"Okay, this time let's try trading fours on the second verse," Malachi suggests.

God, let's please not.

The protocol for trading fours is to exchange eye contact with another player in the band, in order to pass them the following section of measures to improv; instead, I keep my eyes glued to the piano keys and pray no one notices. There are only five people in our jazz band, but I do manage to go unnoticed a surprising amount of the time through masterfully awkward avoidance.

This semester I am taking a jazz appreciation course, which has been delightful, and I also registered for jazz piano lessons. My piano teacher suggested a few weeks in that I should join Jazz Band Club for additional experience. Somehow, it failed to occur to me that my personality and improvisation don't exactly mesh.

After the events of the past week, including my first escapade drinking and the hand-holding and hug with Joshua, today's practice session has knocked my overinflated confidence back to baseline.

"How's it coming along in here?" Our band instructor, who is a premier jazz musician in the Portland area, barges into the practice room with a spark of energy, carrying a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and swinging a blue lunch box in the other.

"What's good, Professor B?" Henry greets our professor with a smooth smile.

"Let's hear some! What'cha got for me?" Profesor Baldwin solicits. He bites off a large section of his sandwich, causing a slice of lunchmeat to hang precariously in between the limp slices of wheat bread.

Malachi cues us, and we launch into "Take Five," which is my favorite of our repertoire, but unfortunately I find it near impossible to keep up with the chords. I strike at the notes haphazardly, hitting about one per measure and breaking into a thick sweat.

"Slow down, drums!" Baldwin exclaims, shrinking back as if he is being assaulted by the aggressive clang of the cymbals. Forest, a careless boy who drowns his insecurities in impermeable layers of arrogance, refuses to lessen the intensity.

"Hold up!" Our professor cuts us off with an emphatic wave of his hand and turns his attention to Forest. Firm but light-hearted, he commands, "Take it down a notch on the drums, man."

Forest bangs out a run of overproduced drumming in response, ending with a deafening cymbal clash. He is like a child who has just been asked to lower his voice, and instead of complying, impulse leads him to shriek and squawk and blow saliva-slinging raspberries.

"What are you doing?" Baldwin squints his eyes at Forest, and the two end up in a staring contest for a brief moment that shreds up my intestines with nerves, until Forest bows his head in defeat.

"From the top!" our professor calls, unaffected.

As we play, he bounces between the members of the band with spirited feet, offering corrections and encouragement.

"Saxophone solo, take it!" He points to Tommy, whose notes balloon out of his instrument as effortless bubbles, rising, falling, crescendoing deliciously.

"Trumpet, let me hear you!" I notice Rachel's face shade over in red, her tight brown curls bobbing as she blows without hesitation; I'm not certain the combination works, but she blasts out the notes with confidence, sharp and tight.

When it's my turn, I completely freeze up. Improvisation doesn't mean you merely play any combination of notes at random; they have to meld with the key and the general melody of the song. Everyone else seems to understand how to do this, or maybe they have prior music experience that I do not, but to me the technique is a complete mystery. It doesn't help that I am petrified to be playing in front of a famous guitarist.

Professor Baldwin flings his sandwich onto his stained and battered lunch box and approaches the piano with gusto.

"Try again," he coaxes, and although I am thoroughly intimidated by him, it's a relief to hear there is no irritation in his voice. I play a few notes, and I even hit a run that works, before it degenerates again into random, hesitant pecking.

"Yes, there you go! See, you had it for a minute," my professor encourages. I feel like an incompetent child surrounded by experts.

"Improv is all about letting loose, feeling the music and letting go," Professor Baldwin explains.

Awesome, that's my specialty, my brain quips with an internal eye roll.

"Look at Forest here," he continues, gesturing nonplussed towards the drummer I'm less than fond of. "He doesn't give a crap if he's playing too loud or off rhythm; he just goes for it."

Professor B adjusts his beret with a restless flick of the hand and continues: "Look at him! He's going around campus, attending classes in his pajamas—doesn't care what anyone thinks of his style—that's how you have to approach jazz improvisation, too."

My heart rate has slowed to a reasonable pace; I'm now grinning, bemused, at our professor's goofy speech.

"Don't worry about what anyone is thinking of your choice of notes and just feel the music."

