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dancingwithreality · 11 months

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romeo and juliet t.w.

gif not mine!

pairing: toto wolff x verstappen!sister

word count: 3.1k

summary: red bulls golden girl has been in a long term secret relationship with the team principal of mercedes, and it gets harder to keep the secret.

warnings: implied sexual content, jos verstappen 🤢, fluff, light steam but no smut

a/n: yes she’s a little child prodigy, but it works better for the plot. if this gets love 'n y'all really want more i'll do a second part maybe :)

please don’t take my work! enjoy and interact :)

JOS VERSTAPPEN was not a nice man, and an even worse father. He was demanding and mean, pushing his driving legacy onto his children. Well, onto Max. When his first child was a girl Jos was not happy. He didn’t think a girl could uphold such a prestige, so he never tried hard. You gave your all to impress your father but it was never enough for him. Then a few years later, he got Max, and when Max was of age he immediately started karting. You were quickly pushed to the back of his mind.

Through the years, even though you did better than Max, he still never cared about you as much as he did Max. Which is definitely saying something. You made your career as the youngest female driver to ever get second in the F2 Championship at 16 years old. At the last race, when you solidified your position as second in the WDC, you will always remember how your 12 year old baby brother went running up to you, pride swelling in his eyes.

He kept chanting your praises and hugged you tightly around your waist. Tears were brought to your eyes and you hugged him back. You took Max up to the podium with you and celebrated with the whole world watching. Except, Jos. His arms were crossed as he barely spared you a glance. That was the last time your heart broke because of him. You swore to yourself, you’d be there for Max how your father never was, and you’d stop relying on him to validate you.

Your success put you on the radar for many teams. The one you went with, was Red Bull. You joined their academy and were their first female reserve. There you met Daniel and became quick friends. Years later, when Max joined Toro Rosso you’d been driving for Red Bull for years already. You were the one that pushed for Max to be your reserve the following year, and everything fell into place.

Now you were 28. You had four consecutive vice championships under your wing and were driving alongside your two-consecutive championship winning brother. Everyone called you the ‘Wonder Twins’ and your family legacy had never burned brighter.

You were having a relaxing dinner with your brother and best friend, reminiscing on your life and how lucky you were. While Daniel and Max took over most of the conversation and were laughing the entire time, you memorized this night to remember it forever. Unbeknownst to Max, your boyfriend of four years was sitting further back in the restaurant having his own night. Glances were being passed back and forth between you to as your relationship was still a secret.

•••

It was 2018, after the Singapore race. The whole grid was out at some club and even some principals and team members joined you.

You and Danny were having the best time dancing and drinking, when you felt someone’s eyes on you. Finding the source gave you a shock and surprise to see Toto staring at you. When your eyes met, he sent a wink your way that made you blush and look back at Daniel. Hurriedly you whispered to him what had happened and the Aussie was at a loss for words. He knew of your little crush on the Austrian often teased you about it, but he never thought the crush would be reciprocated. Nonetheless he matched your excitement and decided you would do something about it.

Danny fluffed up your hair, and your ego, while encouraging you to go talk to him. ‘Open, lemme see your teeth,’ Daniel made a face at you telling you to do the same. You did and he confirmed that nothing was there. ‘Right, go at ‘em!’ He started to push you towards the bar.

‘What am i supposed to say!’ You started panicking while trying to look calm.

‘Turn up that Dutch charm or something! You’ve got this,’ Daniel winked and sent you on your way with a gentle pat on the back.

You were skeptical that Toto would even follow you to the bar. But he did. And somewhere in the night, small talk and glances turned into light touches and smiles. Which turned to laughs and close proximity, which led you going back to the hotel room with him for more privacy and a nightcap. The night was one to really remember as it started what you could only describe as the best thing to happen to you. The morning after wasn’t a walk of shame, no, your held was high and you were filled with joy and you stumbled all the way back to your room, eager to tell Danny all the details.

•••

You were brought back to reality as Daniel kicked you under the table and cleared his throat. Your face burned from how long you kept eye contact from across the room, while your brother sitting a foot away. ‘Sorry, I spaced out,’ you laughed and took a sip of your wine.

'You spend too much of your time with us,' Max sighed and looked at Daniel for his agreement.

‘Max,’ you chuckled, ‘You guys are my best friends, and you’re also my brother, why wouldn’t I spend time with you?’ You asked.

‘I’m just saying, you’re with us all the time. And when you’re not you’re always in your room or by yourself,’ Max stated like it was fact. Daniel let out a quick laugh at the idea of you always being ‘alone’ when he knew where you really were.

This time you kicked him, ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

‘Darling we can’t be your only friends,’ Daniel teased. You shot him a deadpanned look and pretended to laugh.

‘I’m serious!’ Max looked almost offended that you and Daniel weren’t taking it as seriously as he was. Both of you immediately turned to him and looked concerned. ‘Daniel has Heidi, I have Kelly, you’re not getting any younger and you don’t have anyone.’

Your mouth was agape, did he just call you old? Daniel couldn’t hold his laughter in anymore and in classic honey badger style, he bursted out and was laughing so hard he couldn’t breath.

‘Max, I can assure you, you don’t have to worry about me.’ You tried to calm this conversation and put it to an end.

Much to your chagrin it didn’t really end. Max went on for a little while longer and you couldn’t have wished to not be there any more. When he finally got up to go to the bathroom, you slumped down in your chair.

