Doctor-Patient Confidentiality 01

I always do my best to avoid the 'Dastardly Duo' as my best friends, Trixie and Bill, have dubbed them.

I actually think the alias is quite fitting.

The chicks are incredibly mean for no reason at all. Lord knows I've had my fair share of mean girls in middle and high school, and even during my first go around in college, so I'm no stranger to the general behavior and attitude of girls like them, but I'm way too old to entertain or tolerate that type of juvenile bullshit anymore.

I avoid them not because I'm scared of or feel intimidated by them, but because I'm just not a very confrontational person by nature, and at the age of twenty-four, I find dealing with the B.S. and bitchy antics of their kind incredibly exhausting and draining. I have quite enough going on in my life that drains me as it is, and in the extremely rare chance that I'll actually want more crap in my life, I'll just tune in to Duck Dynasty.

I hear the echoes of their laughter and gossip becoming louder, signaling that they're getting closer. The last thing I want right now is for the Dastardly Duo to begin their daily routine of people-spiting with me, so I push my concerns for my stomach to the side for the moment and quickly make my way to the vocal department.

CHAPTER FOUR

I make a stop by my locker before I head to the rehearsal room to drop off my belongings. I set my satchel down and turn the grey metal dial as I enter the new combination to my locker. I takes me two tries to get it right, and it opens up with a very slight creak. I had to get it changed about two weeks ago since someone had managed to break into it and steal my iPod, my recorder, a library book—which I had to end up paying for, and a few of my other belongings.

My locker had been thoroughly vandalized, with nothing but broken glass and what looked like lipstick streaks left behind. The perpetrator still hasn't been found till date, so the only thing the faculty head could do when it happened was make an announcement of the incident and arrange to have my combination replaced.

I suspected and still suspect that it's someone in my class who did it—probably Wendy or Julianne—but I have no proof to back my theory up.

Besides, the Dastardly Duo aren't my only suspects. There are quite a few classmates who really don't care too much for my existence, and I guess that mostly has to do with the fact that I'm one of the top music students in the school and most of our professors seem to take a liking to me.

I was appointed lead vocalist earlier this semester, as well as lead pianist, and apparently only two other students have ever held two lead positions in different departments at the same time in the music school's history. It's obvious that some of my classmates don't think I deserve either of the highly-coveted positions, and certainly not both at the same time.

A lot of them have claimed everything from being the granddaughter of a legendary music composer to their assumption that I'm 'part British'—which I'm not, and I don't know why the hell that would even make a difference, but people will obviously use anything as an excuse—as the only reasons why I was given those positions. I frequently hear passing remarks like, "She's just lucky her grandfather was famous and had connections here" and "It's not fair! I can sing so much better than she does. What makes her so damn special?"

It's crazy how much perception skews the truth. I consider myself anything but fortunate, but no one would ever agree with me based on simple outward appearances. I guess I should have expected the disgruntled reactions of my classmates.

Like most classical art fields, classical vocal music is a highly competitive field anywhere in the world, and people will use any excuse they can come up with to discredit their competition.

I'm sure the classical ballet dancers across the hall have it much, much harder. I've seen firsthand how fierce the competition in their department can get, and I sometimes wonder if most of the dancers still enjoy dancing with all the pressure they're constantly under.

Lord knows I wouldn't.

I guess I just have to be extra careful and vigilant from now on. It's not like I can afford to lose any more of my stuff.

I take my hat and jacket off and shove them into the medium sized locker, and my satchel soon follows. I remember to take my new MP3 player from it before I close it. Okay, it's not exactly new, but I feel like it is.

Trixie's older brother, Drake, gave it to me last week, insisting that I take it when he heard about what had happened with my locker. I almost wish Trixie hadn't told him.

I was extremely reluctant to take his music player when he offered it to me, even though it was exactly the miracle I needed then. I absolutely hate feeling indebted to anyone, and I hate the idea of Drake feeling sorry for me even more. I also hate the fact that I like the guy, and although I've had something of a crush on for him for a little over a year now, I know I'll never act on those feelings.

It probably sounds absurd to most people, and I'll never admit it to anyone, but one of the greatest fears I have in life...is falling in love.