* * *

There is a school ball downtown that Friday, and I am split fifty-fifty on my decision to attend or not. I hadn't imagined that colleges would host dances. To be honest, I am secretly hoping I will run into Joshua and he will invite me to play foosball again instead. Playing games with my little crush sounds far more entertaining than the stress of shuttling off campus and attempting to avoid dancing for hours at a dance event.

At lunch, I discover my roommate Krista is planning to attend with Cora, Leyla, Shia and Kamden.

"You know what would be fun?" Kamden asks us, and he gives everyone, including me, a mischievous dance of the eyes.

"What?" responds Shia, sitting up straight as if she senses the adventure in his tone.

"We could do a little pre-game before the dance in my room. I have a leftover bottle of vodka from last weekend." I must be staring at him as I process my internal thoughts, because he catches my eye and winks at me with a sweet half-smile. My thoughts flash to when Cora mentioned the potential chemistry between us, and I blush.

The girls giggle in agreement with Kamden's plan, and despite my intrigue over the idea of joining in their adventure, my gut reaction is to skip the event tonight. I'm just not feeling it.

As I put my tray away near the cafeteria exit, I hear Kam's low voice ask, "You're joining us tonight, right Nati?" He places his tray on the stack and remains standing close to me.

"Um, I'm not sure yet," I say, suddenly feeling so shy. There have been moments in the past few weeks in which I almost think I have shaken free from the chains of my childhood personality. In certain situations and conversations, however, I slip right back into my familiar insecurities.

"You should come. It'll be fun." He smiles at me, and I love the moment of energy between us, but I am also dying to flee from the stifling awkwardness.

Once outside, I say goodbye to my friends before heading to meet my history professor for office hours. Each student is required to attend a conference with him this week in order to review our outlines and thesis statements for our current essay.

I enter the meeting with Professor Ezzo confident about the work I have completed in planning my essay. Writing is my version of jazz, in which I am able to trust my instincts and let the notes—or words—flow freely from my soul. The combination of ideas meld together like magic, and sometimes vocabulary terms I hardly even know the meaning of fly onto the page in the perfect context as I type without conscious thought.

"Let's see what you have so far," my professor says as I settle into the chair opposite him. He has unique and striking features—arched eyebrows, eyes like crushed green sea glass and bright lips in the form of a permanent sneer.

I introduce the topic for my essay and explain the premise for my thesis statement. Professor Ezzo blinks at me, unimpressed. In a rather condescending tone, he rephrases my thesis in an overly simplistic manner.

"I believe you're going to have to go a bit deeper than that, in order to flush out an entire essay," he informs me. In my head, I already have the essay mapped out, and there are several directions in which I will expound upon the information based on my nuanced thesis.

I know I won't be able to articulate my plan to him orally in this moment, so I don't waste my breath.

"Yes, I have some ideas," I reply simply.

It's clear to me that Professor Ezzo lacks confidence in my ability to turn what I have presented today into a quality piece of work. Even though I have never scored less than an A or A- on a piece of writing in school, and I'm dying to trust my instincts, his patronizing tone still cuts into me.

* * *

"You're coming to pre-game with us, right?" Krista asks me when she returns to the room that evening, wrapped in a towel after her shower.

"Um, I'm not sure yet. I don't really feel like going to the dance."

I've typed up my entire history essay in one sitting, and I've already submitted it on Canvas.

"Then don't go to the dance. But you should still do some shots with us." She smiles mischievously at me. "Then maybe you'll feel like going to the dance."

I doubt it, but what the hell? Recalling Kamden's wink and personal invitation to me after lunch this afternoon, I decide there is nothing to lose. I have yet to see Joshua since we went jogging the other day and shared a surprising, awkward hug in the middle of the nature trail.

Upon arriving to Kamden's dorm with Krista, I'm immediately uncomfortable because I'm the only one not dressed up, and it's packed with people I don't know.

"You made it!" Kamden puts his hand on my arm as if he is genuinely pleased to see me, and I feel special for approximately thirty seconds, until I notice him touching and leaning towards every other girl in the exact same manner.

A guy I don't know pours me a shot of vodka, and I am very grateful that this situation is not my initiation into taking shots. As I tip my head back and allow the burning liquid to slide into my throat, a flash of loving appreciation sears through my heart as I realize what a fun and comfortable experience Isla fostered for me last weekend during Ethan's birthday; she looked out for me and ensured that I felt safe while trying alcohol for the first time.

