Tales of Unrequited INFJ Love: Guitar Class Part 1
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Guitar Class
A Short Story by Ashley C. Cantave
Part 1
I met him in guitar class. He’s a junior and I’m a freshman. I first noticed him one day when all of us were seated in a circle of chairs and had to play a short solo. Actually, in that class, we’re usually seated in a circle of chairs. But we don’t usually have to play solos. That day we did.
Most of us played songs that are long-established standards for beginning musicians. But he played a sample of a song he wrote. The song itself wasn’t remarkable—a simple melody strummed with two chords. But the fact that he had the courage to play his own song in front of a room full of peers—that got my attention. From that moment on, I was hooked. I was hooked to William Wireson—or just Will, as he prefers to be called.
Guitar is the seventh of eight classes I have every day. By third period, I’m eagerly watching the clock to see when its hands will signal that it’s time to see my crush again. Most days, the clock’s hands aren’t as merciful as I would like them to be. Most days, they move far too slowly, and the wait can be excruciating. But, without fail, they eventually announce the moment I long for every day.
And when the bell rings to make the announcement official, my heart races, pounding faster and faster with every step I take to the guitar room.
Will is usually one of the last students to enter the room. I usually arrive a few seconds before him. I would love to get there sooner, giving myself more time to choose a practice guitar, find a seat, and prepare myself emotionally for his arrival. But the class I have before guitar is so far from the guitar room that I already have to power walk through the overly crowded hallways to get there even a few seconds before him. I discovered that a few days after my crush on him began.
When he finally gets there and my eyes fall on him, I often forget to breathe. My heart is aflutter for the entire forty-five minutes of the period. And the effect of seeing him lingers for hours after the class ends.
It didn’t take long for me to learn Will’s routine. When he enters, he takes one of the practice guitars next to the door and then sits beside one of the two friends he has in that class. But if he’s really late, he’ll take any empty seat he can find. Either way, because of our seating arrangement, it’s easy for me to steal frequent glances at him until our class splits up to do our daily practice.
After our teacher takes attendance and gives us an assignment for the day, we go off in groups of either two or three to practice. Only on Fridays do we have an abridged practice so we can rejoin the group before class ends and perform what we had been practicing, most often all members of the group playing at once. But occasionally we have solos. I always get nervous before mine, and that was before I had a crush on Will. Now solos can be brutal, so I’m grateful they don’t happen often.
*****
One Monday, I arrive in guitar class about thirty seconds before the bell rings. Once I get settled, I watch the door for Will’s arrival. About four other students trickle in as I stare and wait.
When he finally gets there, I watch him, mesmerized, as he takes a seat—right beside me. I'm shocked. I’m so absorbed in keeping my eyes on him, I don’t realize until he’s seated that he’s actually sitting next to me. That seat was the last empty one. By some miracle, I’m sitting right next to William Wireson. My heart is pounding like crazy. And it takes all my strength not to stare at him the entire time our teacher explains what our assignment is. I only half-hear her announce the title of the song we have to practice for Friday’s performance.
And then the teacher does something she doesn’t usually do. Usually, she lets us pick our own group mates, and I partner with one or more of the other female freshmen in our class. But today, to shuffle our groups, she decides that every other student will partner with the person sitting to their right. I’m one of the students chosen to partner with the person on my right. Will is on my right. That means Will and I are partners.
I strive to hide the intensity of the flutter in my stomach as I turn to my partner.
I love calling him that. Partner.
But I’ll admit, I’m somewhat reluctant to look at him, afraid I’ll see traces of disappointment in his face. I know I’m less than nothing to him. And I know he would prefer to practice with his friends. But when I look at him, I don’t see any disappointment. He seems indifferent, if anything. Though I would have much preferred to see thrill on his face or at least a modest joy, I’ll take indifference. Indifference is better than disappointment.
“So, I guess we’re partners,” Will says.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.
“So…we should go practice.”
“Yeah, we should.”
“Where do you want to practice?” he wonders. I think that’s somewhat gentlemanly of him. He could have just chosen our practice location without consulting me. Instead, he asks for my opinion. I find that nice.
In our guitar class, there are six practice rooms where groups can rehearse in private. But other groups prefer to stay in the main room to practice, while still others sit in the hallway just outside. I don’t think I could stand the intensity of being alone in a practice room with him, and it’s too loud in the main room for me to focus on rehearsal. The hallway outside is the best option.
“We can go out in the hallway,” I suggest.
“Ok,” he says.