Daniel was trying to get his breath back and was drinking his water. 'What was that? Max never cared about my love life!' You pinched your nose bridge and put your head down on the table.

'Why don't you just tell him? It's been four years, I don't think its too fresh anymore.'

'Oh yeah like it's that easy, 'Oh hey Max! I've been dating the Team Principal of Mercedes for years now, i just never told you!' You pretended to smile and used the fakest high pitched voice you had.

'You sarcastic little girl, it's not that big a deal. If you love each other, what's the big deal?'

'Okay don't call me a little girl you're like a few years older than me. Ugh, I miss the days when we had a PR relationship for publicity. No one asked me about my love life back then,' You groaned and took an even larger sip of your wine, the cup almost empty now.

'Just eat your food and stop sulking. You're secretly dating tall, dark, handsome, and hunky, like your life is so hard. Poor Romeo and Juliet.’ Daniel cut a piece off his steak and went back to eating. 'You're leading the championship and getting dicked down-‘

'Daniel!'

•••

You were all at Silverstone now. You just finished qualifying and the feelings were mixed. Max had unfortunately not done as well, but 6th wasn’t horrible. He was sure to make it up.

You were on your way back to your hotel when you got a message from Toto. Unfortunately for him, Lewis and George struggled a little more than they’d prefer. Toto had asked the front desk for an extra key to his room and had given it you prior. He wanted a bit of comfort tonight. He already let out his anger in the garage earlier, he would need another headset for tomorrow, and he wanted you to spend the night. you told him you’d be right over as soon as you were ready.

So a shower and an outfit change later, you were running over to his room and sliding the room key in as quick as you could. You always had to make sure no one saw when either of you went to the others room, so you’d gotten fairly good at it over the years.

As soon as you closed and locked the door, behind you came a pair of arms what wrapped themselves quickly around your waist. ‘Oh, meine liebe,’ the arms sighed in the crook of your neck.

‘Hello my darling,’ you leaned backwards onto the strong chest of your boyfriend and rested one hand around his neck, where his head was pressing kisses on yours. ‘How are you?’

He spun you around in his arms so he could rest his forehead on top your head. ‘Qualifying was piss poor, it seems we can’t get out of 7th and 8th.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, Alonso hasn’t been doing too well these last races. If Lewis manages to move even a few places the gap will tightens between them.’ You rubbed your hands up and down his back, trying yo offer some comforting words.

‘How can you be so impartial?’ He pressed a long kiss to your lips. ‘We’re from rival teams, shouldn’t you pray for our downfall?’ he kissed you again.

This time when he started to pull away you went to your tippy toes chasing after him, ‘We can both succeed without hurting the other.’ One of your hands was behind his neck, the other in his hair. ‘Well, so long as I’m winning.’ Each time he kissed you grew more passionate and desperate than the last. Neither of you had even realized that you’d walked backwards onto the bed until Toto’s legs hit the frame and you both fell.

After his back hit the mattress and you braces yourself on his chest you both erupted into laughter. You laid with your head and arms in his chest as he put one behind his head so he could see you properly. ‘It’s only a good race if you win darling,’ the look in his eyes was so intense you could feel your whole body get hotter.

Your ears grew red as you two kept the silence and just, stared. ‘I love you,’ you softly said.

‘I love you,’ his thick accented voice soothed your heart and made it swell four times the size.

‘I wish we didn’t have to keep everything so secret,’ you uttered in a sort of defeated tone.

‘Meine liebe, I’d get all those silly little social media apps just to tell the whole world about us if you asked.’ He sat up, and pulled you with him into an upright position. You were straddling his lap, arms around his waist, as he pulled you in for a deep kiss, all in an effort to emphasize his love for you.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t like it when he held you like you weighed nothing. At eye level with him now, you couldn’t hold back anymore and jumped at his face. You kissed him so quickly and deeply you could’ve sworn he gasped. You nibbled on his lip and he let out a groan that you immediately swallowed, the sound only sending you into hyperdrive. Your intensity fueled him and you both became hungry for each other. Hands roaming and bodies moving in sync with each other.

His hands gripped your thighs and you tightened your legs around his waist. Once again, like you weight nothing, he took advantage of your tightening around him and lifted you up so he could further up the bed. Not once did you disconnect from each other as the night began to escalate.

He laid you down on your back and hovered over you, only a mere few inches from laying on you. Lips swollen and eyes dilated in lust you uttered ‘I love yours’ once more before connecting your lips for what feels like the tenth time that night.

All you were was a mess of sweaty skin, hushed breaths and some of the most explicit sounds that would make anyone blush. Nights like these, we’re you were able to care for each other and pretend the world outside didn’t exist were your favorite. Nights where you two could just be in love, not Mercedes Team Principal and Red Bulls Golden Girl.

Nights like these where you were Romeo and Juliet, fighting against your families and becoming your own.

•••

It was the last lap of Silverstone and adrenaline was running high. Your father had shown up to this race which already put you in a sour mood, you just wanted him to leave. You had Lando pushing behind you, granted the gap was 11.63 seconds but you wanted it to stay that way. Your only goal now was to get fastest lap to really tie it in. All these years later and you were still desperate for your father to see how good you were. See how you did it all by yourself.

You knew that behind Lando was Max, and even though you would always wish the best for the papaya boy, you knew that if max couldn’t overtake Jos would not be happy. His permanently disappoint disposition still hurt Max and it hurt you to see it.

