Hey everyone, it's PrinceKenzie or just Kenz, whichever you prefer! I'm so excited to be sharing this short story with you all. I wrote this as a college assignment for my Fiction Writing class and everyone loved it so I'm turning it into a novel that will be posted on my profile in the future. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The old record player is on in the corner of the living room by the bay windows where Lark usually sits to gaze out at the rain. A familiar song opening cascades over the small room. It is a twelve-string acoustic guitar with a second twelve-string acoustic playing a different line while the bass plays whole notes. Lark knows the song seconds into the intro. Hotel California by The Eagles is one of his all-time favorites and his foot starts to tap to the beat. His head bobs and his lanky body carries him through the living room and into the open kitchen where his parents are.

"Good morning, sweetheart." His mother presses a kiss to his cheek, only to immediately start rubbing at it as her scarlet red lipstick stains his pale skin. "Breakfast is almost ready so sit down."

From the breakfast bar, Lark watches as she sways her way to the fridge. His mother has the grace of a ballerina but the edge of a punk rocker. His father on the other hand cannot dance, not even if you put markers on the ground and Lark gets that from him. But he can sing. Lark hates him for that, for the way words explode with passion from his chest. His hand beats time against his thigh, counting the numbers in his head as he watches his mother sway around. Then she starts to sing along and her husband joins in. A glare forms on his brows as they sing together, upsetting his stomach to the point where Lark loses his appetite.

They don't notice him silently slip out of the room.

With his hood covering his head and his bag slung over his shoulder, he quietly leaves the house. The rain has died out over the course of the past hour, leaving little rivers through the mud and pools on the sidewalks. A blanket of gray covers the sky, promising more rain throughout the day. Lark grabs his bike from the side of the house and does his best to dry the wet seat before he takes off down the road.

He doesn't plan on missing his first two classes, but the tardy bell for third block is ringing just as he closes his locker. The hallways are deserted and as the tardy bell's echo fades, only the sound of closing doors can be heard. His dress shoes are soaked and the bottom of his slacks are damp from the puddles he trekked through at the park where he spent the first two school blocks. Now his shoes noisily squeak against the laminate flooring of the hall that is lined with blue lockers as he finally makes his way towards the classroom.

"How nice of you to join us, Skylark," the teacher drags out his name. She isn't his number one fan, nor is she his favorite.

Lark lowers his head and makes his way across the room to his seat by the window. He will not be able to remember what the teacher says throughout the lecture or count up how many paper balls fly in his direction from his classmates. His mind is elsewhere, outside of the classroom. It is outside of the school, on the porch swing gazing out at the trees, where he longs to be. A bird flies past the dirty window and lands on a thin, moving branch with no fear. Lark can tell by the movement of the bird's chest that it is singing, but he cannot hear the sound.

He closes his eyes and thinks about this past morning. Lark can hear the song of numerous birds in his backyard, the tranquil collision of the rain and the earth. It's as if he can feel the earlier breeze on his face and smell the wet earth.

The bell rings above his head and drags him back to the now. Lark's movements become robotic as he stands and moves along to his next class. Again, he sits by the dirty window and gazes outside at the world where he does not know if he belongs. Does anyone really belong anywhere? How do they know? At what moment in a person's life do they realize this is where they belong? The questions keep him up late at night and the fear of never knowing haunts his sleep, making it restless. Lark places his pale cheek against the callused sole of his palm and prays for the day to pass quickly.

Lunch is a favorite amongst the students, but for Lark, it is the least pleasant part of his school day. He would even put math above lunch for he never has anywhere to sit. He wanders the halls with his tray of lunch in search of an empty bathroom he can hide in. But on this gloomy, gray Monday, he finds something much better than an empty bathroom. His curl-covered head peeks around the open door of the music room and he finds it empty. His tray of food is abandoned on the floor as he makes his way to the grand piano.

