Exasperated, I threw the basketball at the wall again. And again. And again.

"Done yet?" Phiona asked.

I flopped onto the dusty basement floor, and the cold bit at my fingers like jaws. The basketball was a good outlet for quelling my frustration, drawing out the chaos that had saturated my being into perspiration. "For now. Thanks for letting me use your basement."

It reminded me of a gynasium's storage room. Faint light filtered through the patched up windows to illuminate the space beside the laundry machines. A prop-up basketball net, a crate of sports equipment, a couple jerseys, and a few rolled up banners of what I assumed were achievements.

"I keep them for old times' sake," Phiona explained, following my gaze. "There's newer things in my life that I'm happier about. Music, woodworking....right now, discovering myself is more relevant to me. But I can't part with them yet. Sometimes my nieces and nephews come over in the summer, and other times I take them out because I miss that part of me. You can say it's like reconciling with something I should still be proud of. You can put the basketball over there. Let's go back up."

Phiona disappeared up the steps. The excitement from the Hidden Stars concert a week ago had vanished. When Monty sent me an article featuring my performance, I'd thought it was a magical breakthrough. But aside from a fair contract and music-generated income, my dash of luck didn't cumulate into something bigger.

Since then I'd avoided Monty's texts. It felt unfair to feel frustrated when he seemed happy for me. Or maybe this wave of pessimism was a result of Shield. Before, it simplified other's opinions into an indifferent baseline, so I didn't worry about their beliefs bleeding into my reality. But I couldn't help but wonder if Shield was the part of me I felt ashamed of, the part of me that learned to deny my own feelings and hide them in a place where no one could question their validity.

I returned the ball to the milk crate. Covered in a thin layer of dust, and with light filtering through the plastic-covered windows lining the ceiling, the basement reminded me of gym class at school. Like it preserved memories that refused to let me grow up.

--

Back in the sound-proofed studio, I flipped to a blank page in my spiral notebook and hummed the guitar melody that we'd worked on for the past hour. There were a few problems with the way I constructed my music. Phiona was the first person to really point out specific strengths and weaknesses, giving names to my gut instincts when I felt something was right or off.

"You're at a good place, skill set wise," Phiona started. "You have texture in your melody. You know how to manipulate the music to different energy levels too. Now you need to match that to the lyrics you're actually writing."

"Lyrics are the devil for me," I groaned.

She spun her laptop to face me. On the screen was an annotated image of the Three-Act-Structure. I recognized the zigzag mountain diagram from English class. Phiona had typed her own notes, referring to music theory. "Your music is dynamic, but you're repeating the same narrative. Like here, in the second verse. You've dropped out the drums, which is good because that creates tension and anticipation for the listener. But the actual lyrics aren't too different from the first verse. Nothing's changing. It's a quick way to lose your listener, just like you would in a story if nothing happens."

"Okay. I'll try to do that."

"You can do that. Sometimes you need to take all the wrong paths to find the right one. Your old music and other ones from this year are like night and day. I like the free-form verses you're going with now. Letting go of the basic song structure people preach gives you the chance to explore something that's more worthwhile. And overall, your songs do have narrative--your album is about moving into Toronto. It's good."

I already knew this. I didn't think she knew she repeated things, but it was cool to seriously discuss the art of music with someone who knew their stuff. Our age difference helped; I got along better with teacher figures than those my own age. Ironically we spoke the same language.

I listened to her segway into music theory and composition. It made the task of scribbling lyrics and adjusting my melody on the music sheets more manageable--for me to avoid. When we'd lapsed into comfortable silence, I realized too late that I'd forgotten the rule of reciprocation. When you talked about your own music, or when people complimented your music, you were expected to do the same to them. But Phiona's soca/rap blend was completely out of my expertise. I didn't want to be a sciolist--AKA someone who pretended to understand the conversation, but really didn't.

"It's called legato, and it is important," I protested, pointing to the musical notation. Propping my guitar on my knee, I demonstrated with my fingers. Strumming the steel strings brought out a joy in me I couldn't describe. "If you break it up the notes it sounds choppy, but slurring it together--"

"You're a smartass, I get it! Nevermind. I'll figure it out myself," my classmate snapped.

"But you're the one who wanted to talk about Shawn Mendas' songs," I said, disappointed.

He rolled his eyes and ignored me. The air grew heavy, almost solid. I was breathing bricks. People who didn't think I could hear them whispered theories about why the vocational-program kid was so stupid. Yesterday it was why I was so much smarter than them.