Tension was running high as the race was coming to a close. There wasn’t a sound you could hear besides your own heart and you crossed the finish line. Lando followed behind and Max just .01 of a second behind him. It was close, and you were just so happy for both of them that you didn’t care if your brother didn’t overtake him.

When the final lap was over and you parked your car, the first thing you did was take off your helmet and look at the crowds. Amongst the cheering crowds, McLaren going wild and Red Bull screaming at the top of their lungs you watched as your brother pulled into the third spot and got out. Max made eye contact with your father and you could watch his heart break. Although he had preformed so well Jos was never pleased.

This ignited something in your veins. You watched him cross his arms and stand silently in the crow of cheering Red Bulls, the cameras showing off the orange army going insane in the bleachers. Yet somehow, the happiness couldn’t rub off on him.

You were tired of him.

You couldn’t take a single second of his attitude anymore.

So with all your courage and fire, you arm over to where Mercedes had piled off to the side. Your pushing through the crowds caught the cameras attention and all eyes were on you.

There in that second there was only one thought in your head. One idea: and you were going to follow through. You always do. You found Toto looking around shocked and confused as to why you were right in front of him. And in that second, you kissed him.

You brought both of your hands up to cup his face and you smashed your lips against his. As if the world melted around you his hands found your hips and the two of you were pushing so hard into each other, it was hard to tell where you ended and he started.

Just like the night before, you were one. You weren’t Mercedes v. Red Bull. You were boy and girl, hopelessly in love.

The crowd and gone silent.

You two pulled away ever so slightly, foreheads rested against the others as Toto supported your weight so you didn’t have to strain your feet too much to reach him. Despite just hard launching your relationship without any kind of talking about it before hand, the two lovers embraced each other.

‘The world knows now,’ he whispered in your ear.

‘Let them.’ You smiled as you hugged him tighter. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you.’ he whispered back.

Cheers and whoops erupted around you. Despite the initial shock of your relationship people were just happy. It was a good race with an even better surprise at the end, how could they complain?

The two of you pulled apart and smiled at each other, the world so unused to swing Toto so domestic and soft. You have him one more hot kiss before walking back to do the post race interview and award ceremony.

‘I guess she isn’t so alone, huh..’ Max looked star struck as Daniel laughed and patted him on the back.

You walked back and Jos was furious at your vulgar and inappropriate display. You’d never seen him so mad. It made you audibly laugh.

You put your Rub Bull cap on and walked right up to David Coulthard and smiled, waiting to start the questions.

‘Well that was something,’ He laughs in a slightly awkward manor. ‘Can I assume there’s something going on between you two?’

‘We’ve been dating for a while, I love him.’ You never smiled brighter.

‘A congratulations is in order then, for the race and for your love!’ He barked out in laughter as you thanked him and giggled.

Your eyes never left Toto, even as the anthems played and the trophies were handed out. Even as you sprayed each other with champagne and celebrated. Neither of you looked away. The smiles so evident on your faces and that in love glow never left. At that moment, neither of you cared about the repercussions that would follow. The PR mess and the scolding from Christian. It was just you two, in love.

The love you shared didn’t have to be bottled anymore. You two didn’t have to hide anymore, you could be together freely and honestly. That was all you wanted in life. To be with your love, in love, with no secrets or shame. You loved each other and that was all that mattered.

fin.

#toto wolff x reader #toto wolff #formula 1 #f1 imagine #f1 #reader insert #max verstappen #red bull f1 #daniel ricciardo #my fic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fiction #f1 x oc #f1 x female driver #f1 x female reader #mercedes amg f1 #red bull racing

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petit-papillion · 8 months

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2023 Qatar GP Post-Race Interviews

18 drivers (not counting SAI and HAM). 1 so ill he could not finish the race (SAR), 1 taken to medical center and excused from media duties (ALB), another to medical center after almost passing out after getting out of the car (STR). 3 to podium ceremony/cooldown room. The remaining 12 drivers all had to lay down on the floor and seriously cool down, before finally making it to the media pen (although 1 had to leave to cool off more after answering only 2 questions (HUL)).

Here are some of the comments made by the drivers:

"By far the most physical race I've ever experienced. I felt close to fainting in that race. I've never experienced anything like it before. I had to ask my engineer to give me encouragement just to try to take my mind away from it. I do a lot of heat training in the sauna and so you push your body to the limit and sometimes you just need to get out of that sauna. And that's sort of how I felt from about lap 20. I opened my visor for the whole race and it was hot air, but it was better than no air. It was brutal. I was so sick in the car. I wasn't physically, I wasn't sick, but I felt ill."

- George Russell

"I was feeling ill, lap 15, 16, I was throwing up for two laps inside the cockpit. And then I was like, ‘Shit, that’s going to be a long race.' (...) It was just like 80C inside the cockpit this race. I don’t think we probably do the best job in terms of not keeping the heat in the back, but dissipating it inside the cockpit where the driver drives, and I think that was probably the reason today why we felt so bad."

- Esteban Ocon

"Especially with the g-forces, when you have a lot of dehydration, you can drink but the drink is more of a tea than anything else because it’s at 60C-plus, so it’s extremely difficult to hydrate yourself and again with the g-forces, you don’t see as well. The track limits we’re speaking about are [the difference between just] centimetres at 280km/h; in qualifying when we’re fresh it’s difficult to respect them, but then at the end of the race it’s a nightmare."

- Charles Leclerc

"You don't want to be passing out when you're driving at 200mph down the straight. And that's how I felt at times. Any hotter, I think I'd have retired because my body was going to give up."

