"Fanfare for the Common Man," Copland
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The trumpet is the first instrument that fights back.
Yaz discovers this in September, when the new teacher arrives. Marcus Hale walks into the Practice Room like he owns it. He does not knock. He does not ask permission. He simply appears in the doorway, fills it with his presence, and looks around at the acoustic panels and the recording equipment and the instruments lined against the wall with an expression that is not quite disgust but is certainly not approval.
"So this is where they keep you," he says.
His voice is deep. Rich. The voice of someone who has spent years learning how to make sound carry. He is tall, broad-shouldered, his skin a deep brown that catches the light like polished wood. His head is shaved clean. His eyes are sharp, assessing, the eyes of someone who sees things and does not pretend he does not see them.
"I'm Yaz."
"I know who you are." Marcus crosses to the chair in the corner. Sits down heavily. His legs stretch out, taking up space. "Whole world knows who you are, even if they don't know your name. The Hidden Voice. The mystery kid who made fifty million people cry."
He pulls a case from beside him. Opens it. Inside, the trumpet gleams. Brass and silver, curves and valves, a coiled snake waiting to strike.
"I'm here for the kid," Marcus says, lifting the instrument out. "Not the suit. You understand?"
"The suit?"
"Thorne." Marcus's mouth twists. "Pretty words. Nice watch. Thinks he's doing you a favor by locking you in a basement." He brings the trumpet to his lips. Plays a single note. The sound is bright and sharp, cutting through the room like a blade. "Music is argument, kid. What are you saying?"
The piece is called "Fanfare for the Common Man."
Marcus plays it first. The sound fills the Practice Room, fills Yaz's chest, fills the spaces between his ribs where something has been hollow since Suki left. It is bold. Declarative. Defiant. It is the sound of someone standing up and announcing that they exist, that they matter, that the world should pay attention.
"Copland wrote this for people who don't have a voice," Marcus says when he finishes. "Farmers. Factory workers. The ones nobody listens to. He wanted to give them something loud enough to be heard."
He holds the trumpet out.
"Your turn."
Yaz takes it. The brass is warm from Marcus's hands. The weight is different from the other instruments. Solid. Present. The mouthpiece is small, cold against his lips.
"Blow," Marcus says. "Not with your mouth. With your gut. With your whole body."
Yaz blows.
The sound that comes out is thin. Weak. A wheeze instead of a declaration.
"Again. Harder."
He blows again. A little louder.
"You're holding back. I can see it in your shoulders. In the way you're standing." Marcus leans forward, his sharp eyes fixed on Yaz's face. "What are you afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid."
"Everybody's afraid of something. The trumpet knows." He taps the instrument in Yaz's hands. "The trumpet is not polite like the piano. It's not gentle like the cello. The trumpet tells the truth whether you want it to or not."
Yaz raises the instrument again. Presses his lips to the mouthpiece.
This time, he thinks about Suki. About her empty bed. About the note in his pocket. About the new boy who cries at night and the families who walk past the fence and the word investment that lives in Thorne's mouth like something he is trying to sell.
He blows.
The sound is louder. Brighter. Still not the fanfare, but closer. A crack in the wall.
Marcus nods slowly. "There. That's the start of something. Now we just have to find the rest."
The weeks pass. October arrives. The leaves outside the orphanage window turn colors Yaz cannot name because he is never allowed outside long enough to learn their names.
Marcus comes twice a week. He is different from the other teachers. He does not speak carefully. He does not avoid topics. He asks questions that have edges to them, questions that cut into places Yaz has learned to protect.
"Why don't you ever go outside?" Marcus asks one afternoon.
"I do. During outdoor hour."
"I mean really outside. The park. The city. The world."
Yaz does not answer. The answer is too complicated. The answer has too many pieces that do not fit.
"Thorne says you need protection," Marcus continues. His voice is flat. Unimpressed. "Protection from what? Fame? Success? People caring about you?" He snorts. "I've worked with a lot of people in this industry, kid. The ones who need protection usually aren't hiding in orphanage basements."
"It's temporary."
"Is it?" Marcus picks up his trumpet. Turns it in his hands, watching the light play across the brass. "How long you been here?"
"Always. I was born here."
"I mean the training. The contract. The hiding."
"A year and a half."
"And how much longer until you're 'ready'?"