Yeah. I'm kind of dysfunctional like that.

My greatest fear isn't dying broke or starving to death or being alone for the rest of my life. Not even the thought of having maggots crawling out of my nose makes my system shut down like the thought of being deeply in love with someone. I don't know if that's sad or what.

I mean, most people crave love and romance and spend incredible amounts of time and energy searching for it.

But not me.

Every time love so much as tiptoes my way, I run from it faster than Usain Bolt ever could, and do everything in my power to eradicate any sign of it in my life. I'd heartily welcome the plague over it.

To be clear, I wasn't always like this, though. I thought I wanted love once upon a time, and on very few, rare occasions, I still think I might, but I know for a fact that I wouldn't be able to handle being in love if a bucket of the stuff was thrown right in my face. I just wouldn't; not after seeing what being in love did to my father.

Not after witnessing and being part of the toxic and destructive aftermath that resulted from that whole situation.

My body shudders involuntarily, not from any remnants of the cold outside, but from unpleasant memories. I actively push the depressing thoughts from my mind before they wander any further.

I scrunch my hair into a messy ponytail and put my earphones on as I walk to the backdoor of the rehearsal room, actively switching my focus to music so that I don't have to think about my somber past. At least not for the next few hours.

CHAPTER FIVE

I scroll through my classical playlist in search for Celtic Woman's 'The Voice', one of the songs for our group performance taking place two weeks from now. I find it by the time my hand is turning the gold-plated door knob. I notice a few people in the distance, haphazardly scattered across the room as I let myself in.

The gentle hum of the heating system fills the room along with the sound of a few shuffling bodies and idle chit-chat.

The air is even warmer in here, incredibly cozy with the perfect temperature for a nap, and I have to fight the temptation to run back to my car, speed home, and dive right into my bed.

The white tiles of the recently renovated flooring look even more immaculate under the fluorescent lighting of the spacious studio.

The bright lights attack my eyes and make me squint behind my glasses as they create a glare on them.

Everyone here has their earphones in already, and are singing along to the music they're hearing just as I'm about to. I look around and notice that Trixie isn't here yet, but it's not unusual. She hates coming to practice even a minute earlier than she has to.

I make my way over to a corner, right in front of one of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors so that I can properly monitor my posture as I sing. I glance at my cheap plastic watch. It's digits read 6:50 AM.

I only have ten minutes to warm up, which is good for one full go round, but considering this funkiness going on with my stomach, I'm not so sure. I'm worried I may need more time.

I regard my figure, looking intently at the eyes of girl staring back at me from behind thin brown-framed glasses.

I look tired.

Incredibly tired.

And I know it's not just because it's early in the day. I always look tired. I've been constantly exhausted for years now, and it really shows. I feel a sigh escape me as I try not let my mind wander back toward negative thoughts like it normally does.

I bring my full focus to the current moment and the task at hand. I readjust my earphones as I feel one bud slipping out. I arch my back and bring my shoulders back so that they're aligned with my hips. Lightly spreading my feet apart, I straighten my spine as best as I can, and even though it still makes me feel slutty, I push my chest out to fix my slouch.

I feel the tension leave my lips as I part them slightly, a measure I always have to take against my tendency to purse them. With my posture adjusted, I hit play, and soon, the harmonious melody of Celtic Woman's 'The Voice' fills my ears.

I begin to mimic her, singing along to her hypnotic voice without having to think about the words as they are etched into my memory thanks to having the song on replay non-stop for the last several days. As the music continues to stream into my ears, I momentarily close my eyes as I feel myself being transported out of the two thousand square foot rehearsal studio to a tranquil cottage on a lovely green meadow in Ireland.

I feel so in sync and free, and I continue to sing with increasing abandon, as if I don't have a care in the world. It all feels so...magical; like nothing else in the world. I forget all my troubles, past and present, and think only of the music and how amazing the harmonious rhythm makes me feel. I open my eyes and continue to monitor my posture.

Everything looks and feels right so far. I glance at the MP3 player, noting that I'm already two minutes in. My surroundings have become a blur, and all I can focus on is singing, as if it's the only thing I know how to do.