- George Russell

"Extremely hot. Even from the beginning, I put my helmet on before the start of the race and I was sweating. It definitely didn't get any better once I was driving! Very hot."

- Oscar Piastri

"I asked my team on the radio if they would tip water over me in a pit-stop, but it was not allowed. My seat was burning hot and felt my right side was burnt by this heat. We have to think for the future -- maximum temperatures or maximum humidity... In football, they have water breaks, but we can’t have that, can we?"

- Fernando Alonso

"It's ridiculous. These temperatures -- everything goes blurry. The last 25-30 laps it's just blurry in the high-speed corners. Blood pressure dropping, just passing out, basically, in the high-speed corners with high loaded G-forces. The kerbs are now painted because they're worried about punctures. I couldn't see where I was going because I was passing out. I was fading in and out. The temperature was too much."

- Lance Stroll

"The feeling is like torture. I would say it was harder than Singapore. Just because the temperature in the cockpit started to be almost too much, I think it's getting to the limit and someone is going to have a heat stroke."

- Valtteri Bottas

"It was crazy. I had to consistently open the visor to breathe, actually. It's just too, too hot. Obviously, I don't want to open the visor because sand also comes through the visor and I could feel that sand inside my eyes, but if I close it's insane the amount of heat I felt. I don't know if other helmet manufacturers are the same, but for myself, it was tough, and if you drive behind another car, it's even worse."

- Yuki Tsunoda

"I think some of the guys who are struggling today, they are extremely fit or even fitter than me. Just the whole day, it's like you walk around in a sauna and in the night, the humidity goes up. The races are quite long. But it's not the only place...a few places are like that. Singapore is almost like a two-hour race and it's very, very warm. I think it's also quite on the limit of what should be allowed. So there are a few things to look at, but this was definitely way too hot."

- Max Verstappen

"We're in a closed car that gets extremely hot in a very physical race and it's frustrating.. I guess on TV, it probably doesn't look very physical at all. But clearly, when you have people who end up retiring, or are in such a bad state, it's too much. For the speeds we are doing is it is too dangerous. I know this race is later on in the season [in 2024], it will be a lot cooler a few months later but it’s something that needs to be talked about and I’m sure we’ll speak about it as it shouldn’t have happened in the first place."

- Lando Norris

The 2023 Qatar Grand Prix, everybody.

Sources: The Race, Sky Sports, Fox Sports, ESPN, Sports Illustrated

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picipicipici · 8 months

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Exit Strategy

Only time will tell if this change will help you move on or if fate has other plans for you.

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader, Carlos Sainz x Reader Note: slow burn, confused!y/n, y/n tryna to move on from Carlos Sainz.

In a world where emotions were as unpredictable as the race outcomes on the Formula 1 track, you found yourself entangled in a long-standing situationship with none other than Carlos Sainz. It had been years, yet the strings of your connection seemed to grow stronger with each passing season. Both of you had been pinning for each other in the whirlwind world of motorsport, where relationships were often temporary, and commitments were scarce. The term "situationship" was the perfect descriptor for your bond–no strings attached, no official labels, just an intricate dance of emotions on a fast-paced track.

Carlos, with his charming smile and charismatic presence, was not one to be tied down. He freely dated and spent time with other girls, you couldn't help but feel that there was something special between the two of you, something worth holding onto. As time went on, the one-sided nature of your feelings began to take a toll on you. The emotional rollercoaster of hoping for something more was exhausting, and you longed for closure or clarity. You needed an exit strategy from this never-ending loop.

In a bold move, one that would change the course of your life and relationship with Carlos, you decided to take a step back from the high-speed world of Ferrari. You handed in your resignation and moved to Carlos's former team, McLaren. It was a decision fueled by both a desire for distance and the hope that it would finally allow you to move on. You thought that being away from Ferrari's red-hot passion and the constant presence of Carlos would give you the space and perspective needed to untangle your emotions. The switch to McLaren was symbolic, a fresh start, and a chance to regain control over your heart.

As you settled into your new role, the distance did provide some relief. You focused on your career and poured your energy into racing for McLaren. The adrenaline on the track was a welcome distraction, and you slowly began to heal. Yet, deep down, the memories of your time with Carlos and the emotions you had shared never truly faded. The bond remained, a reminder of the intensity of your connection, even in the fast-paced world of Formula 1. Only time will tell if this change will help you move on or if fate has other plans for you.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The night had fallen over the city of Singapore, and the air was charged with excitement and glamour as the elite of the Formula 1 world gathered at the prestigious Amber Lounge. It was the post-celebration party; the atmosphere was electric, and smiles abounded, until the moment you spotted Carlos Sainz making his entrance to Amber Lounge. Carlos looked striking in his black t-shirt, his attire exuding a casual charm that drew everyone's attention. He looked radiant, wearing the glow of victory and surrounded by admirers and well-wishers.

You couldn't help but feel an overwhelming urge to rush into Carlos and give him the warmest embrace to congratulate him on his victory. However, the reality of the situation kept you rooted in your seat as you saw a stunning woman on his arm. What truly captivated your gaze was the woman by his side, who impeccably matched his elegance in a black low v-neck dress that hugged her figure in all the right places. She was unmatched in her beauty and poise.

