Easy

and saddened to see the full realization of what we’d lost in his familiar green eyes. Standing to go to his seat, he excused himself to edge past my late-arriving neighbor who, for once, had nothing to say about her weekend plans.

    ***
    Freshman year weeded out musicians who’d ruled their high school orchestra, band, or choir without a lot of practice—the ones who came to college believing themselves to be above mundane technical proficiencies like scales and internals, let alone music theory. Most music majors were devoted to perfecting our skills, so we spent hours a week practicing—often hours a day. Nothing was ever perfect enough to risk slacking off.
    I’d come to campus a little spoiled. At home, I’d practiced whenever I wanted to; mom and dad had never limited me, though admittedly, I was reasonable in my practice times. Unable to keep my furniture-sized bass in my dorm room, I had to procure a locker for it in the music building and schedule booth times to play. I quickly learned that evening spots went fast; though the building was open nearly 24/7, I didn’t want to trudge across campus at 2 a.m. to practice.
    Scheduling jazz ensemble rehearsals was even more of a pain. Beginning freshman year, we met two or three times a week. Recently, it had become obvious why Sunday morning studio reservations were easy to get: Sunday was hangover day for much of the student body, and fine arts majors weren’t immune. By halfway through the fall semester, most of us had skipped Sunday morning rehearsal once or twice. What worked freshman year wouldn’t work at all by the time we were juniors.
    Just before the peer recital began on Friday night, I reiterated to one of our horn players why I couldn’t make the hastily assembled last-minute rehearsal on Saturday morning, even though our performance was that evening. “I have a class tomorrow—”
    “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your self-defense class. Fine. If we suck tomorrow night, it’s on you.” Henry was undeniably gifted, as if he’d been born with a saxophone in his long-fingered hands. His pompous attitude backed by genuine skill, he usually intimidated the hell out of all of us. In that moment, though, I was tired of him being an ass.
    “That’s bullshit, Henry.” I glowered at him as he slouched smugly on the other side of Kelly, our pianist, who’d opted to stay out of the argument. “I only missed one rehearsal the entire semester.”
    He shrugged. “But it’s about to be two, isn’t it?”
    Before I could reply, the recital began. I sat back in my seat, gritting my teeth. I was as much of a serious musician as anyone else in our group, but Saturday was the last self-defense class, the culmination of everything we’d learned. It was important.
    Erin was stoked about the one-on-one matches Ralph had planned between each of the class members and either Don or Lucas. “I’ll try to get Don,” she’d promised while she got dressed for work and I got ready for the last mandatory peer recital of the semester. Squinting one eye into the mirror while applying a layer of mascara to the other, she’d teased, “I don’t wanna wreck your boy-toy’s vital parts before you’re done playing with him!”
    I hadn’t heard from Lucas all day, though we were both so busy that I almost didn’t have time to dwell on the absence of communication and what it meant. Almost.
    A year ago, I hadn’t thought I would ever sleep with anyone but Kennedy. He’d been with other girls before me—if nothing else, his experience during my first time made that clear. That fact hadn’t bothered me, much, though we’d never actually spoken about it. Lucas, too, was obviously experienced, though he told me none of those previous girls had been significant. If Kennedy had ever confessed something like that, I’d have been relieved, if not thrilled. Lucas’s encumbered history made his revelation heartbreaking, instead, and I was uncertain what it meant for him, for me, and for us.

    ***
    At the beginning of class, we reviewed every move we’d learned while Ralph circulated the room, giving tips and encouragement. Don and Lucas were absent for the first portion. Ralph wanted us to remain emotionally separated from them, so we wouldn’t feel awkward inflicting violence on them in the last hour. I wondered, though, how many of us wasted precious seconds worrying that we were overreacting—tiny, valuable ticks of time spent not defending ourselves, thinking,