Flute Major's Vocal Catastrophe
Days passed since pairing up with Shin Lara for her style diary, and Friday—the day of B class—rolled around again. Now that Seonggwang had a party member, he didn't have to stand around awkwardly with Seo Hyun-gyu like a lost puppy. He could mingle with the other students heading off to meet their groups. The multipurpose room and open spaces were already snatched up by the early birds. For our two-person party just getting to know each other, there wasn't much left. We chatted via messenger and decided to pick any old spot. I headed to the promised meetup, hunting down the classroom in the corner of the third floor.
"Cough! Hack!"
The moment I opened the door, a musty mold smell hit me. The lights didn't work, so the only illumination was sunlight sneaking through the curtain gaps. Poor ventilation left dust floating in the air. Bad for a vocalist's lungs. I'd air it out by opening the windows before she arrived. As I waited, I spotted a girl trudging over from afar.
"Ah, sorry... took forever finding the room."
Lara leaned her bag against the wall and scanned the room curiously.
"Never been here before... didn't even know this place existed."
The room was crammed with random gear: a drum tom, a busted-neck acoustic guitar, scattered keyboards, and sheet music everywhere.
"What the hell is this place even for?"
"A backup studio they used before the big facility reno."
Now it was just a storage dump for junk and trash. Pricey trash, though—the amp over there was tube-driven.
"Hmm... how'd you find this spot?"
"Stumbled on it killing time during lunch?"
Lara shot me a puzzled look at my casual shrug.
"Don't you just eat lunch and head back to class?"
Tell me about it. Don't ask—I have no clue either. My chest just aches thinking about it. I wiped dust off the amp and perched on top. I started to offer her the spot next to me, but her vibe wasn't inviting, so I zipped it. Hmm, we're grouped up, but now what? Back in my industry days, collabs were the norm, but high school group projects? No idea. Start with intros? Or small talk to warm up?
"Uh... so, Lara, any hobbies...?"
"Let's do the group stuff first. B class time's tight."
She brushed off my chat with an annoyed edge. I'd figured since she accepted the pairing so easily, no drama. But that slight squint said she was pissed at me too.
Fair enough.
A guy with zero musical wins and an affair scandal? Forget building rapport—no backstabbing whispers from friends would be a win. Suddenly, everything felt like a hassle. She paired with me 'cause no one else would. Mutual necessity, pure contract. No need to get chummy. Just do the work, fill each other's requirements. No different from a collab. Guess the school vibe had me obsessing over "closeness." Music's business anyway.
"...Yeah. Let's skip to it."
I looked away and dove into business. She didn't seem eager to bond either. Knock it out quick, done. School project—how hard could it be?
"First off, anything you play?"
"Instruments?"
"Yeah, good for vocals to handle one."
Visuals or performance help, but composing's easier. You get how melodies function over chords, fill rhythmic space. Even without theory, instrument know-how cuts explanations and nails the sound.
"Personally dig guitar or piano..."
Violin's great, but unrealistic for vocals. Not in a practical music school with artist-teachers.
She pondered, then said,
"Uh... I can play flute. Kinda."
"Flute?"
"Flute... problem?"
"Nah, not really..."
Flute's fine. Means solid breath control. Good flutists phrase songs better.
"Weird. Do vocal majors usually learn woodwinds?"
No rule against it, but vocals pick singable instruments. Flute as a sub-major? Fresh. Trains breath and oral control—not bad. And easy to start.
As I eyed her with interest, she mumbled,
"...I'm not a vocal major?"
"?"
Did I mishear?
"Lara, what'd you say?"
"I said I'm not a vocal major... didn't get in on singing."
My body went ice-cold. Then what did you get in on? Brain freeze, question marks everywhere. Forcing a grin like it was a joke,
"Lara, you didn't mean flute major, right?"
No dice—she shook her head, shattering my hope.
"Flute is my major. Not vocals."
This twist I never saw coming.
"...Why tell me now?"
You said you wanted vocals. I assumed major. Now flute? Most crucial group fact—now? This is fraud! Like hiding virginity pre-wedding. Real life? Lawsuit city. Moon Juhee'd call a lawyer pronto.
"Thought Class A was all instrumental...?"
Ah, my bad. Should've asked then. Explains her "can I do vocals?" check.
"Uh... so flute major, but B class vocals? It hits your grades."
"...Drop me if you don't want."
"Nah, not that..."
"Don't lie... your face screams hate. No need to sugarcoat. I know I'm a burden."
Surprised, I blurted,
"You know?"
"..."
"Sorry, foot-in-mouth. Go on."
She glared murderously, then spat it out.
"Flute major, but got into vocals lately. Wanted this class for it..."
Got it. Saw a vid, idol cash—whatever. She's hooked, screw my GPA, she'll force vocals.
"Mm, yeah. Gotta chase what you love..."
I aimed to affirm her, but she bristled at my tone.