We grab our guitars and head outside. I always find it refreshing to be in the school hallways when they’re empty. They seem like such a different place than when I’m trying to bob and weave between the thousands of other students there and avoid being stepped on or sideswiped by tall seniors and football players. And it’s especially nice to be in a hallway alone with Will—well, almost alone. One other group decides to practice in the hallway as well. But they’re seated far enough away that I barely notice them.
Will and I sit beside each other on the floor and place our guitars on our laps. We put our songbooks on the floor in front of us. Before beginning, I do what I always do when learning a new song. I write the letter names of the music notes on the page so they’ll be easier for me to play. As I write, Will begins playing the song.
I look at him. “Wow, that’s cool that you can play without writing out the notes,” I say, feeling somehow that I’ve just given him a lame compliment.
“It’s no big deal,” he says. “I’ve been playing piano since I was young, so I know how to read music.”
“That’s still really cool,” I say.
He shrugs and keeps playing as I write out the notes. When I finish, I put my pen down and get into position to play, waiting for him to stop. But after he plays a good portion of the song, he switches to something else. I don’t recognize the tune, but I feel like I’m in heaven as he plays it for me. Actually, I can sense that he’s not really playing it for me. He’s playing it for himself. But I imagine he’s playing it for me. And that’s enough to make me feel I’m melting with every chord he strums.
He ends the song on a G chord. I’m happy to note that I recognize it. And after he finishes, he looks back down at the book.
“I guess we should get back to practicing,” he says.
“That was really nice,” I say. “What you just played.”
“Thanks. I wrote it.”
“You did?” He nods. “That’s so cool. And that reminds me, I never got to tell you how cool I thought it was when you played one of your own songs for your solo.”
He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is to me. I don’t know if I could ever write a song, let alone play it in front of other people.”
“I guess I better get used to it,” he says.
“Why? Are you in a band or something?”
He nods. “Yeah, me and three other guys. We were all supposed to be in this guitar class together so we could use the practice time to rehearse for gigs. But the third guy had a schedule conflict.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Anyway, he’s the drummer. So, I don’t know how much it would have helped for him to be banging his pencils on a notebook.”
“It still would have been better than nothing, I imagine.”
“Yeah,” he says, mindlessly fingerpicking another melody. “What I really wish is if we could find a good sound guy to help us set up our shows. Then we could play pretty much anywhere.”
I don’t know where the idea comes from, but suddenly I find myself saying, “I happen to know a sound guy. Well, sound girl, actually.”
He stops playing and looks at me. “Really? Who?”
I swallow and force myself to speak, though it’s hard with his gorgeous brown eyes staring directly at me for the first time. And his short brown hair frames his face in such a way that makes those eyes seem even more penetrating. “Um, me.”
“You? Really?”
“Yeah, me. I know how to do sound stuff. I could help you out if you want.”
“Oh, man, that would be great. What’s your name?”
“I’m Parker.”
“Parker. Ok. I’m Will.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“You too,” he says. “So, hey, when we go back inside, we can exchange numbers so we can keep in touch.”
“That would be great,” I say, struggling to stifle the excitement bubbling inside me.
Oh my gosh, I’m going to have my crush’s name and number in my cell phone. And I won’t bore you by telling you how many times I practiced putting his name and number in just in case an opportunity like this presented itself. All I’ll say is, when it really happens, the whole thing feels surreal.
After I float through the rest of the day and manage to somehow get myself home despite the immense daze I’m in, I sit down in front of my computer and look up “how to set up the sound system for a concert.”
*****
Every day after school now, in addition to doing my homework, I research the setup for a PA system. (Did you know that PA stands for “public address”? I didn’t.) I learn what equipment is needed, how to connect it, where to place speakers to avoid feedback, what an XLR cable is, and how to balance sound levels with a mixer.
Will and his band have some of the equipment already. And I ask my parents to buy what they don’t have by convincing them that I plan to work on PA systems as a new hobby. It’s definitely possible this will become a new hobby if I get good at it. But for now, I only have two reasons for needing that equipment—to help Will and spend as much time with him as possible.
Now in guitar class, sometimes Will purposefully partners with me to discuss sound stuff and upcoming gigs. Even if we aren’t discussing the most romantic of topics, it’s still the most beautiful music to me to hear him speaking to me—to have him acknowledge my existence at all.
The first time he calls me is a day I know I’ll never forget. I see his name flash on my phone, and I tremble. Until that day, only my closest female friends had ever called me on my cell phone. On the rare occasion that a boy called me, it was always on my house phone because that’s the number in the school directory. And it was only because he needed help with his homework.
To see Will’s name flash on my phone—knowing he isn’t calling for a school-related reason—that sends chills through every fiber of my being. I almost don’t answer the phone so I can prolong the moment. But I do answer it.
