake up wishing I hadn’t. Today is the big day. I’ve been dreading it for months. I roll out of bed with a few unconvincing arguments that today won’t be so bad. I slip into a pair of black jeans and a Metallica tee. By the time I’ve brushed my hair through with my fingers (and attempted to flatten my unruly curls), everyone is already downstairs. Rizzi is standing by the door with three suitcases piled at her feet. My sister and I share a complexion: pale skin, black curly hair, and dark eyes. Our similarities end there. Rizzi is loud, outgoing, and has a ton of admirers and friends. She’s three years my senior. Today, she is going to college on the other side of the planet. I can’t even begin to tell how much I’ll miss her. She sticks up for me. She’s the only thing between my dad and his black leather belt.

We sit in the car in complete silence. Rizzi is drumming her fingers on her knee. No one makes any effort to strike up a conversation. Usually, that’s Rizzi’s job. Without her, I’m not sure what my family is going to do. Let me explain. I don’t talk. I’m not unable to. I just choose not to. It’s been like that for eighteen years, and I’m not about to change it now. People usually write me off as an angst-ridden teenage boy clad in black, which is fine by me, as long as they don’t talk to me. We’ve moved around so much that I’ve never had the chance to make friends. The longest I’ve ever stayed in one place is for two years. Pathetic, yeah? But people usually get the picture that they should stay away from me within a week. I don’t get bullied much, partly because I’m bigger and tougher looking than the rest of the yobs I’ve been to school with, and partly because no one would dare to take a swipe at Miranda Baker’s little brother. I know that we’ll be staying in Winterton now that Rizzi is at college. We moved for her sake. She’s kind of a big deal actress in a few sitcoms. My parents, of course, just adore her. They don’t care much for their depressed, mute son.

The airport is crowded and loud. Rizzi falls into step next to me, just behind our parents. I’ll miss you, Jules, she whispers. She’s the only person on the planet that gets away with calling me that, and the only one I actually speak to, for that matter. Most people call me by Lian (as in Liam with an n instead of a m) or Jay (okay, so this one doesn’t really make sense, because I don’t have a y in my first name, but estranged relatives don’t seem to realize this) for short. I just shrug. Aw, don’t be mad, she pleads.

I sigh. I’m not. She and I have the same mixed accent. It works for her, I suppose, but on me, it just makes me sound like a confused tourist. We walk in silence until we arrive at her boarding gate. She gives me a bear hug and whispers in my ear, I’ll call you every week.

It’s an empty promise. I know Rizzi. She’ll never remember, but I smile.

Ok. I can see my parents behind us, straining to hear me speak.

Bye little bro, she tells me, pulling away from me. Her eyes are glinting with unshed tears.

Bye, Riz. Knock them dead. She grins and waves towards Mom and Dad. Bye, they chorus. My mom issued all her last minute instructions regarding vitamins, sunscreen, and other rubbish yesterday. She waves, and I watch the skinny figure of my sister disappear.

Scarlett

Saturdays are my least favorite day of the week. I have math and English classes today. Not because I’m stupid, it’s quite the reverse. My mother just likes me to do them for extension. I cuss as I crawl out of bed. My long, blonde hair is a knotty mess down my back, and my gray eyes have unattractive shadows beneath them from a lack of sleep. Just great. I open my closet to find my brother neatly squashed in between piles of clothiers. Boo! he yells. I suppose I used to react with surprise, but I’m used to it now. Ryder! Get the hell out of my cupboard! I screech. I heard you swear! I heard you swear! he exclaims with glee, no doubt planning to report my slip to Mom. I roll my eyes and shoo him out. Ryder is ten next year, and one would think he would’ve grown up enough not to play stupid pranks on me. One would think. I pull on a red tee and some denim jeans. I tackle my hair next, wincing and cursing as the knots come undone. I pull it back into a ponytail. Breakfast time. I’m so in sync with the routine that I do it unconsciously: dress, hair, food, teeth, and then car. Every day is the same.