"...Stop that patronizing shit. If you hate it, bail. I went solo over this."
Blonde delinquent mode activated, sharp retort. Fair—she's clean, no scandal. Others ditched her for it. I showed up. She said "do vocals," cool. Now I nitpick like a whiny client post-contract. I'd rage too. Only types who'd chill: simp girls or alpha studs who could carry her. But who am I? Classical GOAT. Pop supernova. Seong. To. The. Kwang.
"Don't care! Do vocals!"
Obviously the latter. (Okay, bit of simp too.) Vocal or flute—who gives a shit? Genius musician right here. Major irrelevant—I'll mold this raw talent.
"R-really okay for vocals?"
Her venomous glare flipped to a beaming smile. Quick switch. Cute when she grins. Beats moping. I thumbs-upped her eager eyes.
"Want vocals? Do it. Major matter? We'll use my originals—fit your level."
"But grades..."
"Yo! Grades over passion?"
"They matter..."
True. I care too. But grades? Pfft. Good singer? Good material? Amateur talk. Pros turn shit to gold. Me, Seonggwang—turn moaning 87-year-old Park Chun-ja into a diva.
"Uh... bad analogy. My skills ain't that trash."
"Just talk. I'll tailor it—you do you, Lara!"
I hyped her up.
"...Our Lara?"
She cringed, stepping back.
"...Sorry, got carried away."
High school girls need ADC-range distance control. Bowed apology, hopped off amp.
"Cool, issue solved. Wanna hear you sing now."
"H-here? Right now?"
"Why not?"
She nodded, reluctant.
"Sound bleed? Fully soundproof."
Still, she ducked her head shyly.
"Not that... singing raw's embarrassing..."
"Where do you usually?"
"Karaoke... bathroom."
Echo chambers—make you sound twice as good. Vet bathroom vocalist here. But masks pure tone, resonance.
"Wanna hear raw. Need your range for composing."
Vocal eval's composer duty. Know limits to craft within. Habits, traits shape melodies. Pre-set vocalist has perks.
"Throat off? Later's fine."
"Nah..."
"Now then? Concepts faster better."
Wanna cheer her on, but no crowd. Just stare intently. She sighed defeat.
"Fine... don't mock if I suck."
"Gotta feedback... grades, remember."
"No mocking! Who feedbacks like that?!"
Volume: pass. She screeched, pulled up songs on phone. No mic for natural volume. She wants backing—hunt cables, adapter for good amp.
"Not ideal, but... songs picked, Lara?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. Confident one, ballad, a cappella."
Creepy peeking teen girl phone—use her messenger list on mine.
Bzzzt! Zzzt!
Amp noise welcomes. Connect phone.
"Sound good? Backing volume okay?"
"Bit lower."
Tweak per vocal prefs.
"Throat warmed? Cue when ready."
Moment here. My vocalist. Compose for her. Know her flaws, strengths. Voicing, breath quirks. All. Singer's a unique instrument. 10,000 vocals, 10,000 songs. One for her. Waiting as fan, sole audience.
"Sip... whoosh..."
She deep-breathed, eyes open.
"Start."
Play vid. Cheap amp crackles intro. Grips PET bottle like mic, steels resolve. Backing ends.
"Hmmm—"
First line: "One light left by the window— like words that won't fade—"
I blinked.
"Your name today~ quietly crosses the night—"
How...
Hold judgment—early.
Steady twitching lips, listen. Next:
"That one 'it's okay'— why so heavy!—"
Confirmed. No need more. Knew her all. Shocking—in a way. Nailed her sans full verse. Music life first. Closed eyes, pure listen. No frowns, gestures. Immersed.
"Pretend-forget smile— heart keeps pulling to you—!"
Deeper amazement. Thought I knew—layers. Abyss depths. Hidden shine. 10k singers, songs—but Lara unique. Her tone, world-only.
"'It's over' hurts less~ than endless feelings—"
Couldn't hold awe.
World—how's this singer undiscovered?
How—
"How do you sing that fucking awfully?"
"..."
"Insane... non-major or not, that bad? How'd you get in? Grades?"
"Hey."
"Talk fine, decent tone... not hard song, ballad wrecked? Park Chun-ja'd out-sing you raw—"
"HEY—!!"
Her roar snapped me around. Face red-purple fury, death glare. Crushed bottle, neck veins throbbing ominously.
"...Did I say my review out loud?"
"Yeah, asshole."
Damn bad habit bites. "Gotta say it anyway. Break time—talk."
Cleared throat, faced her.
"Lara, group work... we need think time."
"..."
"If vocals that bad, I can still make you. Music pro here. Your trash voice? Top singer material. Promise kept."
Lifted butt, clasped her hot hands, sheepish grin.
"Lara, know Vocaloid?"
That proposal blew up the meet. Skip petty drama. Short version: she blocked me after.