The Handpan Girl

By ShaNelle Jlassi

Seventeen-year-old Nora is the perfect student—so much so that she is called to the principal’s office on the first day of her senior year and ordered to find an extracurricular activity and have fun. On her drive home, as she reaches for her latte coming through the Starbucks drive-through window, something extracurricular reaches for her. The music is so unexpected and ethereal that Nora has to find the source. It is nineteen-year-old free spirit Del, and she is even more enchanting than the music.
As Nora learns to play, she falls in love with the handpan, and Del. When Del collapses during a performance, Nora learns of her terminal diagnosis. Del has no insurance and no money for care. Nora resolves to make any sacrifice and slay any dragon to take care of the woman she loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ShaNelle Jlassi
• Release date: Sep 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005698102

ShaNelle Jlassi

After struggling in school, ShaNelle found her place and herself in the pages of books. Not content with the volume of works representing the LGBTQ+ community by people of color, she searched for and found her own voice.ShaNelle spends her time on three continents writing, painting, creating digital art, and practicing the handpan in her spare time.In her first novel, The Handpan Girl, ShaNelle tells the compelling tale of exotic, handpan-playing Del and straight-laced Nora. The story reads like an inspiring ballad set to the enchanting music of the mysterious instrument.

Book preview

THE HANDPAN GIRL

A Contemporary Hero’s Tale

ShaNelle Jlassi

Copyright © 2022 ShaNelle Jlassi All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Cover design: The Author

Dedication

To the 130 million girls being denied the basic human right to an education.

May the heroes of this world rise to rescue you all.

CONTENTS

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

EPILOGUE

THANK YOU!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

It was the first day of her senior year, and Nora had already been called to the principal’s office. She hadn’t been in trouble since kindergarten, and she still got upset when she thought about that travesty of justice. Bobby Drews peed his pants; why shouldn’t she stand up and tell everyone? The puddle was getting close to her desk, and her Hannah Montana shoes would have to go in the trash if Bobby’s pee got on them. There hadn’t been even a whiff of trouble since then. She was the perfect student. At least that’s what people said, and Nora had to agree—they were right. It wasn’t her fault if Bobby was still a social outcast twelve years later.

As she sat across the desk from Principal DuPree—she still thought of him as Señor Da Puss. He had been the Spanish teacher for years and was such a wet noodle that the name had stuck. He even answered to it once. That student deserved to go to the principal’s office. But Nora had no idea why she found herself there on the first day of what was supposed to be the best year of her school career, and one of the best of her life.

Nora, Principal DuPree said, then paused, probably trying to gather his courage to confront the seventeen-year-old girl who sat across from him.

Yes, Señ… sir, Nora said, catching herself before blurting out the derogatory nickname.

Several of your teachers have come to me with a serious concern about you.

Several, Mr. DuPree? Can I ask which ones?

All of them.

Oh.

Yes, all of them. And, of course, I remember you well as a student of mine in first- and second-year Spanish. You were a wonderful student, but even then, I had my concerns. ¿Entiendes?

No, sir. I don’t understand.

Nora, as I’ve said, you are a wonderful student. But there is such a thing as being too academically focused…

Nora started to interrupt, but Principal DuPree, in a rare case of stiffening his noodle, abruptly held up his hand to stop her.

He continued, Even teachers who have not had you in their class, the staff, and other students have made the same complai… he thought better of his choice of words, observation. Your quest for achievement and drive for scholastic success have to be tempered by other interests.

Mr. DuPree, I want to excel so I can make the world a better place.

For whom? he asked.

For everyone, Nora said.

Everyone is comprised of one and one and one, and that includes you, Nora. Don’t lose sight of the individual. Don’t lose sight of yourself. It’s your senior year; have fun. That’s an order.

Have fun, sir?

Find an extra-curricular activity, demanded Principal DuPree, with a firmness and finality that belied his nickname, and made Nora question whether he deserved it.

Later, as Nora waited in line at the Starbucks drive-through, Mr. DuPree’s words burrowed through her mind like an earworm. ‘Don’t lose sight of the individual,’ he said. ‘Have fun,’ he said. She had been striving for twelve years because she believed she could change the world, part of it at least. How could one ‘individual’ be more important than the countless people who would be helped by a better system, one that she helped change? And what did ‘fun’ have to do with anything? Everyone said they wanted to change the world, but she was driven and focused enough to do it. The barista extended his arm out the window, Nora’s latte in his hand. Then the unexpected happened. As she reached for the cup, something extra-curricular reached for her.

She had eased her foot off the brake, then stopped suddenly, almost being rear-ended as she tried to identify the seductive sound that emanated from the interior of the coffee shop.

