I slipped some sheet music into my back pack, carefully picked up my guitar case, and quietly headed towards the door. Jordania, as usual, was still sleeping. Bastard probably has quite the hangover, too. For spite, I slammed the door shut and smiled to myself with satisfaction.

The streets were a bit more quiet than usual, but I suppose that's typical for a Sunday morning. I quickly crossed the street, even though the don't walk sign was lit. Thanks to Scott and Sara's training, I was becoming an expert at dodging cars.

I rounded the corner and walked into Boston Common. The Common offered just want I needed this cool Sunday morning: peaceful solitude. Living in the dorm is much like my house back in Tulsa. There is no such thing as peace, and there is no such thing as solitude. You have to find an outside source of refugee.

I sat down at my usual bench, pulled out my guitar, and began to tune it. I hadn't picked up my guitar in about a week, but it felt much longer. It was hard to play in the dorms. First there were "quiet hours," no noise between the hours of 11 p.m. and 8 a.m.

Then there was Jordania. He was just a slew of problems. More often than not, I can't even get in the room to my guitar 'cause he and Tiff are going at it. If, by the grace of God, they aren't, he'll only scoff at what I'm playing, usually muttering something along the lines of, "that shit's for babies." And if he's not muttering, that means he's attempting his Jimmy Page impression, which I might add is not all that good. In fact, it's horrible. And he purposefully turns his amp all the way up so I can't hear my guitar. Did I mention Jordan doesn't see a need for acoustic instruments?

I guess I'm not being completely fair. I mean, I'm not out of options. I could always go to the small rehearsal studios in the basement of two of the buildings. However, it's hard to get inspired in a 5x5 cubicle with plain gray walls. And that's why I started playing at the Common. It has life and so much to draw from. I don't know what I'm going to do once the weather gets too cold to play outside.

Feeling satisfied that my guitar was in tune, I pulled out the sheet music and began to work on my idea for a new song. Strange feeling, writing a song completely by myself. I haven't written one without Tay and Zac in years. Songwriting wasn't just about making hit songs for us. We each had our own separate interests and friends, and songwriting is what holds us together. Many times, we'd talk about our day and what was going on, and the sheet music would sit blank on the table. And while I missed those "bonding sessions," there was an undeniable sense of satisfaction and accomplishment running through my veins at the thought of writing a song by myself. I had forgotten what it's like.

I played what I had already written. I stopped and looked up, scanning the area for a source of inspiration. My eyes fell on figure sitting Indian style on a bench several feet away. It was a girl. She was leaning over a sketchpad lying in her lap, and would occasionally run her fingers through strands of her short, brown hair that would fall in her face in the breeze. She would choose her pencils carefully, examining each one closely before allowing it to touch the paper in the spiral-bound book.

I smiled to myself, watched her for a few minutes, and then wrote a few more bars of music. When I looked up at her again, I noticed she was looking at me intently through squinted eyes. It was then that I realized the girl was Lynda. I stood to walk over and say hi when she shouted to me, "No! Stay over there!"

"Huh?" I was a little more than surprised by her words.

"Just go back to doing what you were doing, and stay there for a few minutes, please," she called over. "Please?"

"Um ... sure," I said, sitting back down again. I was confused and a bit self-conscious now as I tried to get back into the mindset I was in before, and continue working on the song. I really couldn't, though. She had asked me to stay here, and now I could feel her eyes on me.

I only wrote one more measure of the song when Lynda called out to me. "Ike!" she shouted, waving me over.

I grabbed my stuff and walked towards her. She moved some of her stuff from the bench to the ground so I could sit next to her. "Hey, Lyn," I said, slowly lowering myself onto the bench.

"Good morning, Ike," she replied, smiling wide. "What brings you here so early?"

I pulled my guitar out of the case and placed it in my lap. "This. Life doesn't stir in the dorm until noon, and everyone would break my fingers if I woke them."

"They'd wake up to an acoustic guitar?"

"Paper-thin walls," I told her. "But even if they weren't, this is much more inspiring." I swept my hand, indicating the people, and life in general, passing by.

She looked at me closely for a few moments, then returned her attention to her sketchpad, saying, "I know exactly what you mean." Once again she looked up at me, then looked back down at the pad in her lap. "Here everything is so natural. You sit, watch, and everything just flows from that."