The sight of him with another woman sent a pang of jealousy, casting a shadow over what was supposed to be a joyous occasion. Despite your best efforts to move on, his presence stirred up old emotions, and you couldn't help but wonder what could have been. As they moved together through the crowd, you couldn't tear your eyes away from the way Carlos's hands rested effortlessly on her curvy waist, and how she clung to him, their connection seeming unbreakable. It was a sight that was both pained and fascinating, a reminder of the love you’ve kept hidden for so long, now manifesting itself in the form of envy and longing.

Your attention was suddenly yanked away from Carlos and his enchanting companion when you felt a tap on your arm. Startled, you turned to see a friendly face offering a goofy smile. “You’re staring too much.” He declares.

You offered him a tight smile in return and muttered, "Do I?" as your shoulders slumped. Without further prompting, you gave the newcomer some space, and he promptly took the invitation, settling down beside you. "Haven’t moved on yet?" he teased, and you instinctively shushed him, your hand smacking his arm. He groaned but couldn't contain a giggle as you continued to playfully smack his arm. "Okay, okay, enough, Y/N," he pleaded, shielding himself from your fists. "Or what?"

You mustered a mock serious expression. "I'll sue you for this abusive behavior." as you landed one last light punch, your lips forming an exaggerated pout. "Tsk, you started it first, Mr. Norris." you sighed and slouched further into the luxurious leather sofa.

"You look silly with that grumpy face, Y/N," Lando observed, his tone lightening. "Smile a bit!" He chuckled softly, and you couldn't help but attempted a small smile, appreciating his effort to cheer you up. You let another long exhale and felt the weight of the evening pressing down on you. Your fingers unconsciously twirled at the end of your shirt as you contemplated the idea of escaping to the comfort of the hotel room, where a long, hot shower and your favorite pajamas awaited. Overwhelmed by a sudden urge to leave, you shot up from my seat so abruptly that you nearly lost your balance.

"You good?" Lando called out, his hand reaching out to steady you. His firm grip helped you regain your balance, and you met his puzzled gaze. "Lando, I’m proud of you, but I'm afraid I can't stay at this party any longer," you confessed, your voice carrying a hint of distress. His confusion was evident in his expression, but the need for solitude and a break from the party had become too pressing to ignore. Lando offers a gentle, warm smile.

To be continue.

#carlos sainz #lando norris #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #formula 1 #f1 imagine #lando norris imagine #carlos sainz imagine

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silverstonesainz-archive · 1 year

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hi! i just have an idea carlos x reader imagine, do you mind writing it?

here’s the idea:

they’ve been dating in secret for a year and decided to go public soon, so they agreed to enter the paddock together at the next gp as a way to announce the relationship

but a few days before the gp started, reader feel nervous about what will people think about her, so carlos comforts her. Carlos also posted photos of reader and him on their last holiday to soft launch the relationship and show her what people think (fans loved her and their relationship)

sorry if it’s to long and there’s a mistake in grammar, english isn’t my first language hehe

thank you ❤️

hope this was okay sweetie!! (i also made a whole edit with this i may have a stroke)

paddock walk (cs55)

summary: the one where carlos tries to calm your nerves word count: 647

“what do you mean you’re not coming anymore?”

you nibble on your bottom lip, listening to carlos’s soft breathing on the other end of the line. you and carlos had been planning your appearance to the spanish gran prix for a month now, finally coming to terms that a year of hiding your relationship was enough, and that you were both comfortable with sharing a piece of it with the world. but only a piece, and that would start with you can carlos arriving at the paddock together.

it’s not your first grand prix. you had managed to sneak into a couple throughout the last year, like suzuka and singapore to name a few. you were always there, but always arriving when he was already deep in last minute meetings or warm ups. but this sunday in spain, you would instead be arriving with carlos. no more secretly kissing good luck in the hotel, or the subtle smiles in passing when he’d walk by you in the garage. you would no longer be just some girl, now everyone would know that you are carlos sainz’s girlfriend. and it made you nauseous.

“i just think it’s too soon.”

“that’s not the reason amor. what is it?”

you don’t like that he can see right through you, even without seeing you. he isn’t wrong; it’s not too soon, if anything the timing was perfect. but going public meant opening yourself up to his world even more so. which means welcoming people following your every move because they were following his every move. you’ve seen the way other girlfriends have been treated online; the abuse and threats, the way their every move is analyzed down to the millisecond. truth be told, you weren’t ready for that. you weren’t ready to be scrutinized just yet. you just wanted a couple more weeks of bliss.

“what if they don’t like me?”

“who?”

“your fans,” carlos sighs but your persist on, “what if they think i’m not pretty enough or they don’t like-“

“amor, that doesn’t matter. none of that matters, you know that. that’s not the point of this weekend. the point of us arriving together isn’t to receive public approval, but to share a piece of us with them.”

“i know…” you sigh softly, rubbing your eyes. “i know… i’m just scared.”

carlos sits on his bed, “well… you’re still coming to the race right?”

“mhm. i wouldn’t miss it.”

“okay.” he smiles to himself. “okay. we can decide when the day comes. if you’re still not comfortable by then, then we won’t do it this weekend. we won’t do it until we’re on the same page. okay?”

you fall back onto your bed, a bit of relief, “okay. thank you”

“of course baby. now, go to sleep. te veré mañana. buenas noches, te amo.”

