Title: Dischord

Summary: Drawing, dance, music; see, move, hear. The three main forms of art. But who knew that a simple "I miss you" could be more melodic, more pleasing than Beethoven's 5th Symphony?

What does it mean to sing?

What is the difference between music and talking?

…Or is there none?

This story will explore the answers to these questions and others relating thereof. Unfortunately, even the author is often incapable of delving to a certain extent, due to lack of experience and shortage of time. Don't expect too much, just sit back, relax, and calmly scroll down. Let's begin with some background information first.

This particular memoir will revolve around not one hero, but two normal, average individuals. They are not stunningly attractive, nor capable of some out-of-this-world superhero capability. Let's just settle for the "normal, average" description as previously stated.

The former individual mentioned is a tall girl about fourteen years old, not really a preteen, but not exactly in the sweet fifteen/sixteen's yet. Physical appearances consist of black hair, black eyes, small mouth, and a rosy but nevertheless clear complexion. Also, as mentioned above, her height is slightly above average. Weight? Dangerously teetering towards the plump side due to that stubborn flab on her stomach that refuses to go away. Not quite pretty, but not hideous either. The kind that you feel comfortable looking at but will never feel the urge to get a second glance.

Coffee makes her sleepy, and she's addicted to playing minesweeper on the computer. Straight A student, student council treasurer, and junior varsity tennis player.

She has a good number of acquaintances that she says hi to at school, some friends to play tennis with over the holidays, and a few people that will stay up with her all night just to bash the people just mentioned.

The boy belongs in neither of these three categories.

He's not that great either, with his dark brown hair and light brown eyes. Unlike her however, he has a larger mouth, with bigger eyes to match it. Apparently he wasn't as lucky in the skin department, so the very top edges of his forehead was sprinkled with a few hints of acne. But his face is an expressive one, and malleable to many different purposes. When he frowns, his lips disappear behind his mouth, and when he smiles, his left cheek seem to crinkle up around one particular corner, making him look like a giddy five-year-old who just stole from the cookie jar.

Eminem makes him wish that he could rap, and the Galveston beach is his second home. All AP classes, student council president, and varsity soccer player.

He isn't really sure if he likes soccer or not, but that's where he gets most of his friends and he's pretty good at it, so he thinks what the heck.

But in the beginning, she didn't know how adorable his dimple looked, and he had no idea that she enjoyed analyzing the people around her.

A distance of a thousand miles prevented things like that.

& C natural &

The biennialChopin competition was coming up; unfortunately, for Melanie Katherine Gray it only occurred half as many times. Every two years they would alternate with the adults and junior division, so just like how an ice skater waits eagerly for the winter Olympics, I fidgeted with the edge of my passport as I watched the richer passengers walk towards the boarding gate.

"Maybe we should've bought a first class ticket," I muttered half-aloud.

"And waste two hundred more dollars each?" Connie laughed and added, "I could buy a new laptop with that much money."

The man in between Connie and Melanie frowned and shifted in his seat to face the latter. "What your mother is trying to say is that the first class tickets didn't have three seats next to one another. And besides, economy boards only ten minutes later. In the meantime," he took out his Blackberry, "Up for some solitaire? Or you can read the results of the Spurs game if you want."

I sighed and stood up. "How about a few quarters to buy some chips instead?" The request was readily obliged, and my American Eagle jacket jingled with change as I walked towards the vending machine.

A Sunkist and an article on the latest update of the presidential campaign later(Clinton trails behind as Obama wins another super delegate), 2:50 came around, and we were ready for takeoff. I turned off my cell phone, set my iPod to my favorite Mozart symphony, and promptly fell asleep before the airplane safety procedures video ended.

& E natural &

The biennial Chopin competition was coming up; fortunately, for Edmond Herbert Chang it only occurred half as many times. Every two years they would alternate with the adults and the junior division, so just like how a president dreads the end of his term, I forced myself to sign my name along the bottom of the paper that would end my freedom.

Hoping that socks would muffle the sound of my footsteps across the smooth oaken floor, I slid my way to the back door, envelope in hand. But before my fingers could touch the doorknob, it was jerked back by a sudden sound behind me.

My mom had dropped her pot. It clattered on the ground, an ominous sound to my ears.

"I hope that's not a registration form in your hands." Oh shit. I raked a hand through my hair and leaned against the doorframe.

"You're not the only one; I wish it wasn't for some stupid piano performance, too. You don't know how many times I wished that staring could magically turn it into a Jingle Jam concert ticket."

In a matter of seconds I found myself rubbing a newly sore spot on the side of my head and staring at a pair of furiously glinting glasses. I laughed and moved her fist away from my face. "Oh come on, you know I was just joking."

She didn't answer, choosing instead to rub her temples meditatively. "Just go."

I obediently shoved my feet in my sneakers and dashed out the door.

& G natural &

"I dunno Dad, this doesn't look much like a post office to me." I stared at the sign above me proudly proclaiming 'Oakwood Library' while rubbing my hands together to keep warm.

Said Dad looked at the Yahoo! Map in his hand, the sign, then back at the map again. "But this is the right address and everything," he said puzzled, "maybe they're just in the same building."

"Well we'd better hurry up; Connie's sure to get antsy if we aren't back at the hotel by 8. And it is now," I glanced at my watch, "7:37. We're going have to race back if we're not done in five minutes, and you know how hard it was to get a taxi on the way here."