The drive to the college is long. My only amusement is my homework, which I always leave for this occasion. Today, it’s calculus, which is super boring, but I tackle it all studiously in fear of the wrath of the math teacher, Mr. Matsson. He’s positively mental, with a large mustache and beady blue eyes. We arrive with mere seconds to spare. I take my seat and prepare for the worst. Sure enough, Trevor Mankell plops down next to me. I’ve known him since I was eleven years old, so I guess that makes him my best friend. His blue eyes gleam and his red hair is shiny with grease. He gives me a dorky smile. He’s senile. He is convinced that I secretly have a deep down crush on him. It must be very, very deep indeed, seeing as I’m not aware of it myself, but I suppose I wouldn’t mind half as much if he didn’t have these romantic feelings towards my big brother as well. Trevor is rather confused. He has carroty freckles and the lanky build of a boy who spends way too much time on his gaming console.

I fear for the human race.

I spend the lesson zoning out and trying not to squirm under Trevor’s gaze. By the time the bell rings, I’m long gone, and before poor freckly Trevor can even plague me for the next digit of my number again, I’m in the car.

Sunday blurs into Monday. I wake up early and pull on jeans, a purple shirt, and trainers. I leave my hair down. It’s so long that I could twist it through my belt loops if I desired. On Mondays, I wake up a half hour earlier than normal to evade Ryder and fit in a jog to school. I’ve run ever since I can remember, it’s how I deal with life. It’s my escape out of my head. There’s nothing scarier than being alone with one’s thoughts. When I run, I can block out everything. I tie my hair into a pony and race down the stairs. I grab some toast and scribble a note to my mom to explain my absence, and I’m off. I don’t bother to stretch or warm up too much, as the morning is relatively warm. I start off on the familiar road to school. I’ve slung my backpack on and it’s bobbing regularly on my shoulders. Its beat offsets my heart’s and combined with the pulse of blood in my ears, I’ve no need for music. I try to match my footfalls with my heart. I’m running at near full speed, the thump of my feet adding to the rhythm. I could go on forever.

I near the school gates too soon. They’re closed, as no one else is here so early. I end up climbing them, scratching my knee on the top. I drop over the other side like a gymnast and head towards a bathroom to freshen up. The halls are familiar, and I feel as though I could take them blindfolded. This is my senior year. My heart aches. Yes, I hate school. I hate the people and hustle and bustle of the corridors. I hate the cliques, but I love the security of my life as a student here. I know exactly where I fit in. I understand the pecking order. I know who I can trust and who I can’t. I will miss that when I leave for college. Perhaps I’ll go to the one Hunter, my older brother, goes to.

As I predicted, I have copious amounts of time to read and triple check my homework. Meagan Jones arrives next. I’ve always envied her looks. She has gorgeous black hair and rosy cheeks. Her eyes are like an interesting version of mine: brighter, bigger, and darker. Boys and girls love her alike, which is highly unfair if you ask me. Then again, she’s also a complete moron who basically lives life from one party to the next. She sashays past me with her nose in the air. I roll my eyes as more and more students begin to file in. The person I speak to here on a regular basis is Chesney Bay. She’s quiet, like me. I suppose we would be friends if she wasn’t attached at the hip to Mia Maine. Mrs. Wallow waltzes in as the bell rings, and hell begins. I no longer need to pay attention in class, as I’m a good three semesters ahead of the syllabus, which definitely has its perks. I hear the words new boy as I begin to lose myself in a daydream and immediately snap back to attention. Mr. Julian Baker will be joining us tomorrow morning, and I would like to point out that he is, um… shy. She says the last word as though it’s an inadequate substitute for what she really means. Anyway, I’ve assigned Scarlett as his buddy for the first few days, she says, gazing down at me. I open my mouth to object, but she’s already speaking again. I think this will be good for you, Scarlett, as you sit alone in all your lessons. There are numerous snickers from the back row, which is where all the doofuses sit. I nod mutely and raise my hand. Yes? So this Julian, he’s in all my classes? I demand. Mrs. Wallow nods. I’m dumbfounded. I’m the only pupil in the whole twelfth grade that’s in every AP class. He must be smart. This concerns me slightly, but my delight is slightly greater. Finally, a challenger for the throne. So far, I’ve topped the grade with no trouble. Even Ever Alcott has never caught up, and as for Danny Kessler, who’s considered a genius among the boys of my grade, well, I hardly even register him as a threat. But this Julian Baker sure sounds interesting.