What is that music? Nora called through the open window. Do you know the name of the group?

It’s not a group, it’s a girl. She’s playing right now, the barista answered before being rudely prodded back to work by the driver behind Nora laying on his horn.

Nora drove around the shop, parked, and went inside. She sat at the only open table. It was further from the stage than she preferred, but she was glad to get a seat. The music, the instrument, and the woman playing were new to Nora, and she was fascinated by all three.

The ethereal sound conjured images of a bazaar in Marrakesh, under a desert sky, instead of a Starbucks in an Atlanta suburb. Nora had never seen the instrument before; it belonged in Marrakesh too. And the woman, where did she belong? Surely not here, Nora thought. Nora had never ogled anyone before, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman as she swayed and played, eyes closed, a million miles away in an alternate universe, lost in the music.

Nora too lost herself, closing her eyes and allowing the music to carry her away. It was a novel experience; she was always focused on the next to-do on her way to reaching whatever goal she was pursuing. She was brought back by the buzz of her cellphone. Her mom was texting. The music had stopped; the woman was putting away her instrument. Nora wanted to talk to her, but hesitated; she was nervous, but that made little sense. Why should she be? She would figure that out later. Her mom had given up on texting and was calling instead.

Hey Mom, I’m on my way home, she said, keeping her eyes on the mysterious woman as she did. Nora didn’t want her to get away before she had a chance to talk to her. Mom, please, I’m doing something. It’s important. I’ll be home soon. Nora ended the call. She might face a little backlash for being so short with her mom, but she’d deal with that later. Her mom treated her like a delinquent, which wasn’t fair when you considered that she was a perfect student, so much so that she had gotten into trouble for being too perfect.

The woman had packed up her instrument and was out the door before Nora caught up to her.

Hi, Nora blurted out.

The woman stopped and faced Nora. She wore a peaceful expression, like someone who had just finished a meditation retreat, or was on drugs. She slowly looked Nora up and down, then her eyes found Nora’s and held her gaze.

I heard you play, Nora said.

The woman remained silent.

I was wondering what kind of instrument that is.

The woman’s aura of serenity wrapped itself around Nora like a warm blanket. Nora’s habitual state was a high-octane drive to achieve, resulting in restless energy when something slowed her down. This woman slowed her down, but Nora’s restlessness succumbed to the woman’s calming energy.

Handpan, she finally said, but didn’t offer more.

I’ve never seen one before. The music is… I don’t know. It touched me.

Nora couldn’t continue. Her emotions were so close to the surface she was afraid they would bubble over, and she would start crying or something, which wasn’t like her. The woman didn’t move, and Nora couldn’t.

I want to learn how to play it. I have to, Nora said, finally trusting herself to keep her emotions in check.

That brought a smile to the woman’s face, a face that radiated peace and love, two emotions Nora rarely experienced and didn’t realize were important to a happy life.

You have to? the woman asked, the corners of her mouth turning up even more.

My principal said I’m too focused on academics. I have to have an extracurricular activity to graduate—which is ridiculous—I have a 4.0 GPA. I’m number one in my class.

The radiant smile spread even further across the woman’s face, making Nora think she was being laughed at but didn’t know why. Now that the music had stopped, and the two were standing outside, Nora expected the feeling of being swept away to subside, but it didn’t. The woman, with her dreadlocks, her delicate frame, her mocha skin, Dalai Lama-like blissful expression, was not only continuing to hold Nora’s attention, but the attraction was growing stronger by the second. Nora felt a magnetic pull, like someone was turning up the dial on an electromagnet. She was being drawn in ever closer, held ever tighter.

"Why do you have to learn the handpan?"

Nora smiled. It was dawning on her that it must have sounded strange saying she had to learn the handpan.

I’ve never heard anything like it. I’m not usually into music, but I felt something.

The conversation made Nora nervous. She didn’t talk about her feelings with anyone, much less a stranger. She waited for a response, embarrassed for talking too much.

Music from the handpan is healing, especially to the one playing, the woman said.

I didn’t know music could heal, Nora said.

You don’t know something until you learn it.

Nora regretted that her skepticism had come through in her voice and the woman had picked up on it.

How is it healing? she asked, trying to put her doubt aside so she could learn something new.

Every handpan is tuned to three different frequencies—most instruments only have two. Those frequencies influence the frequencies of a person’s body and mind.

Is that why I felt something when you were playing?

Maybe not the only reason.

Nora sensed a deeper meaning in the woman’s words, but she put it aside for the moment. And it’s even more when you’re the one playing? she asked.

When you play, you hear the music, but you also feel the vibrations through your contact with the instrument, the woman said.