I fidgeted a bit as she quickly glanced at me again. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. "What are you drawing?"

"You," she said, exchanging the pencil in her hand for another one. "Now hold still and act natural," she instructed.

I laughed at that. "Lynda, you sound just like the photographers my brothers and I have spent so much time making fun of. Holding still is hardly acting natural, especially for me."

She looked up and smiled at me. "Fine. Then act unnatural and hold still." She returned her attention to her sketchpad, and stuck the tip of her tongue out in concentration as she added some final touches to her work. "You know, this was much easier when you weren't posing for me."

"Uh ... sorry?" I said, a smile forming on my lips.

"There! That! Hold that!" Lyn said, quite excited as she furiously worked on the sketch some more. "Uh-huh ... done. Ta da!" She held up the sketchpad for me to see.

"Wow ... that's amazing..." I said softly, completely blown away. There was no doubt about it. Lynda was obviously quite talented. I sat there, staring at the sketch, completely dumbfounded. It was like ... it was like she had drawn exactly how I feel when I write. She somehow managed to capture it all on paper - the way my hair falls in my face, the way I stare off into space trying to take what I envision in my mind and let everyone hear it through my music, and the way I smile softly to myself when I like what I hear.

And that's when so many things came rushing at me in full force. The first was the realization that I truly didn't know much about the girl sitting beside me. All I knew was her name, Lynda Mancini. She worked at Starbucks and was sophomore at Emerson College. I didn't know she could draw. I didn't even know her major.

I really hadn't told her all that much about myself, either. And yet, in that short time I had worked on my song this morning, she had managed to learn so much about me. Not only did she learn it, but she sketched it, as well. Now it was in this pad, down on paper for anyone to see. It was almost like having your innermost secrets revealed to the world.

I reached out towards the sketch, and my fingertips lightly traced over the guitar Lyn had drawn. "Are you an art major?"

She frowned. "I wish. Emerson doesn't have an art program. I'm an English major. Art is just my passion."

"Songwriting is mine," I told her, finding my voice. I chose Berklee to learn more about the quote-unquote business, but songwriting is just..."

"A part of your heart and soul?" she supplied, holding the sketch at arms' length and studying it intently.

I nodded my head.

"I hope you don't mind. I didn't realize it was you when I chose you as my model. You were so absorbed in what you were doing, and just looked the exact way I was feeling. I had to get that down." She set the pad back into her lap and sighed, closing her eyes and turning her face up towards the warm September sun. "This past week has been Hell for me and my art. Usually everything comes to me so easily, and I work so freely. This past week ... it was like everything had been bottled up inside and couldn't get out. Seeing you sitting there, working so intently, it was like a breath of fresh air." Lyn opened her eyes and turned her head towards me. "I must sound like an idiot." She looked down as a blush rose to her cheeks.

"Hardly. In fact, you just described my past week. So far I've learned the hardest transition in college is finding time for my music. I'm used to picking up my guitar whenever the mood strikes. Now, all of a sudden, I have to fit it in between classes and homework. You just can't schedule feeling creative and inspired." I sighed in frustration. Bottled up was definitely a good way to describe the way I had been feeling. It was truly like there was so much trying to get out, but the cap was screwed on tight.

She smiled. "It's nice to talk to someone who understands." Our eyes locked and a few moments of silence passed between us before she asked, "So, do you play any instruments besides guitar?"

"Yeah, piano. How about you? What's your favorite medium?" I really didn't know a whole lot about art, but the few bits and pieces of information lodged in my head got there thanks to Tay and Zac's passion for it. And it seemed those small bits and my love for music were what was going to allow Lyn and I to relate to one another.

"I'll work with just about anything - oils, acrylics ... watercolor is my favorite, though. Much ... freer. The paint will run and something you had no intention of creating will suddenly appear on the canvas. Unfortunately, I can't carry an easel and canvas with me at all times. That's how I really got into sketching. The sketchpad can go wherever I do."

"You're lucky. This," I said, indicating my guitar case with foot, "is not as easy to cart around."

"Well, sure, but it could be worse. What would you do if you played the drums? The guitar might be a pain to carry around sometimes, but the drum set pretty much has to stay at home." Lynda tried to be very serious, but a smile broke through and she giggled.