Julian

I take a long shower as I wake up. Our new house is certainly very luxurious, with all its adjourning bathrooms and carpeted walls, which Rizzi just adored, not that she got very long to enjoy them. I shut off the water reluctantly, pull on some clothing, and am confronted with my dear parents in the kitchen. I raise a curious eyebrow at them, as they look like they’ve been waiting for me. Sit, my father commands. I obey. Your father and I have decided that you’ll be finishing school here, my mother continues. I’ve been expecting this. Without Rizzi, there’s no need to live in a suitcase. So, um, get settled, he finishes awkwardly as it becomes evident I’ve got nothing to add. It’s called St Agnes High, my mother calls out over her shoulder as she retreats into the living room. My father is standing opposite me uncomfortably. You start tomorrow, he says, his left temple pulsing. That’s a telltale sign I’m about to be lectured. I nod and push out of the front door before he can stop me. Freedom. I’m greeted by a warm, but breezy, day. We came here for the weekend just before we moved from Italy (where Rizzi had scored a modeling and acting contract. Needless to say, thanks to my big sis, we’re loaded.) I’m only slightly familiar with the streets, thanks to my eidetic memory, and I pick one that I’m sure leads to the bakery. I jog there slowly. Running never ceases to clear my head. I make it within twenty minutes after having tried to memorize some interesting looking places on the way. I grab a doughnut and, with mild difficulty, locate a stationary shop. I’m familiar with the whole new school stuff drill, having completed it almost every year since I was born. I pick out a new school backpack too. I leave the shops with a lighter wallet and two heavy plastic bags. Whenever we come to a new country, I tend to alter myself, just slightly, to firmly repress the memories of my previous home. It’s never successful.

I try to prolong my outing for as long as possible by buying a cheap street map and memorizing it. I close it up and pop it in my back pocket. I decide to take a little look at my school. It’s a long walk from the mall that I’m in. I reach it almost an hour later. It’s a grey building that, in more ways than one, resembles a prison. It’s an hour till the end of a regular school day, so I figure I’m safe to snoop. My spying around today will make tomorrow easier. I locate a swimming pool by accident, and then find the art room, which is what I was aiming for. Drawing is the one thing I’ve always had. I can always count on it. St. Agnes has an impressive studio. I find the gallery for my grade, and as it’s the first day of second semester, it’s half full. I always try to figure out as much as possible about all the kids in my grade by looking at their art. One cannot lie in art, so I know that I’m getting the very essence of everyone. There’s a wolf done in charcoal by a boy called Danny, who seems to be pretty moody. A pixie thing by a girl called Ever. A pretentious self-portrait by someone called Meagan, and a sickening amount of bad replicas by a number of other girls. I guess I’ve stumbled upon the notorious popular clique. After all, every school has them. They’ve plagued me through sixteen different countries in my lifetime. They are truly inescapable. Just as I’ve lost all hope about any of my peers, I stumble across an oil painting by a girl called Scarlett Morris. It’s of a small boy with spiky blonde hair who’s grinning his heart out. It’s very good. Underneath, she’s written a short caption: Ryder is my little brother, he means the world to me. Finally, someone who isn’t a mindless sheep in this school. I continue down the gallery, but nothing holds my attention like Scarlett Morris’s painting did. In fact, at the end, I’m stifling a few laughs, particularly at a sketch by Dixon Maxwell. I assume he was trying to draw a bird in flight, but when I say tried, I mean failed miserably. It loosely resembles some form of mutant giraffe. I take it as a sign to leave. I continue down the red bricked corridors until I come to an exit. I try my best to memorize the route home. The neighborhood seems nice enough, with many gardens and poncy houses. Thousands of dogs welcome me to my own street. Rose-way Avenue, number 72. We’ve only lived here a few weeks. I push the front door open and trip up