“te amo.”

you go to sleep without another thought about the ordeal, agreeing that you both would figure it out when the day comes. between traveling to barcelona and making up for lost time with carlos, you barely had time to look at your phone. it was long forgotten, too wrapped up in your boyfriend to even care.

finally with some downtime, carlos pulls out his phone. he scrolls some before handing it over to you. “i don’t know if this will make a difference on your decision, but i thought you should see.”

you take his phone, looking on his screen to not only see a his instagram open, but the countless comments underneath it. your heart beats out of your chest, reading all the kind words. the nice overpowers the mean, and your anxieties begin to disappear one by one. there’s still a bit of worry, but not as much as the night prior. you look over at carlos and smile, leaning over to plant a kiss on his lips.

“well?”

“let’s do it.”

#carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #f1 imagine #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #cs55 drabble

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yunhsuanhuang · 8 months

Text

You Look So Good In Blue | Y.H. Huang

Inspired by Child Ballad 16.

When a teenage fling mutates into something vast and terrifying, two seventeen year olds at a certain mid-tier college in Singapore make a desperate plan to control their future, earn their parents' love (or at least respect), and get the hell out of this school for good.

i. the daughter

It's whispered in the kitchen, it's whispered in the hall

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

The king's daughter goes with child, among ladies all

And she'll never go down to the broom anymore.

It's whispered by the ladies one unto the other,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

“The king's daughter goes with child unto her own brother–

And they'll never go down to the broom anymore.”

Sheath and Knife, Maddy Prior

/r/sgacads

is st cecilia rly a pregnancy school?? [o levels]

/u/anxiousorange

hiii sorry for the 29583th school admissions post today lol but i just got my o level results back and they’re pretty ok ^_^ so i was thinking of going to st cecilia junior college since it’s near my house but the more i hear about it the more i want to reconsider… like apparently the people are very party type which is not really my thing?? and ofc everyones heard about how its got the highest pregnancy rate in sg o_0

is this true? or just say say one

comments (8)

/u/academicweapon

As a SCian it’s not true LOL none of us get bitches

/u/theatrekidaf

skill issue

/u/sharpsdisposal

we’re too busy failing physics :/

/u/zombiegrave

q: how many scians does it take to change a lightbulb?

a: none. they like it better darker

/u/aw_bass34

Q: What’s the only test SC girls can pass?

A: Pregnancy test :P

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

Damn old rumour, probably from 1990s, 2000s around there. But it’s not really unfounded. Especially with what happened in 2008.

/u/anxiousorange

what happened? im scared lol

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

You haven��t heard meh? It was a big deal back then, I'm shocked they've covered it up that well. Let me try and remember.

You never told me what really happened over those few blistering months in 2008, but I guess I wasn’t alone in that. Even when the newspapers shoved a mic in your face, even when you were being grilled by the lawyers, even when you were standing on that trap door, waiting for the drop– what really happened was a secret you’d bring to the grave.

So it’s all inference and extrapolation and linear correlation– sue me. How else am I going to make sense of that moment? How else do I come to terms with why you did what you did? Could I have known? Could I have stopped it? Was I even, when it came down to it, your friend– or was I just somebody who let you copy his lecture notes?

I don’t know. What I do know is this:

It was some mid-week mid-afternoon, indistinguishable from any other. The bell had just rung, and the whitewashed corridors were packed with sweaty kids rushing to PE, squeezing past those dragging their feet from class to class. We were part of the latter group, squinting against the September sun as we ambled across the quadrangle to home class. Above us, the school motto loomed in oversized light-blue letters: Remember you are in the presence of God.

I was mentally calculating how long the Malay stall queue would be when you said, casual as always, “Eh, pass me your market failure notes later, can? I’m yellow-slipping after GP.”

I raised an eyebrow. You weren’t a stranger to leaving school early, but you’d been doing it more and more often lately, and at this point I hadn’t seen you stay for Shooting in ages. As your club captain, I was supposed to be concerned. As a friend– well, I was intrigued. Of course I’d heard the rumours, passed from homeroom to homeroom, Friendster account to Friendster account. Who in St Cecilia’s hadn’t? “Is this related to whatever you and Camilla Wong have going on?”

“Cam’s not my girlfriend,” you said, after a brief, completely unsuspicious pause.

I snorted. “She doesn’t let anyone in this school call her that but you, dumbass. ”

You ducked your head down to hide a smile, your dress-code fringe falling into your eyes. It was a strangely endearing habit. “Fine lah. We’re– seeing each other.” Then you continued, hurriedly, “But don’t let anyone else know, OK?”

“Fine, I'll write you off CCA for today. But don’t make it a habit, ar? Hold pen, not hold hand.” Despite myself, I grinned. Sure, the two of you made an unlikely couple. Wong was an ex-Convent girl and student councillor, all relentless energy and long hair tied so high it was prone to hit people when she spun, while the only time I’d ever seen you really alive was behind the barrel of an air pistol. Back then, I thought it was cute. Opposites attract– wasn’t that the backbone of any drama worth its salt?

I wouldn’t realise, until later, that despite how different the two of you appeared, at the core of it you were the same– pale and skinny and drowning in your school uniform, searching for exits the moment you stepped into a room. Always, always halfway out the door: of your school, of your body, of the life you knew.

But back then it was just a September afternoon, and we were only seventeen. You smiled back at me, all cheer, like you saw something I didn’t, like you saw something I never would.

In the end, though, this isn’t my story. This is yours. So let’s tell it your way.