His fingers glide over the glossy lid before he lifts it and stares at the tight strings hidden below. He knows that there are two hundred and thirty strings in a grand piano and his eyes slide over them slowly, mesmerized by the familiar sight. The collection of eighty-eight black and white keys stare up at him welcomingly as he sits down. Lark rubs his hands up and down his black slacks to rid the sudden appearance of sweat before he lifts them to the keyboard. The pinky of his right-hand, slightly crooked from a childhood accident, presses down on a black key making a flat hum vibrate through the room.

An emotion he's unable to name bubbles in Lark's stomach as he continues pressing down on different keys, a soft melody rising through the air from the instrument. It's been so long since he's sat at a piano. Lark had quit playing years ago. The melody turns melancholy at the memory. The strangely sad yet familiar sound slows to a stop yet his fingers stay on the worn keys. Someone begins to clap and Lark quickly turns on the stool. "That was beautiful, young man. I haven't seen someone play a piano like that in years. What's your name?"

He stares at the music teacher blankly, waiting for him to realize his mistake. The teacher repeats the question, making his brows furrow and his eyes narrow. Lark lifts his hand and signs his name making the teacher become embarrassed. It is the usual reaction he receives. Pity, embarrassment, questioning, judgment. Lark closes the lid and stands up before grabbing his untouched food.

"You're more than welcome to stay," the teacher states so Lark looks back at him. "I'm the only one in this school who knows how to play, besides you." He smiles at Lark with a genuine kindness that makes him want to stay, but the bell rings so he leaves with a quick glance over his shoulder.

The final bell rings hours later, dismissing the students for the day and at his locker, Lark looks at the picture taped to the inside of the door. He's wearing a beaming smile as he holds the trophy over his head. The photo was taken years ago when he won first place at the Mini Star Music Competition in Las Vegas. His parents are crouched at his sides, his father grinning with pride and his mother with tears of joy in her eyes. He remembers the day well. He was six and at that time, he felt like nothing could stop him. A silent, humorless chuckle shakes his shoulders. It was the thought of an arrogant child and the world set him straight soon after.

The familiar stabbing pain of unworthiness and disappointment twists in Lark's stomach. He has always felt as if his parents were disappointed in him. They wanted a child who they could sing with and instead they created him, Lark. A boy born without vocal cords.

"Are you okay?" An older voice questions.

Lark glances up as he quickly rubs his watering eyes and sees the music teacher standing a few feet away. He nods, picking up his bag before closing his locker and turning away.

"Skylark," he calls, causing Lark to pause. "You're pretty popular amongst the teachers. It wasn't difficult to find out your name."

He's the only mute, of course it isn't going to be difficult to find out his name. Lark turns to gaze at the teacher. He's tall with a muscular frame and his dark hair is frosting at the sides which is the only hint at his older age. The hair atop his head is brushed back as if he's trying to stay in style with the younger generation. He smiles and Lark notices two dimples make an appearance on his cheeks that are hidden under a five-day growth that shadows his strong jawline and frames his pink lips.

"I'm Mr. Tallis and sadly no, there is no relation to Thomas Tallis." He chuckles at his own joke making Lark slowly look away as his lips press together. "Do you have to go home right away? I'd like for us to go back to the music room and play the piano. You have real talent, man."

Lark looks back at Mr. Tallis and narrows his eyes slightly, but he nods. If he were to go home now, he will find the house empty so it's not like he will be missing anything. And he wouldn't mind spending more time with the music teacher. Mr. Tallis is a talker which momentarily makes him wish he was also deaf because the music teacher's jokes are the type of jokes only drunken dads would find amusing. When they reach the music room, Lark makes his way to the drums and flicks the edge of the ride cymbal. The sustained shimmer circulates around the room and he can imagine his father's head banging as his drum sticks collide with the snare drum and ride cymbal.

"Do you play the drums too?" Mr. Tallis asks and absentmindedly, Lark signs back at him. "Is that a yes?"

