Kit: People Who Hadn't Known Me at Fourteen

In the first week, I learned that being good with equipment you already understood did not make you good with all equipment.

I also learned that a room full of people who liked the same things could be both exciting and exhausting. Everyone had references. Everyone had made something. Several people used words I knew only from articles and expected them to be part of ordinary conversation.

Asha seemed at home immediately. She knew where to get cheap model board, had already made a friend in the workshop and could ask a question without sounding as if she was apologising for occupying the room.

I knew she was probably nervous too. Knowing did not prevent comparison.

On Thursday, Martin asked us to build a short sound sequence for a scene in which somebody entered an empty house. I had done something similar with Nell. For half a second, I felt relieved.

Then he added constraints: limited tracks, a fixed duration, no music, and a clear change in what the listener understood between the first sound and the last.

My first version was full of good sounds. It did not tell a clear story.

“What happens?” Martin asked after listening.

“Someone comes in.”

“And what changes?”

I looked at the waveform. “They realise somebody else is there.”

“Where do I hear that?”

I pointed to the final sound.

He played it again. “I hear a cupboard. You know who made the sound because you imagined the scene. The listener doesn't have your notes.”

It was a fair criticism. I hated it for five minutes, then opened the file again.

After class, Asha asked whether I wanted to get food with a few people. I said yes too quickly, relieved to be invited. Bex joined us from her course, still carrying a paper bag of fabric samples. We found a place where the tables were too small for everyone's bags and the food arrived at different times.

I laughed more than I had all week.

People talked about bad school productions, strange first jobs and the worst things they'd seen fixed with tape. I had stories. I wasn't only the quiet person from a small town who kept checking labels twice. I could be funny before anyone knew why I was usually careful.

At nine, I remembered Nell. I sent a message saying I might be late.

She replied no problem.

I accepted the words at face value because they allowed me to stay where I wanted to be.

The evening continued. We went back to the hall kitchen. Somebody made tea. Somebody produced a game with rules nobody could explain consistently. My phone was low on battery, so I put it on charge in my room and forgot to bring it back.

When I finally looked, it was nearly midnight.

There was a message from Nell: Going to sleep. Speak tomorrow.

No accusation. That didn't make me feel better.

I typed an apology, deleted the part where I explained every reason the evening had run late and sent: Sorry. I should have told you the call wasn't happening tonight rather than leaving it vague. Are you free tomorrow after school?

She didn't answer. She was probably asleep. I knew that. I still looked at the screen twice more before putting it down.

The next morning, I sent her a photograph of the view from my desk. Brick wall, lamp, a mug with tea I had forgotten to drink. I wanted to show that my life was not an uninterrupted montage of interesting people and brilliant work.

Then I stopped myself from using the photograph as a substitute for saying what had happened.

At class, I rebuilt the sound sequence. I removed three layers, changed the timing of a footstep and made the final sound come from a place the first part had established as empty. Martin listened, nodded and asked one more question that made me rethink the whole ending.

Learning was less flattering than being the person who already knew how the recorder worked.

At four, I went back to my room and waited for Nell's call.

This time, I was the one watching the time.