I want that, Nora said.

Do you want me to teach you?

Yes.

Nora wanted to relive the experience of being touched by the music, and if she learned to play, she could carry herself away whenever she wanted, without having to depend on anyone else. She placed little credibility in the healing power of music, but she couldn’t deny she felt something.

I have to go home now. My stepdad made supper, and my mom gets all bent out of shape if I’m late.

I wouldn’t want that to happen, the woman said, still smiling.

Nora wondered again at the woman’s smile. It was as if she was mocking Nora, but Nora couldn’t imagine she had done anything, ever, worthy of being mocked.

What’s your name? Can I call you? asked Nora.

I’ll be here Saturday.

What time?

I don’t know, maybe one, the woman said.

Then, before Nora could ask any more questions, the woman leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips, just a peck, but it left Nora speechless.

You can call me Del. She turned to go, her instrument slung across her shoulder like a backpack. Don’t worry if I’m late, she said as she walked away.

As she watched Del go, Nora remained speechless, a rare occurrence for the young woman whose only trouble in twelve years of school was for being too good a student, except for the unfortunate incident with Bobby’s pee.

CHAPTER 2

Like everyone else, Nora had encountered distractions before, but unlike most people, when she did, her drive and focus caused her to excel even more. The result was that in the few days since setting her eyes on the handpan for the first time and hearing the mesmerizing music coming from it at the hands of the intriguing Del, Nora had completed every assignment of the heavy course load from her advanced classes. She had even worked ahead, ensuring her senior year would be the perfect finale of her stellar high school career. And that was just the first step on her determined journey to change the world.

She hadn’t lied to Principal DuPree when she said she wanted to help people. She wanted to help by changing a broken and unfair system, a system that provided services as fundamental as healthcare and education based on socioeconomic standing. It was an inarguable fact that students in poor neighborhoods received a poorer education than students in wealthy neighborhoods, and poor people received poorer healthcare than wealthy people. Those things had to be changed, and Nora intended to change them. She had already outlined every major term paper she had to complete to graduate at the top of her class one last time. She was ahead of the game, right on track, and no instrument, or woman, was going to change that, no matter how distracting.

But, being transfixed by the ethereal music of the handpan, and the mysterious woman who played it, she had also listened to many hours of handpan music and had become quite the expert on the instrument and its history, as much of an expert as one could become through YouTube that is.

The handpan, or hang, as the inventors referred to it, was first developed around the year 2000, by two steelpan makers. They soon had more demand than they could supply, so they required their customers to send hand-written letters. Of those, a few were chosen to travel to Switzerland at their own expense to learn about the instrument and make the purchase. Considering the trouble and expense involved, Nora couldn’t help wondering where Del had acquired her instrument, and how she had learned to play it. One thing Nora wasn’t wondering about was that learning to play the unusual instrument was going to be the extracurricular activity her principal was demanding, and she was going to knock everyone’s socks off when she did.

Saturday, during the short drive to Starbucks and her much-anticipated second encounter with the handpan and Del, Nora finally allowed herself to think about something other than the instrument and learning to play it. The kiss had once or twice tried to worm its way into Nora’s thoughts during her very active week of academic endeavors. The handpan had become an academic pursuit for Nora. Since her principal had required it, Nora now considered the extra-curricular activity part of her curriculum, so not extra-curricular, but curricular. She didn’t dwell on the fact that she was missing the point of her principal’s concerns. Now that she was going to meet Del again, she decided it was a good time to consider whether the unconventional goodbye gesture meant anything.

Considering that Del was playing an instrument Nora had never seen or heard before, an unconventional gesture made perfect sense. Then there was Del’s appearance. Nora couldn’t think of a good modern word to describe her. Del looked like a flower child from the sixties. Except Nora wasn’t sure if long dreadlocks were common during that era. But that’s how Del wore her hair, in long dark dreadlocks. Nora had always wondered how people with dreadlocks washed their hair. She’d have to google it. Del’s clothes were also from a different era, or possibly just a different place. Many of the handpan artists Nora had seen on YouTube looked like Del—the dreads, the clothes, the tattoos—and most of those handpan musicians were from Europe, or maybe from the US, but had ended up in Europe, like a gap year that had turned into a lifestyle choice. So, all in all, the kiss was probably nothing other than a spontaneous act by a truly free spirit, which was what Nora thought Del was, something Nora couldn’t imagine being herself.

When Nora arrived, there was an old man, probably her dad’s age, playing acoustic guitar, badly, singing Marty Robbins gunfighter ballads. As bad as his playing was, his singing was even worse. Her dad would love this shit, and she almost sent him a text telling