Three minutes in and everything is still flowing smoothly. My timing and precision is on point. I continue to sing fairly effortlessly, and the difficult bridge is coming up. I tackle it head on as I've done many times before. I watch myself closely in the mirror again, regarding the flex of my abs as I feel their muscles contract.

I feel the various parts of my body—my diaphragm, my lungs, my larynx, and my lips—all working together in perfect synchrony to control and maintain the pitch, tone, timbre, depth, and fluidity of my voice. I feel the power in my voice as I sing at the top of my lungs, feeling the waves reverberate within me and escape my lips.

I'm so in my element right now, completely in my zone. Nothing beats the feeling I get when I sing like this. Nothing gets me on such a high or gives me such an overwhelming sense of freedom—

Abruptly, I feel myself lurch forward unnaturally and my voice cracks. I feel the warm air forced from my lungs in a strained rush as it escapes my flared nostrils. My chest tightens in response.

God. It's happening again.

CHAPTER SIX

The discomforting feeling that I had earlier is back, and it's considerably more painful this time. It's never even happened twice in the same day before. I'm beginning to think that whatever this is, it's probably more than just a stress-response.

I see a bunch of girls behind me just standing there and giving me strange looks through the mirror, and I notice that Julianne is among them.

She has her arms crossed over her fake chest, eyeing me suspiciously as she gives me a once over, followed by a snarky scoff just before she goes back to talking with her better half.

Or worse half, I'm not sure which.

I can't help but roll my eyes. I can't be bothered by their darting glares and pettiness. However, even though I'm putting on a brave face, I cannot continue to pretend that this stomach-hitching thing-a-majig doesn't bother me, either. I think I need to get this checked out.

I look at my watch again, noticing that my arm is slightly trembling. It's almost seven. More people are streaming in through both front and back doors, scurrying to get settled in before Madame Vito, the head vocal instructor, gets here.

I'm actually surprised she isn't here already. It's not like her to be late.

I take off my earphones with a shaky hand as the music is still playing and head to my usual seat. Just as soon as I do, I notice Trixie waltzing in nonchalantly likes she owns the joint, completely unbothered by the prospect of arriving later than Vito unlike everyone else.

I have to smile.

I absolutely love her cavalier, 'I-have-no-fucks-to-give' attitude. I find it extremely refreshing and down-to-earth, especially after being immersed head-first in such a competitive environment like this one.

She grins as she spots me looking her way, giving me a light wave as she approaches me. I can't help but think about how well she'd fit in if she ever moved to New York City, even with her prominent Milwaukee accent.

"Hey, you. Miss me? You look like shit, by the way," she says as she takes her seat next to me. She's always very blunt and honest.

Brutally honest.

And honestly, even after a year of being friends with her, I think I'm still getting used to that aspect of her.

"Gee, thanks," I say with a smile. I know she means no harm, and we tease each other all the time, but I'd be lying if I say looking worn out with bags under my eyes all the time doesn't bother me at all. I change the subject, deterring the conversation away from my not-so-stellar appearance.

"How was your weekend? Did your parents enjoy their getaway?"

She stretches her arms over her head, leaning back in the chair in a carefree motion. "Ugh, it was great for the parentals. Bloody exhausting for me."

I love how she emphasizes the word 'bloody'. She's been using it ever since she met me, and I guess that's not the only word I've rubbed off on her. I sometimes catch her saying 'crisps' instead of 'French fries' and 'trousers' instead of 'pants'. I sometimes slip up and do the same.

"The twins kept bugging me to bake them cookies and apple pie and whole bunch of other shit. I mean, look at me," she gestures to herself in a humorous way with her fingers. "When have I ever attempted to bake anything? Do I look like Mary fucking Poppins to you? I'm Italian and I can barely even boil spaghetti right without nearly burning the whole neighborhood down. I swear, ever since you made those oatmeal cookies for them, they've been going berserk for more. You spoiled them rotten. I totally blame you for this," she laughs.

I laugh with her, trying to picture a punk-rocker chick like her trading her black leather and multiple piercings for an apron and oven mitts.

Yeah. Not happening.