“Hello?” I say breathlessly.
“Hey, Parker,” he says.
“Hi, Will.”
“The guys and I were thinking that you should come to one of our rehearsals to get a feel for our sound.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“Cool. Are you free this Saturday at three?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Ok. We rehearse at Rich’s sister’s dance studio.” (Richard Silver—a.k.a. Rich—is one of the guys in our guitar class.) “I’ll text you the address.”
“Ok, sounds good,” I say.
“Ok. See you then,” he says.
“See you.”
He hangs up. I stare at the phone. William Wireson just called me. I just talked to William Wireson on the phone—me, Parker Tilade. And I’m going to see him outside school for the first time. And on some level, he’s actually looking forward to it. Excited isn’t a strong enough word to describe how I feel. But I can’t think of a better word.
*****
When I enter the dance studio that Saturday, I see that the four band members have positioned themselves and their instruments near the double ballet barre so they can face the giant mirror across from it. It seems they want to watch how they look as they perform. Meanwhile, I’m going to be responsible for how they sound.
“Hey, guys, this the PA girl I was telling you about,” Will says when he sees me. I feel myself grow warm. And I’m grateful that my brown skin doesn’t easily show blush.
“Hey, PA girl,” Rich says as he tunes his guitar. The other two guys just glance at me, then the bass player returns to tuning his bass while the drummer resumes setting up his set.
“Hey,” I say.
“So, yeah, we’re going to get started in a couple minutes,” Will says. “Just have a seat anywhere.”
“Ok.”
I sit in a corner of the room and wait for the rehearsal to begin. When it does, I’m happy to note that the group sounds like a band. They’re in tune, the drummer keeps a steady rhythm the others follow, and they end their songs at the same time.
As for the music itself, it’s…interesting. It’s definitely not anything I would pay to hear played live (except, of course, if it meant seeing Will). It’s like a mix of pop and rock, but sometimes the bass player plays these unsettling notes or the two guitarists play chords that, to my ears, are far from harmonious.
And the lyrics are lackluster at best. Will sings in a way that makes most of his words come out muffled. The few I do hear don’t make any sense. So, I don’t have a clue what most of the songs are about.
But I don’t care. It’s like living a dream to be given permission to sit and watch Will for two hours. I could do that all day. And because I can’t make out most of the words he sings, I can imagine he’s singing only love songs—and singing all of them for me.
After the rehearsal ends, Will looks at me and asks, “Well? What did you think?”
I take a moment to choose my words carefully. “Not bad.” That’s all I can think to say.
Will reads more into my “Not bad” than I hoped he would. “You see, guys,” he says. “I told you we need to work on rhythm.”
“No, it’s not the rhythm,” I begin. “It’s just…and, remember, this is just my opinion…but the bass player plays some weird notes sometimes and some of the chords don’t go so well together.” I pause. “But you all kept great rhythm. And, again, this is just one person’s opinion.”
The guys look at each other. Then Will looks back at me. “Thanks for the feedback,” he says.
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. But I still feel obliged to say, “You’re welcome.”
“Tell you what,” Will says. “The guys and I are going to practice some more. Come back next week and tell us what you think then. And bring your sound stuff so we can start working that out, too.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
I leave that rehearsal feeling an uneasy mix of emotions. I’m still levitating after spending two hours watching Will serenade me. But I’m not sure if I should have been so honest about how his group sounds. The thing is, I really want them to do well when they perform live. So, I thought the best thing to do was to tell them the truth gently. I didn’t even mention anything about Will’s nonsensical lyrics. But part of me is afraid they won’t want me to return to rehearsal after giving them such honest feedback.
I’m wrong, though. Will never calls me or tells me at school that I’m uninvited from the rehearsal. And when I go to that rehearsal, I find the band’s sound much improved. I also discover that I have a knack for setting up PA equipment.
It’s amazing how much a mixer enhances the band’s sound. And a well-positioned microphone helps Will’s words come out more clearly—though, to be honest, I preferred listening to them when I couldn’t really hear what he was saying. Now they make even less sense than before. But I still don’t comment about that.
After a few more rehearsals with the PA equipment, Will’s group sounds not only like a real band but a professional one. Part of me feels they could also use a keyboardist, though, or maybe a computer program to help fill out their sound. But, again, I keep those comments to myself. I think I’ve said enough. And I don’t want anything to deprive me of the opportunity to be around Will as often as possible—like constant criticism.
True, he still hasn’t shown even the faintest romantic interest in me. But I believe that if we spend enough time together, eventually he might.
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Last updated: March 19, 2025