"Nati." Cora snaps me from my reverie. "Do you want to borrow a dress from me?"

I glance down at my jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt, once again feeling embarrassed.

"Oh," I stutter. "Thanks—it's okay, I'm not going to the dance."

"Why not?" she inquires.

I shrug my shoulders, my face going red.

"I don't really know how to dance."

"There's not so much a technique to it," she replies, smiling with kind eyes. "You just kind of feel the beat and improvise."

I press a smile into my lips, thinking back to Professor Baldwin's speech earlier today during band practice.

"I'm not so great at improvising," I mutter, laughing at myself. I already have a slight buzz from the single shot I took, and it's a pleasant sensation.

"Once you have a few more shots in you, you won't have any trouble," snickers Krista, who has already knocked back several.

"Trouble with what?" breaks in Kamden, putting his arm around me and Cora as he butts into the middle of the conversation. Great, I love being the center of attention.

"Dancing," responds Cora. "Nati is shy to go to the dance."

"You just need more alcohol," Kamden declares loudly, despite the fact that he has his arm wrapped around me. "Hey, Henry! Give my beautiful friend here another shot."

My stomach jumps at his selection of adjective, and when I look over to the new guy pouring shots, I discover it's Henry from my jazz band. He has straight, silky blond hair down to his waist and a perpetually cool demeanor. It's strange to see him with a bottle of vodka in his hands instead of his electric guitar.

"Natalia," he greets, handing me my second shot with a subdued smile.

"Thanks." I throw it back and attempt not to choke on the disgusting flavor. This brand is even worse than last weekend's. Henry stays standing in front of me rather than walking away, and I immediately want to hide from him, recalling my embarrassing attempts at solo improv this afternoon.

"How long have you been playing piano?" he asks me. The alcohol is kicking in, and the awkwardness I felt just seconds ago is dissipating beautifully into the chaos of the overcrowded dorm room.

"About eight years," I reply. "But only classical. This is my first time with jazz."

Henry nods, a small smile hanging on his lips.

"In case it wasn't obvious," I add, bursting out in light giggles.

"Most of us in the band are amateurs with jazz, too," he responds kindly. "I played one semester of jazz band my senior year in high school, but that's about it."

"I'm probably going to quit the band," I say, sensing I'm not quite following the flow of the conversation, but at least I'm still on topic.

"Really, why?"

"Because I suck," I laugh. "It's too hard for me."

"Well, if you really hate it, I understand. But consider sticking it out. It'll get easier, and it's just for fun anyway. I assure you that you aren't any worse than anyone else in the group."

His words are so matter-of-fact, so genuine, and all the shame that has been accumulating inside my body over the jazz band solos these past weeks instantly disintegrates. Now that I have admitted to struggling, it no longer seems like such an unbearable burden.

"Hey, thanks for the pep talk!" I say, suddenly bright and uninhibited. "It was actually quite helpful. I no longer care that I suck."

He smiles with clear amusement sparkling in his eyes. "I'm sure the shots didn't hurt, either. Another one?"

"Sure, why not?"

I return to my friends after drinking back my third shot, and Cora's eyes brighten when she sees me.

"There you are! Loosened up yet? How many do you have in you so far?" Her tone, volume and pronunciation clue me in that she has ingested as many shots, if not more, than I have.

"Just three," I answer, giggling.

"She's ready for dancing lessons!" Cora exclaims. "Kamden!"

I panic when I realize what is happening. Kamden takes my hands and pulls me gently, but I dig my feet into the floor and refuse to step towards him.

"Uh..." he mutters, looking at me with curious eyebrows.

"I can't, sorry!" I squeak, shaking my head. "Too much pressure, everyone's watching."

He's still holding my hands, and his facial expression softens, melting into a sweet smile as he squeezes my hand, interlacing my fingers with his for a moment.

"I get it," he says in a low, comforting tone. I stare into his eyes, emboldened by the alcohol being pumped through my body by a nervous, pounding heart. We let go of each other as my cell phone vibrates in my back pocket.

It's Isla: Hey chica! We decided to go to the dance after all. Ethan talked us into it! Come with us!

I make eye contact with Cora, biting my lip to hold in the cackling laughter that seems to want to burst out for unknown reasons.

"Yeah, can I borrow your clothes?"