"So you won't make it." I whirled around to witness a boy a few years older than me, tossing a white envelope high up in the air and catching it before it could touch the ground.

"Excuse me?" I took the iPod earphones out and stuffed them in my jacket, "what did you say?"

He repeated slowly, "I said 'you won't make it.' You can't drive back to the Marriot in less than hour from here. With luck, you might make it by 8:30." He smirked, "But I doubt that'll happen." With that said, he began walking away as if washing his hands of the affair.

Dad stood there, trying to swallow this sudden intake of information for a moment, before regaining his senses and hollered "Wait!"

The boy stopped.

We ran up to him, and my dad held out his hand. "George."

"Eddie." They shook hands.

"So Eddie," my dad began, "you seem to know this city pretty well."

"I'm Houston born and raised, sir," Eddie replied cheerfully. "Been living here all my life."

"Then do you think you could show us where the post office is? We have to mail a letter to Chicago."

"Already missing home?" Eddie grinned, eliciting a laugh out of my dad. "It's right across the street. In fact," he held out his own envelope, "I'm going over there right now. If you don't mind, I can walk with you over there."

My dad nodded, and we were soon on our way. In a matter of minutes, I was literally shoved aside as they quickly became engaged in a furious debate over the outcome of the upcoming basketball game.

"I'm sorry George, but the Spurs simply do not have a chance." Eddie shrugged and patted my dad's shoulder with mock sympathy.

My dad shook his arm off and retorted, "You sure about that?"

Eddie began to tick off the reasons with his fingers. "The Lakers are up in the series right now, 3-1. Secondly, San Antonio's team is getting pretty old; a good half of them are up in the 35 & up category. And lastly," he grinned a smile that reached from ear to ear, "Two words."

"Kobe Bryant," he and my dad finished simultaneously, laughing and giving each other high-fives.

"Well I got to give it to you, Eddie," my dad admitted, "you do know your basketball. On a school team by any chance?"

"Nah," Eddie replied and reddened, "I didn't make it."

"Oh," My dad's face fell. "Well, do you do anything else in your free time?"

Eddie pointed to his letterman jacket, "Actually, I play some soccer."

At this point I couldn't hold it in any longer and blurted, "Play some soccer? That's a varsity jacket you're wearing!" Upon seeing his eyes on me, I colored and retreated back into silence.

Amazingly, he wasn't annoyed at my sudden outburst and just replied offhandedly, "Yeah, I guess I do okay."

Oblivious to the heat rising in my face, dear old dad replied, "I can't believe I didn't notice that; I must be blind these days." He stared thoughtfully at the dark blue material, "You know, my daughter has one of these, too, except it's for orch-"

"Dad!" I'd never felt more embarrassed in my life. "Let's not talk about that," I hissed. Who would want other people to know that their daughter was in the dork-estra? Especially when the latter person was already confirmed as a varsity-playing jock, I mentally added.

Both males seemed to be unaware of the emotional turmoil raging inside me however, and chose to continue the topic with, what at least what seemed to me, sadistic glee. I wanted to sink into the concrete beneath our feet.

"Nonsense, what's wrong with you being in the orchestra? It's a wonderful hobby."

"Orchestra?" Eddie said, bemused. "What instrument do you play?" He directed the last question towards me with what was probably just a friendly glance of curiosity. I on the other hand chose to interpret it as a shrewd and calculating glare.

I gulped. "Violin," I managed to get out weakly, before clearing my throat and repeating clearly, "I play the violin."

"Really? I have a couple of friends who do also. How long?"

"Uh, what?" My ears were burning so fiercely that I was amazed I could hear anything at all with the blood pounding against the walls of my head.

Eddie smiled and repeated his question, "How long have you been playing the violin?"

"Eleven years," I managed to stammer.

He raised his eyebrows. "Eleven years?! You must be amazing then if you've been playing since you were what, three?" He laughed. "I'm not sure if I could even read the alphabet when I was three, much less decipher sheet music."

Now I really wanted to die. "I guess I'm all right," I squeaked, my voice unusually raspy and high. How far was this post office again…?

"That's my Charlie, always the modest one. She's concert master," my dad boasted proudly.

"Da-ad," I jabbed him in the ribs sharply and whispered, "I bet he has no idea what that is anyway."

"What is what?" Eddie asked innocently. "Is there something that our dear first violin does not know?" My dad looked at me pointedly.

"Apparently he does, so you had nothing to worry about," my dad affirmed confidently.

"Man all this whispering is making me feel left out," Eddie declaredly loudly and grinned. "Lucky we're at the post office, so I should be able to acquire some company that doesn't underestimate my knowledge of the arts." He grinned at me boyishly. I blushed in response; it felt like all I could do today was turn pink. Where did my composure go? My dignity?

He and my dad dropped their letters into the metal box, white and green respectively.

With that task completed, Eddie said a cheerful goodbye to us and smiled at me again before turning left in the fork of the road, whistling all the way. My stomach responded with a little wave of its own.

And I wonder where my unshakeable, serene demeanor went…

Ha, it must've followed the sound coming out of his mouth, all the way into the fluffy white piles of cotton above our heads.

I ignored Dad's cheerful ramble of "what a nice kid", "can you believe how lucky we found him" and even a few bursts of "reminds me of when I was young" in favor of some silent praying that I would never see that stupid orchestra-knowledgeable jock again.

God's reply came in three days.

Approbation is appreciated, flames are forgiven, constructive criticism is coveted, and reviewers are revered.