"That may be true, but in a pinch two pencils and a textbook make a great makeshift drum set." I returned her smile and laughed along with her.

"Pencils and a textbook? I bet that drove your teachers crazy."

"It was nothing Mom couldn't handle, especially compared to dinnertime at my house."

"Mom?" Lyn looked at me, a slightly bewildered expression on her face.

"Yeah. I was home schooled," I told her. Could she really not have known?

"Oh, that's right. Now that you mention it, I remember reading that somewhere. People magazine, I think. So, what was that like, being home schooled?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. What's going to public school like?"

Now it was her turn to shrug. "Nothing special. I rolled out of bed, went to school, sat through classes, and did homework all so I could go to college and study something in the hopes of making a career out of it."

"You just described being home schooled," I told her. "The nuts and bolts are the same."

"Maybe, but now you're in a classroom setting. What do you think of it?"

"Truthfully, I like it. It's different, but not really, if that makes any sense. I can tell you one thing, I like not being the only person in my grade." With the exception of having Jordan in my English class, there really wasn't anything not to like about the classroom setting. It was so new and different, getting everyone's perspective on whatever it is we're studying. And I'm sure the only thing that made it so great for me was that it was something I had never experienced before.

"Mmm ... yes, I can imagine not being the only student is a definite plus. That gives the teacher someone else to call on. I was never one for always raising my hand, having to be called on. I was much happier in the back sitting and observing as the rest of the class gave the answers. My senior year English teacher always used to say, 'Lynda, I know you know the answers. Why don't you speak up?' My answer was always the same: silence is a virtue."

A quick, little laugh escaped from my lips and I couldn't help but smile. "My mother would completely agree with you on that one. My house is anything but silent, and I seriously think there are times would she would pay any amount of money for a half-hour's peace."

Lyn smiled. "Well, just tell her when it all gets to be too much, she can spend a weekend up here with my mom. Since I'm at school, Mom has the apartment all to herself. She'd enjoy the company. Anything to keep her from calling me every other day." She rolled her eyes.

"Your mom does that too?" I asked, relieved to hear mine isn't the only one. "My Mom has been calling just about every day. I'd be happy to return her calls if I could ever get near the phone. Jordan kinda puts a damper on that plan whenever I pick up the receiver. I try to explain it to her, but she's got it in her head that I'm too busy to call home." I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Maybe I can convince her to email me instead."

"Oh, yes, email. The wonders of modern technology. I should warn you, though, if you don't have time to respond, she'll send you emails trying to make you feel guilty in that typical motherly fashion. However, if I had to choose between that and the phone, it's email all the way." She nodded her head for emphasis.

"Thanks for the advice. I'll keep it in mind." I smiled at her and felt a low rumble from my stomach. "Are you hungry? I'm supposed to meet Sara and Scott for lunch in about 15 minutes. Wanna come?"

Lynda chewed on her bottom lip and then frowned. "Uh ... I don't think that's such a good idea, Ike."

Confused, I asked, "Why not?" Everything seemed okay at the party Friday night. Why would lunch not be a good idea?

"Well ... uh ..." She stalled and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. Slowly running her fingers through her hair, she finally spoke. "Since I spent my morning here sketching instead of writing my paper of Toni Morrison's Beloved, I should really head back to the dorms. It's too early in the semester for me to start falling back on my work." She started to gather her stuff and pack it up. "But I'll see you on Wednesday, right?"

"Sure. Wednesday." I nodded my head and started to pack up my things, as well.

"Oh, wait. Let me give you this," Lynda said, opening her sketchpad to her drawing of me. "I want you to have it."

"Could you do me a favor and hold onto it?" I asked. "I don't want to fold it and put it in my guitar case, and I'm afraid if I just carried it, it would get ruined."

She nodded her head. "Sure, I'll hold onto it for you." She slipped the straps of the back pack onto her shoulders, closed the sketchpad and carried in underneath her arm. Looking down at the ground, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "So, I'll see you later?"

I smiled at her. "Yeah. I'll see you Wednesday, but I'll call you before then."

Lyn returned the smile. "Okay, I'll talk to you then. Bye."

"Bye," I said before she turned and walked off into the distance.