The question lands in Yaz's stomach like something heavy. He does not have an answer. No one has ever given him a number. No one has ever said, "Three more years" or "When you turn twelve" or "After the next album." The end is always somewhere ahead, always moving, always just out of reach.
"I don't know," he says.
Marcus looks at him for a long moment. His eyes are not angry. They are worse than angry. They are sad.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I didn't think you did."
The anger builds in November.
Yaz does not notice at first. It is like water filling a basement. Slow. Silent. Rising without announcement until suddenly you realize you are standing in something cold.
It starts with small things. The way Thorne checks his watch during visits. The way Dayo's tablet is always recording. The way Mrs. Okonkwo looks at him sometimes, with that mixture of guilt and pity that makes Yaz want to throw something.
It grows with bigger things. Another family turned away. Another excuse about stability. Another Thursday when Thorne speaks in that smooth voice about "building something extraordinary" while the red light blinks in the corner, watching, always watching.
You're angry, the Maestro says. The voice is clearer now than it has been in weeks. You have every right to be.
What good does it do? Yaz thinks. Being angry doesn't change anything.
Maybe not. But it's better than feeling nothing.
The trumpet waits in its case. Yaz opens the latches. Lifts it out. Presses his lips to the mouthpiece.
He plays the fanfare.
Not the way Marcus taught him. Not with the measured breath, the controlled tone, the proper technique. He plays it with everything he has been holding. Everything he has been swallowing. Everything that has been building since Suki left and no one explained why.
The sound is enormous. It fills the Practice Room and overflows. It pushes against the acoustic panels, against the ceiling, against the walls that have held him for eighteen months.
He does not stop when the phrase ends. He keeps playing. Louder. Wilder. The notes break apart, become something else, become not the fanfare but something raw underneath it.
"Stop."
Marcus's voice comes from the doorway. Yaz had not heard him arrive. He stops playing. The trumpet feels hot in his hands.
"That wasn't the fanfare," Marcus says. He walks into the room. Closes the door behind him. "That was something else."
"I know."
"What were you saying?"
The question hangs in the air. Yaz looks at the trumpet. At his reflection in the brass, distorted, stretched.
"I don't know how to answer that."
"Yes you do." Marcus sits down across from him. His voice is gentler now, but still direct. "You're not playing the music, kid. You're hiding in it. What are you really feeling?"
The words push against something inside Yaz. A wall. A dam. Something he has been holding up with everything he has.
"I'm angry."
"At what?"
"At everything." The words come faster now. "At Thorne. At the contract. At being stuck here while other kids get adopted. At Suki leaving. At the families who wanted me but got turned away. At the way everyone talks about protecting me but really they're just keeping me." He stops. His breath is ragged. His hands are shaking. "They're keeping me. Like a thing. Like an investment."
Marcus is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is low.
"You know this is wrong, right? All of this? You're not stupid. You know."
Yaz nods. He cannot speak. His throat is too tight.
"I've been thinking about calling someone," Marcus says. "A journalist. A lawyer. Someone who could shine a light on what's happening here." He pauses. His jaw tightens. "But Thorne would destroy my career. He's done it before. And I've got kids of my own. Mouths to feed."
The words settle over Yaz like something cold.
"So you won't help me."
"I want to. But wanting isn't the same as doing." Marcus stands up. His face is twisted with something that might be shame. "I'm sorry, kid. I really am."
He leaves. The door closes. The Practice Room is quiet.
The next day, Thorne's fee to Marcus doubles.
Yaz does not know the details. He only knows what he sees. Thorne arriving unannounced on a Friday, briefcase in hand. A meeting with Director Henriksen behind closed doors. Marcus leaving afterward with his eyes on the floor, not looking at Yaz, not looking at anyone.
The lessons continue. But something has changed. Marcus still teaches. He still corrects Yaz's technique, adjusts his breath, guides his fingers on the valves. But he no longer asks questions. He no longer talks about what is wrong.
He has been bought. And the buying has silenced him.
Adults, the Maestro says. Bitter. Disappointed. They see the truth. They feel the wrong. And then they count their money and look the other way.
What am I supposed to do? Yaz thinks.
I don't know. But you can't wait for them to save you. They won't.
The confrontation happens in late November.
Yaz does not plan it. He does not think about it in advance. It simply erupts, the way a pot boils over when no one is watching it.
Dayo is in the Practice Room, adjusting the recording equipment. His tablet is on the chair, screen lit, showing numbers and graphs that Yaz does not understand but knows are about him. About his progress. About his value.