The newly minted 1T26 trickled slowly from assembly into the classroom, chopeing the best desks and nervously rotating between the same few ice-breakers: orientation, secondary schools, O-Level points. As you entered, you cast a glance over the sea of blue pinafores and green pants. Still reeling from the sheer increase in the female population, you took a desk at the back, between the ancient, peeling noticeboard and the window looking out on the covered tennis courts. You were tall enough to see over all the heads, anyway.

Soon, your home tutor arrived, a round-faced lady toting an oversized Cath Kidston duffle bag, and wrote her name on the board in neat block letters: Mdm Alvares. The class stood to greet her, chairs scraping hurriedly against the linoleum. She beamed back, her smile all teeth, and was busy setting up the visualiser when the door slammed open.

The class spun in their seats. “Sorry,” the intruder sheepishly said, leaning against the doorframe. Some of her hair had fallen half-out of her high ponytail, her pinafore already wrinkled at the hem. A dusting of freckles covered her pink cheeks.

Mdm Alvares squinted at the girl, then the laminated name list. “And you are?”

“Camilla Wong.”

Mdm Alvares looked out over the class, scanning the rows, and her eyes landed on an empty seat in the corner whose sole occupant was your beat-up Jansport. Realising where this was going, you sighed, putting your bag on the floor.

Camilla smiled, made her way in–

and put her bag down at another empty seat, half a class away.

–

There was nothing in this world you hated more than 4PM Maths lectures. That day the aircon was actually working, which you would normally have been grateful for, except for the fact that that sharp, recycled wind was blasting directly at the very back rows of LT5, right onto your face.

You were trying so hard to 1) figure out plane vectors and 2) stop yourself from getting hypothermia that you wouldn't be able to recall, later, the exact moment that Camilla fell asleep on your shoulder.

When you realised this, you froze. Oh, you thought, and didn't know what else to think. On one hand, it would’ve been so easy to wake her. Just a poke from your pen, and she would’ve jolted up almost instantly. On the other hand, though, her long eyebrows brushed against her freckled cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in these small, slight motions, and–

Before, you had only ever seen her as a baby-blue blur in the corners of your sight, always in motion even in the earliest of classes. But Camilla, asleep, tucked in the crevice between your shoulder and neck–it felt fragile, thrumming, tense. Like something made of glass, nestled gently in your hand, that it would only have taken a squeeze to splinter.

The next twenty-two minutes were the longest twenty-two minutes of your entire life so far. Even so, when the bell rang and Camilla pulled herself upright, you found yourself missing it already.

–

After that, it was like a switch had been flipped in your brain. It was only then that you began to really Notice Camilla, capital N, italics. You noticed her with her head bowed in mass, noticed her shoving fishball noodles into her mouth at lunch, noticed her arguing with your classmates over technicalities in GP. But you noticed her the most in Monday zeriod house meetings, when the artificial grass glimmered with dew and the syrupy dawn light made the whole world seem like a Hollywood coming-of-age movie. You watched her toss her braids over her shoulder, wipe the pearls of sweat off her flushed face. Her red, red shirt rode up as she stretched, revealing a sliver of pale flesh above the waistband of her shorts–

It took until then for her to notice you Noticing. Her eyes flickered over to you, she winked, and blew a kiss.

You felt as if you’d walked out onto the PIE and been hit by a truck. It was a wonder every single smoke alarm in the school didn’t go off right that moment–a cacophony of ringing like firecrackers all strung up, exploding pop-pop-pop from the foyer to the science block to the hostel. It swallowed every other sound, every other thought. Then she turned away, a grin still lingering on the corners of her lips.

–

During one of your lunch breaks, Camilla pulled you out of class. She had to ask you something about your PW survey, she said. As far as you were aware, you weren't in the same PW group. You knew this. She knew this. The entirety of 1T26 knew this, too, so you headed down to one of the wooden picnic tables underneath Block D, the one tucked beneath the staircase next to St Pat’s room. Both of you hovered awkwardly around the bench for a moment, doing the calculations in your head–how close to sit? What to say? You shifted from foot to foot.

All of a sudden, Camilla slammed her hand down on the table. You jumped. “Walao eh. I legit can’t do this anymore. Is this a Thing? Are we having a Thing?”

You swallowed, eyes darting.

“Make up your mind, sia.” She rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath. “St. Francis boys, I swear.”

“No, wait, yes–” The words spilled, embarrassingly and pitifully, out of your mouth. You feared you were not beating the all-boys’ school stereotypes that day. “I mean, I did, but, um–” Just stop, your brain chanted. What're you saying? You're only making it worse. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

“So that’s a yes,” Camilla said, and surged forward to shut you up herself.

–

The next thing you knew, you were stumbling into the stairwell together, the door banging noisily shut behind you. “Why–” Camilla started, and you said, “Nobody ever uses Staircase 6. Now come on.” You pushed her up against the curved concrete wall, not caring that the low ceiling scraped against your head. There was that wild, exhilarated look on her face again, like she still couldn’t believe that she was actually doing this. Beautiful, even in the dull grey light. Her nails dug crescents into your skin.

The air was all heat, sweat, too much cherry blossom perfume. You worked at your tie–quicker than you’d ever been able to in all your years of schooling–as she undid the buttons on her uniform shirt, revealing the freckles that dusted her pale shoulders like so many stars. As you unbuckled her bra in one quick motion, she gasped, then giggled. “Damn, Yeoh. You’re good at this. Is there anyone you haven’t told me about?”