Lark nods and Mr. Tallis admits the extent of his ASL knowledge is "thank you." The confession makes Lark roll his eyes as he makes his way to the piano. He's not surprised. Apart from his parents, he doesn't know anyone else in this town that willingly learned sign language. His teachers were required to learn ASL for him, so they can communicate easily since his parents couldn't afford an interpreter. But Lark can't even remember when the last time one of his teachers used sign language.

He presses a key on the piano followed by another, but he doesn't sit. Today is the first time he's played the piano for anyone since that day seven years ago and he feels uncomfortable knowing Mr. Tallis is listening. His fingers dance across the keys as he plays Kiss the Rain.

"There is a talent show coming up this weekend at the town square," Mr. Tallis tells him while placing a bright green flyer on the lid of the piano. "You should get up there and play."

Lark keeps his head lowered and his fingers don't falter in their movements, but his eyes are on that flyer. He doesn't understand why this is the first time he is hearing of the talent show. His parents work for the Recreation Center downtown that hosts all the town events. He sees the Rec. Center's information on the flyer for those who want to sign up. He even sees the name of his parents' band that will be performing. His teeth sink into the inside of his cheek and soon the metallic taste of blood pushes against his tongue. They're keeping this from him.

The music stops abruptly as he snatches the flyer up and turns to Mr. Tallis who raises a brow. He nods and points at his chest before shaking the flyer. Mr. Tallis smiles happily. As he talks about the talent show, Lark pulls from his pocket a notepad and pen, scribbling down a quick note. He hands it to the music teacher who reads it – I want to enter under your name –with a frown. "Are you sure you want to do it like this?" He asks doubtfully.

Lark hasn't been this sure about something in years.

On Tuesday, Lark is at school before most of the teachers. Being home with his parents the previous evening only worsened his mood. He waited for them to bring up the talent show, but when he questioned what they were doing the upcoming weekend, they lied to him. His father said they were going to meet up with some old friends downtown. They looked at him with smiles and lied to his face. Hypocrites, the both of them. Their words made him handicapped. He never thought his lack of a voice was an issue until they spoke behind his back, stating bitter truths that they would hide when they faced him like cowards.

Lark leaves his home before his parents wake up that day with a simple note: Meeting up with a friend. He meets with Mr. Tallis in the music room and the two exchange polite smiles. Lark quickly gets to work on brushing up on his skills with Mr. Tallis sitting next to him, teaching him along the way whenever he stumbles. His fingers dance across the keys but his crooked pinky continuously hits the wrong keys. He curses the damn phalanx and flexes his fingers as he stares down at his right hand. Phantom pain rears its ugly head and he can vividly picture his younger self falling and trying to catch himself with his hands as he fell. His father was trying to teach him how to ride a bike without training wheels and let go with a push. It sent him on an unsteady ride before he crashed onto the burning hot pavement of the street. His pinky was bent when he landed on his hand and it snapped in two places. It's been crooked ever since.

"Here, try this." Mr. Tallis grabs his hand and changes its posture. Warmth spreads across the bridge of Lark's sharp nose before spilling over onto his cheeks. He notices just how large and callused Mr. Tallis' fingers are. He also notices how warm his hands are, how they seem to fit perfectly over his own. "You have to keep your hands relaxed. You're tensing up and it's going to mess you up. Try again," the teacher instructs while removing his hands.

Lark takes a breath before putting his complete focus into the piano. They spend almost an hour together before he has to get to class, but they agree to meet up after school. Lark's head is clouded with fog the entire day. Not even the birds singing outside the window can grab his full attention. His mind is elsewhere – on his parents, on the talent show, on Mr. Tallis. Lark places his left hand over his right. The warmth isn't the same. His wayward thoughts surprise him as he walks towards the music room after the last bell, flushed and nervous.

He knocks on the open door and Mr. Tallis looks up from some papers, a pair of glasses perched over the bridge of his nose. "Are you ready to play?"

