Page 3 of Behind the Bars

That’s when I saw the boy who played themusic.

I’d always say I saw him first, but he’d argue that was alie.

Technically I didn’t see him at first—Ifelthim, felt his music crawl along my skin. The chords and bars of his saxophone sent chills down my spine. It sounded magical, the way the notes danced through the air, so hauntinglybeautiful.

I turned on my heels to see a skinny boy standing on the corner of Frenchmen and Chartres. He was young, maybe my age, maybe a bit younger, with thin-framed glasses sitting on his face. He held a saxophone in his grip and he played as if he’d die if the music wasn’t perfect. Lucky for him, it was more thanperfect.

I’d never heard anything like it. I got emotional listening to the sounds he was crafting, and I couldn’t help being on the verge oftears.

How had he learned to play that way? How could someone so young possess so much talent? I’d been surrounded by musicians my whole life, but I’d never witnessed anything likethis.

He played as if he were bleeding out into the streets of New Orleans. He left nothing on the table and gave his music his all. In that moment, I realized I never gave anything my all—not like him, not likethat.

People started surrounding him on the street, tossing change into his open instrument case. They took out their cell phones to record his sounds. It was an experience to watch him stand on that corner. His confidence was high, and his fingers danced across the keys as if he had no fear offailure.

Failure was probably not a part of hisvocabulary.

His music was beautiful, and kind of painful, too. I hadn’t had a clue that something could be painfully beautiful until thatevening.

Once he stopped playing, it was interesting what happened: the confidence he’d exuded completely melted away. His once strong stance dissolved as his shoulders slumped over. People complemented him on his music, and he struggled to make eyecontact.

“That was amazing,” a woman toldhim.

“Th-th-thank you,” he replied, rubbing his hands together before packing his instrument away. The moment I heard his shaky voice, I realized who hewas.

Elliott.

I knew him—well, knew of him. He went to my school and was extremely shy. He was nothing like the boy who’d just played the music. It was almost as if he had two distinct personalities—the powerful musician and the bulliedteenager.

The two looked nothingalike.

I stepped forward, wanting to speak, but I was uncertain what to say. As my lips parted, and I searched my mind for words, nothing came to me. He deserved something, a compliment, a smile, a touch of congratulations—anything—but I couldn’t even get him to look myway.

He wouldn’t look anyone’sway.

“Jasmine,” Mama called, breaking my stare away from Elliott. “Will you come onalready?”

I glanced over my shoulder one last time, feeling a knot forming in my gut before hurrying over to Mama. “Coming.”

After my studio session, we got on another bus to head home. On the way, Mama told me everything I’d done wrong. She informed me of all my missteps and mistakes repeatedly as she cooked dinner. Then, we sat at the dining room table with the food untouched because we wouldn’t eat until Ray washome.

Of course, he was late, because Ray never knew how to leave the studio on time, so Mama’s temper grew, and she took it out on me. She never took it out on Ray, and I never understood why. Everything he did wrong was taken out onme.

I didn’t resent him, though. If anything, I was thankful Ray chose to love Mama, because it meant I was able to love him. He was a safe haven of sorts. When he wasn’t around, Mama was dark, lonely, empty, and mean. When Ray walked into a room, her eyes litup.

“I’m late,” Ray said, walking into the house with a cigarette hanging from his lips. It was half smoked, and he put it out in the ashtray by the front door. I hated the smell of cigarettes, so he always did his best not to smoke in the house. Mama said he was a grown man and could smoke anywhere he pleased, but Ray wasn’t a jerk likethat.

He loved me enough to respect mywishes.

“You’re not late,” Mama told him. “I just cooked too early, that’sall.”

“Because I said I would be earlier,” he said with asmirk.

Ray was always smiling, and it made everyone around him smile, too. He was the kind of man who looked effortlessly handsome. He was masculine in so many ways, from his build and physique to his mannerisms. He was the first to pull out a chair for a lady, the one who’d hold a door open for forty women to walk through before he stepped foot inside. A very old-school, charming gentleman, he was also soft in many spots, like his eyes and smile. His grin was so beautiful and made everyone feel safe when they looked hisway.

His eyes kind of felt likehome.

“It’s fine.” Mama smiled and lied. “We just sat down a few minutesago.”

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