Maybe it was because I was Asian. Maybe it was because I didn't talk with anyone. It was the first time that I really understood that with enough spite, any characteristic you had could be honed into a weapon to be used against you. It made me wonder how arbitrary social rules like small talk could ever be"polite." It didn't feel polite to me.

"That looks like a good melody," said Phiona, craning her neck to see my work.

My pencil made graphite dashes of rain on the paper. "You hadn't heard it yet."

"No, I said it looked good. It's like autumn leaves—lots of red, some green, and blue for the sky." At my confused stare, she tucked her neck in like a turtle and waved her hand. "I keep forgetting. I have synthesia, so things like the days of the week, letters and music notes have very specific colours. Like the colour pattern of your melody! The letters of your name are a russet brown, rose gold, and cream shade."

I could see how that influenced her colourful album designs.

"Let me give you some advice," she suggested. She rested her arms on her legs and clasped her hands casually. "Perspective is important, and out of perspective comes your vision for your music. For example, I reference colours in my music, but it's a lot more than that. It's about tradition and preserving the good memories despite all the losses. That's what I learned in life at least," she said with a wry smile. "What do you really want to do with your music?"

The dreaded "What is your music about?" question. It was so innate to me that I couldn't articulate something so important to me without talking for ages and losing my own direction. I shrugged, shifting on the couch. Ideas zipped around with the speed of light. "I have old dioramas at home which help me visualize my songs. But they're so different from each other. My music changes with my moods, and that fluctuates a lot," I said carefully, my words walking on eggshells.

She crossed her arms and sighed. "You're uncertain about your music. It's written all over your body language. But if you're working with me, I'm assuming it's because this is really what you want to do. How about this?" she asked, leaning forward. "Write the song for someone you care for. Can be positive, or negative, or anything." She paused. "Am I being helpful or am I wasting our time? Being helpful is my job, so I want to make sure I'm doing it right."

I bounced my knee, shifting on the couch. "I'm not sure what would help. It's not that I don't have ideas, but...." Remembering my talk with Nora, I looked up to Phiona. "My music is to me like your sports equipment is to you. I can't separate what others say from what I feel about my own creativity. How do you deal with being different? And not being accepted even for who you are?"

"You find the people who'll accept you," she replied matter-of-factly. "Until then, you better accept yourself, because sometimes you are your best friend. You can never feel loved without loving yourself first."

I opened my mouth to protest. Of course I accepted myself as who I was...!

But a fond smile played on Phiona's lips, and I wondered who she was thinking of. As if she read my mind, she turned the laptop in my direction. The wallpaper was a picture of her and a kid caked in pink and purple dust, grinning at the camera. "I'm thinking of my nephew. He's coming over this winter break. The family gathering isn't going to be all sunshine and rainbows, but overall, being honest to them about who I am has opened up so many more chances to bond than just shutting them out. Hiding is a lot more suffocating than risking to bare yourself to the world," she said seriously. "Hiding is hard. Impossible, even. I can't change my trans identity and you can't change who you are. That's the reality."

"Is that why you make music?" I asked. Lyrics from her song floated to my mind. 'I ask you to welcome us with open arms / 'Cause kindness costs nothing, and love can't harm.'

"What, to spread the message? In a sense, yeah. Music gives your words a life that's harder to sweep under the rug. But for me, it's a reminder to always advocate for myself. To communicate. Oppression exists, but so do ears that will listen, and when you find the right people, it's magical."

She fixed her hair, letting her curtain of curls fall behind her back. She got up and opened the studio door. The stress piling up in the room exhaled, relieved to escape through the door.

"Take my advice and brainstorm," she said. "Writing the song for someone else can help you figure out what you want to do yourself. After the winter break though, we really need to get the ball rolling. If deadlines help."

My head spun with this onslaught of information. I kept my eyes glued to the crinkled paper with smeared graphite marks, and I scribbled down a reminder so I wouldn't forget.

Phiona raised a lot of perceptive questions. I had to look at myself critically. Above all else, I sang for myself. To fill the gap between who I thought I was and who other people perceived me to be.

But this song didn't feel like it was for either version of me. Who should I sing for, then? Who would listen, and what did I want to tell them? 

It's amazing and slightly horrifying how many drafts this chapter, and - I have no doubt - so many more - went through/will go through.