Lark nods before stepping into the room as Mr. Tallis walks over to the piano. He sits next to the music teacher and glances up at him before quickly focusing back on the piano keys before him. On Wednesday, they meet again in the morning and this time, Mr. Tallis greets Lark differently.

Good morning, Skylark, Mr. Tallis signs, his hands so close to his chest that he catches his tie between his thumb and forefinger.

Surprise makes Lark's eyes widen. He watches the music teacher's hands as he signs and speaks. Mr. Tallis signs slowly, but correctly, as he explains that he felt he should learn ASL to better communicate with him. He wants to know what Lark needs to say without writing it down. Overcome with appreciation at the surprising gesture, his lips twist in a wry grin as he signs the greeting back to the music teacher.

Lowering his head, Lark hides the sudden rush of tears and quickly forces them back before smiling. Their meetings continue on for the rest of the week, every morning and every afternoon. Mr. Tallis helps reintroduce techniques and Lark helps Mr. Tallis conquer American Sign Language. He considers Mr. Tallis his best friend and it seems Mr. Tallis has grown quite fond of the silent boy with sad gunmetal eyes.

The morning of the talent show is humid. The trees stand mute in the pre-summer air, their leaves unmoving and their trunks a muted brown with dark cracks racing down to the earth. The sun blazes down unapologetically. A gust of wind passes through and all it does is push the hot air against Lark's face. He stands on the front porch; the nape of his neck damp and his shirt beginning to stick to his back. Watching his parents back out of the driveway in his father's old but restored Impala, he waits so he can leave as well. The black car shrinks on the steaming road until it disappears from view. The cold shower Lark takes doesn't help with his sweating so he packs an extra shirt just in case.

Jumping on his bike, he takes off down the street. His legs start to burn from how fast he is pedaling, but Lark knows there is a hill not too far ahead that he needs to pass and he will not let it slow him down. He can see it before him, the slowly rising hill. Lark pedals faster. The burning in his calves starts to rival the burning blaze of the sun beating down on his back. As he reaches the top of the hill, he doesn't slow and like a rollercoaster, he plummets down. Lark lifts his feet off the pedals, the downhill race caused by gravity is more than enough to keep the bike speeding. His pedals spin with wild abandon. The hot wind burns his face, pushing his hair back and he closes his eyes as he pictures himself soaring through the sky.

Lark is red in the face and his hair is a wild puff of curls when he finally comes to a stop. Mr. Tallis has an old-style knocker on his door. Lark notices that it is not just a regular circular fixture, but the golden knocker is a snake. He ignores the knocker and taps his fist against the black door three times. Rustling can be heard from someone inside and a few moments later, the front door creaks open. Mr. Tallis stands there with a smile and encourages Lark to step inside.

In the living room, the grand piano takes up most of the space and is the only thing that seems well-kept. There are two bookshelves in the far-left corner of the room, opposite of the piano, that are filled with old, dusty looking novels that look like they haven't been touched in years. The lone couch looks worn in and there is a large chip on the edge of the coffee table. Scratches and smaller chips surround the two left legs off the table that is covered in music sheets and magazines.

Mr. Tallis sits them on the bench and they begin to run through Lark's song a few more times before he notices that Mr. Tallis has something else on his mind. He nudges his teacher's arm and signs, asking him what's wrong. Mr. Tallis gives him a sly grin and nudges Lark back.

"I did some research last night, about your name. Quite the interesting find," he admits making Lark frown. "Skylark, the only songbird who sings while in flight." He gazes down at Lark intensely. A warmth fills Lark's stomach and his fingers slip, slamming against the wrong keys. Mr. Tallis laughs and Lark glares at him. His hands come up quickly – only an inch from Mr. Tallis' nose, the teacher backs up to avoid getting hit in the face as Lark angrily signs at him, It's not funny. Mr. Tallis smiles, looking somewhat apologetic but still amused, "I'm sorry."