"Why do you record everything?" Yaz asks.
Dayo looks up. His face is careful. Neutral. "For Mr. Thorne. To track your development."
"He watches me all the time."
"It's part of the program."
"Even when I'm not practicing? Even when I'm just sitting here?"
Dayo's eyes flick away. "The equipment is on a timer. It's automatic."
"You're lying."
The words come out sharper than Yaz intends. Dayo flinches. Just slightly. Just enough.
"I'm not lying. I'm just doing my job."
"Your job is to spy on me."
"My job is to document. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Yaz stands up. His heart is pounding. His hands are clenched at his sides. "You write things in your notebook. Market potential. Investment. You talk to Thorne about me like I'm something to be sold."
Dayo is quiet. His face is harder now. The face of someone who has been accused of something true and is deciding whether to deny it.
"You don't understand how this works," he says finally. "The industry. The money. What it takes to make a career."
"I'm eight years old. I don't want a career. I want to go outside."
"And you will. When you're ready."
"When I'm ready, or when Thorne decides I'm worth more revealed than hidden?"
The question lands like a slap. Dayo's mouth opens. Closes. His eyes are wide now, startled, the eyes of someone who did not expect a child to see so clearly.
"Where did you hear that?"
"I heard you. In the hallway. Talking to him about market timing."
Dayo's face goes still. "You shouldn't eavesdrop."
"You shouldn't lie."
The silence stretches. Outside, the wind rattles the window. The red light blinks in the corner, recording everything.
"I'll talk to Mr. Thorne," Dayo says quietly. "About your concerns."
"He doesn't care about my concerns. He cares about his investment."
Dayo does not answer. He picks up his tablet. Walks to the door.
"You're a smart kid," he says, pausing at the threshold. "Too smart for your own good, maybe. But being smart won't get you out of here. The only way out is through. Remember that."
He leaves. The door clicks shut.
Yaz sits alone in the Practice Room, shaking.
Thorne arrives two hours later.
He comes alone, without the briefcase, without the tablet. Just himself and his silver hair and his expensive suit and those calm hazel eyes that have always looked warm but now look like something else. Something colder. Something more honest.
"Dayo tells me you're upset," he says, settling into the chair. His voice is smooth. Reasonable. The voice of someone explaining something obvious to someone who has simply misunderstood.
"I'm not upset. I'm angry."
"At what?"
"At being lied to."
Thorne's eyebrows rise. "Lied to? About what?"
"About everything. About protection. About being ready. About families being turned away." Yaz's voice is steady, but his hands are shaking. "I'm not being protected, Mr. Thorne. I'm being kept."
The room is very quiet. The red light blinks. The wind outside pushes against the window.
"Yassine." Thorne's voice is patient. Patronizing. The voice of an adult speaking to a child who does not understand the world. "I know it feels that way sometimes. Being young is hard. Being talented is harder. But everything I've done, everything we've built together, it's for you. For your future."
"My future where I stay hidden forever?"
"Your future where you emerge fully formed, undeniable, ready to change the world." Thorne leans forward. His eyes are soft now, warm, the eyes of someone who cares. "Do you think I enjoy this? The secrecy? The waiting? I would love nothing more than to share you with the world tomorrow. But the world is not kind to children, Yassine. The world chews them up and spits them out. I've seen it happen. I won't let it happen to you."
The words are beautiful. They are shaped like care. They sound like protection.
But Yaz has learned to see now. He has learned to look beneath the surface. And beneath the words, beneath the warmth, he sees something else. He sees a man with a watch made of gold, who speaks of investments, who turned away families because stability mattered more than happiness.
"I want to go outside," Yaz says.
"And you will. Soon."
"When?"
"When you're ready."
"That's not an answer."
Thorne's smile flickers. Just for a moment. A crack in the mask.
"It's the only answer I have."
He stands. Adjusts his jacket. Checks his watch.
"Practice the fanfare," he says. "Marcus says you're making excellent progress."
He leaves. The door closes. The room is quiet.
And Yaz sits there, feeling the anger drain out of him, feeling it empty like water from a tub, feeling it leave behind something worse.
Nothing.
The anger had been so hot. So real. For a moment, he had felt alive again.
But it is gone now. Thorne had looked at him with those calm hazel eyes. He had spoken in that smooth voice. And the fire had died.
What replaces it is worse than anger.
It is nothing at all.