Dad always said la Virgencita y Todos los Santos blessed me with talent for music. Not because he plopped me in front of a piano before my first birthday (according to Dad) or I wouldn’t sleep without my guitar stuffed toy (according to Mom). Or that they took me to every summer concert in Poughkeepsie every year. Nevermind the yearly Christmas Eve party, where most of the night would be spent playing with anyone who showed up. Dad had nothing to do with my musical talent. It was divine intervention, according to him. Sure, okay.

  At age seven, Dad taught me to write music. “You’re a composer, baby! Like Mozart, but better,” he said when I first showed him my notebooks full of scribbled notes. The blatant liar. No one can ever be better than Mozart. But sometimes, when I was lost in the music, I almost believed him.

  Music was a part of me. It was a constant radio station in my head. It changed with moods or situations, but it was always there. Divine intervention or not, everyone knew Julia Vazquez came with a musical instrument and an inclination for artistic liberties.

  It was Friday, and my last class of the day was art. High note, low note, tip tap, tippity tap—I absentmindedly tapped pencils on my desk while Mr. Allen, the middle-aged man who attempted to teach a bunch of high schoolers the importance of their artistic inner eye, drew some lines in a grid on the green chalkboard. The clock on top of the chalkboard was close to the half hour. Five more minutes.

  “... perspective grids should help guide the—” Mr. Allen’s voice trailed off as I kept tapping. The cadence of the chalk against the board made me change the taps ever so slightly. Tip tap, tippity tap — “Julia, am I interrupting you?”

  I looked up to find half the classroom staring at me. “Not at all. Please continue.” The class laughed; Mr. Allen did not. He paused before resuming his monologue about invisible lines converging somewhere on a page.

  River Frost, the teacher assistant who usually painted during my art class, always wore oversized headphones over bleached blond hair and long sleeve overalls that had been smudged with every color combination imaginable. Usually, they were lost in their own world. Today, I caught them staring. They smiled; I smiled back.

  I looked at the clock again. Two more minutes. The sound of the tuba echoed through the hallways, a low rumble that I patiently waited every Friday. My heart raced as I bolted out of art class, guitar case slung across my back. Mr. Allen’s voice trailed behind me. “Julia, I’m not—” But I was already gone.

  Students leaned out of classrooms, craning their necks to catch sight of us. Alex Moreno, my musical partner in crime, waited for me near the lockers, his drumsticks in hand and his guitar in the back. “You ready?” he asked, grinning widely.

  “Always,” I replied, adjusting my guitar strap.

  We started with a simple rhythm—Alex tapping on a locker while I strummed a few chords. The band kids joined in one by one: trumpets blaring, flutes weaving melodies, and percussionists banging on desks they dragged into the hallway. The music grew louder, filling every corner of the school with sound.

  The hallway erupted into a symphony: the sharp clang of locker doors, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, and the growing swell of instruments joining our impromptu band. Some danced in the hallways; others sang snippets of lyrics they made up on the spot. Teachers tried to maintain order but eventually gave up, watching with resigned smiles as we passed by.

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  I had started this parade months ago to break up the monotony of school life. Music was how I spoke to the world, my way of telling everyone, "Hi, I'm Julia. Let's be friends. Make some noise!" Watching my classmates laugh and dance to rhythms I created felt like magic — music wasn’t just in my head anymore. It was our weekly reminder that we were more than grades and assignments; we were a community. For me, it was everything.

  As we reached the main hallway, I climbed onto a bench near the lockers, using it as my makeshift stage. From there, I could see everything: a plethora of students cheering; Mr. Allen peeking out from his classroom door who I swore was smiling; even the security guards, who had long since stopped trying to shut us down. Principal Hernandez stood with his arms crossed, a faint smile that did not extend to his frown. That was bad news; I'm sure I'll hear from my parents about it.

  The bell rang just as we finished our last song. Students scattered to their lockers, still humming bits of our melody under their breath. Alex turned to me. “Another successful Friday.” Indeed, bestie, and we had rocked it.

  In the adrenaline rush, I had forgotten my backpack. So once the crowd died down, I strapped my guitar case on my back and trudged back to art class alone.

  River was back in their usual spot—lost in thought over a massive canvas that looked like Paris dipped in wild colors: oranges clashing with yellows, blues sneaking through greens like they were crashing a party. I tapped a rhythm on the table, leftover from the earlier taps Mr. Allen had throughly enjoyed so much.

  “What’s that?” River’s voice came from the corner.

  “What?”

  They mimicked my taps. “That.”

  “Oh... Habit?”

  River took off their headphones and rolled towards me with their sketchbook in hand. “Would you model for me? Just tap on the table.”

  “Right now?”

  They nodded enthusiastically. “Julia, right? Mr. Allen swears when he sees your name on the class attendance list.”

  Fair assessment of our teacher-student dynamic. “Yeah. River, right?”

  They nodded, rolling their stool my way with their sketchbook in hand. I tapped twice, while I stared at the perspective diagram I was supposed to mimic for art homework. I should have paid more attention, but really, I found it useless. I understood the need for math. It actually was very close to music, if you paid enough attention. With music, you divide, add, and subtract sounds. But art… “Why would I need to know perspective drawing in life?” I huffed. If someone could prove me wrong, it was River.

  “Do you want to be an architect?” they asked, eyes tracking my taps and their brush strokes in their notebook.

  “No.”

  “Industrial Designer?”

  I shook my head, a smile tugging at my lips. "'Nope."

  “Engineering?”

  “No.”

  River looked up. “Then it's absolutely useless.” A playful smile on their lips. They were now mixing some colors together while I kept tapping away. “I do like Mr. Allen, don’t give him an existential crisis.” River rolled away and came back with a paint knife, masterfully grabbing paint from the bulbs on their palette and putting them in the sketchbook. I took a quick look: faint scribbles that looked like a hand, and on top, layers of bright purples and pinks. It was interesting, if a little mundane, for such beautiful work.

  I stopped tapping, going back to my homework, doing a big, dramatic sigh. “Well, I have to go figure out these… lines. Imagine how lame to not graduate because of art?”

  “It’ll go viral.”

  “I might get famous.”

  “That’s what you want to be famous for?”

  “Dumber things have happened?” I said, and River chuckled.

  “If you keep struggling with perspective,” River said with a grin, “let me know. Thanks for the taps.” They rolled back to their usual spot. “Oh, and... great concert today.” And with that, they put their headphones back, got back to their painting and I walked out the door.

  River Frost, with their oversized noise cancelling headphones, had heard the loud mess we made outside. Hell, yeah. Mission accomplished. Fridays were always my favorite. Today, I made Dad proud. “Music connects us, baby,” he’d say once a month, at least, “And you’re the best musician I’d ever known.”

  I loved my father, of course. But I didn’t think I was that special. I was just another brown girl from Upstate who loved music. While other people thought in words or images, I thought in sounds. And while Dad kept his music tied to our living room, I wanted to play it everywhere, anywhere. I wanted my community to join me wherever. Because that’s all I wanted to do: play music with my friends.