"Wasn't Drake there to help out with baby-sitting?" I ask, hoping I don't sound as eager I feel saying her brother's name.

She rolls her whiskey eyes as she runs her hands through her dark, choppy pixie cut.

"Pshhh. He was there, alright. But the only thing the idiot helped out with was leading their cookie-demanding crusade. He even got them Cookie Monster hats to wear!"

I picture Drake rallying the two identical six-year olds to drive Trixie crazy. I can't stop laughing, and I admire how she talks about her relationship with her brothers. I can only imagine how interesting being the only girl among three brothers must be. I'd be lying if I say I'm not a little envious of her in that regard.

I've always wondered what it would be like to have a brother—one who doesn't despise my very existence, anyway. I think I'd love having one. Or even a sister. Ideally, I'd have both. I guess I'll never know.

"So," she crosses her feet as she faces me again, "how was your weekend? Much better than mine, I'm sure."

I shrug. "Meh. Pretty standard. Work. Study. Work some more." I sigh and close my eyes dramatically. "All that work and somehow, I'm still broke."

She laughs and shakes her head. "You and me both, Roni. You and me, both."

I laugh, even though I know our situations aren't even remotely close to being the same. Trixie may not have money to around splurging on retail therapy, but she certainly isn't scraping for cash everyday either. I try not to think about my financial situation, and it works...for about seven seconds. Her next question only manages to fuel my worrisome thoughts.

"Oh yeah, how's your Nana? You grandfather's memorial is coming up, isn't it?"

I nod. "Yeah, it's in a few days. She's holding up okay as far as I can tell, but I know thinking about it is affecting her more than she shows. She just won't ever say anything to me because I know she doesn't want me to worry about her."

"Right. As if that's possible," Trixie says.

I shrug. "It's not like I can help it, Trix. She's all by herself over there. She shouldn't even be working at her age but she can't afford not to after everything that's happened."

"Yeah, I know," she nods solemnly. She pauses for a bit, as if she's in deep thought, then asks, "Did you ask Larry for a raise?"

I sigh as I adjust myself in my chair. "No. It's only been a couple of months since he gave me my last one. I'd asked him for an advance last week but he can't give me one right now. I really need the money but I don't want to feel like I'm backing him into a corner, you know. It's too soon to ask again."

She looks at me incredulously, and the warm glow of her eyes settle on mine. Drake has the exact same whiskey-toned eyes, and looking at hers really freaks me out sometimes because it feels like I'm looking into his.

"Oh, please, don't give me that hogwash," she says. "You know you're the reason that grizzly bear has been getting as much business as he has this past year. Most people on campus had never even heard of the Mushroom before you started singing there. And with a name like that, I can't imagine why. I mean, Jesus, was he trying to get his bar to fail? He owes you big time. That's all I'm saying."

I laugh at her nickname for my boss, Larry Fitzgerald. I swear, Trixie has nicknames for everyone. I agree with everything she's saying, including Larry's bizarre choice of a name for his business. I'd suggested something a little less sexually innuendoed, like 'Larry's Tavern' or even the 'Drunken Mushroom', but for whatever reason, he's been pretty adamant about sticking to the 'Wooden Mushroom'. Everyone just calls it 'The Mushroom' for short now.

Larry's a really nice guy, and something of a father figure to me, but he is a bit off. I guess everyone is to some extent. Trixie can't seem to cut the guy a break, though. She's insisted I quit and get a better paying job if Larry can't pay me more, and she doesn't understand my loyalty to him.

I've been working for him for three years now and I know how grateful he is to me, but it's not like I'm his only employee. He's got kids of his own and other obligations and responsibilities outside the bar, too. I can't expect him to bend over backwards for me, even if I'm walking the fine line of desperation. It's not like I'm the first person in the world to ever get caught in a financial rut. Although, I have to admit, some days, it sure does feel like it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Madame Vito finally makes her appearance, and the room quickly goes quiet. She doesn't say a thing, but then again, she doesn't need to.

Her stern presence and the clicking of her signature moccasins are all that's necessary to make all the chatter scurry away into dead silence. The room gets so quiet you could probably hear a snowflake land.