In between kisses, you came up for air. You could've made a joke about not having many opportunities to practise in St Francis, but the real truth was that your desperation shocked even yourself– this wasn’t the careful boy that your pastors, parents, teachers, knew. Your heart threatened to burst from your chest like the bullet from a gun. For the first time in sixteen years, it felt– really felt– like you were fully alive.

“Just you, Cam.” You dipped back down. “Only you.”

ii. the yew tree

He's ta'en his sister down to his father's deer park

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

With his yew-tree bow and arrow slung fast across his back

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

You made close acquaintances with every dark corner of the school. When June came, you merely shifted your meeting points closer to home– behind heartland malls in Tampines or in the nooks and crannies of Cam’s sprawling landed estate along Cluny Road. Neither of you were sure, yet, if you were doing it Right– things like bubble tea dates, strolls in Botanics, or mugging in NLB (god, you should have been mugging, mid-years were in a week and neither of you had cracked a book). But if it wasn’t capital R Right, why did it feel like it was? You thought you had developed a case of myopia–Cam in focus, everything else blurred.

All that to say: the holidays were closer to ending than beginning when you and Cam found yourselves in an overgrown grassy patch tucked somewhere in between a storm drain and the wrought-iron back gate of some minister’s landed property. It had sounded a lot more romantic in theory, but the cloudless sky was the same powder-blue as your school uniforms, and the sun beat down like it had a personal vendetta against you. There was nothing much for shade except for a single banana tree, which you lay crumpled under, sweat-sheened and reddened. The last of the endorphins were beginning to wear off.

Cam’s ringtone cut through the air, a chiptune rendition of some Green Day song. She sighed, then propped herself up on one elbow as she picked up her phone. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back like smooth dark water. You fought the urge to run your hands through it.

“Ba!” she chirped. The cheer didn’t show on her face. “Ba, of course I'm still at the library. I’m with Lucia. Yes, Ba, I’m sure. Don’t call her, can?” She flinched as though she’d been slapped– a familiar, instinctual tic. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll study hard, I promise. Byebye.”

She hung up and sighed, leaning backwards. “I think I’ll need to go soon.”

“Soon,” you promised. You were lying flat on the warm grass, arms crossed over your chest like you were about to be lowered into the grave.

“Soon,” Cam repeated. “Fuck, I hate that we have to sneak around like this, sia. I keep thinking that he’s going to jump out at me from any corner, that any random passerby can tell I’m not where I’m supposed to be. It’s like this whole island has eyes, and maybe it does.” As she lay back down beside you on the grass, her oversized t-shirt–Camp Veritas Counsellor 2007–drooped down to reveal the blades of her shoulder, the ones you’d kissed just moments ago. Her voice lowered. “You know ah, the moment we get our A-Levels back, I’m getting out of this city. Australia, London, LA, anywhere. There’s nothing here for me.”

“No leh.” She can’t say that, you thought, pettily, awfully. She had a mansion and a scholarship and a real iPhone. She had the freedom to just leave. To go somewhere without worrying about the money. You had– what? Parents on the edge of divorce and a bankrupt family business? So much for inheritance. So much for a glorious kingdom. Then you had banished the thought from your head. “You have me.”

“I guess I do.” There was a pause. Then she asked, quick and soft and desperate: “Hey, if I asked you to do something, you’d do it, right?”

You reached over, squeezing Cam’s hand tight in yours. The leaves of the banana tree shivered. “I’d do anything for you,” you told her, and it was true. It was really true.

–

Your grades wobbled, then declined, then plummeted, and you found, to your surprise, that you couldn’t care less. You’d made a lot of bad decisions in your life. Try as you might, you couldn’t count Cam among them.

This, then, might have been why you were lying on your bedroom floor, squinting at your Nokia at four AM on a Monday morning. An empty can rolled lazily from your hand, on an epic journey across the glossy faux-marble floor. The house, for once, was still. Even your parents’ screams had petered off about an hour ago. The silver light from the HDB corridor fell through your windows in slits, providing just enough light for you to see the tiny phone screen. With the phone’s small buttons and your clumsy fingers, it took a long time for you to dial the number, but none at all for her to pick up.

“Cam,” you whispered, “Want to see you.”

“Jesus, Yeoh, it’s a school night.” Her voice was gorgeous like this, low and blurred. She only ever used this voice with you: when her raw-bitten lips were pressed against your chest, your ear, your– You shifted. It didn’t help.

“Cam, Cam, Camilla.” Her name rolled off your tongue like a litany, sharp and needy. “Can talk a while or not?”

“Are you drunk again?” she teased you. On the other end, her sheets rustled as she sat up. Although you hadn’t ever been in her house before, you could reconstruct it well enough from the blurry webcam pictures she’d sent you: piles of assessment books, porcelain cross, ceiling fan. And she– beautiful, beautiful, feet kicked up against her headboard, black hair spilling over the flowery sheets, the smile evident in her voice. “Help lah. How–”

“Miss you,” you murmured, by way of an answer.

“I miss you too.”

“Want to meet you. Want to talk to you.” Then, because you were three cans of beer deep and loved making (aforementioned) bad decisions, you charged on: “You and I, we never talk.”

“I know we haven’t met in a while. It’s not my fault I was sick–” Her voice wavered a little, then bounced back to its chirpy cadence. “But we talk all the time, though. We literally talked in class yesterday. I’m talking to you now.” Cam laughed. Her laugh still sounded to you like the first day of the month– every church across the island breaking into bellsong, light and birdlike in the hot blue air. It was cliché, you knew. You didn’t care. Perhaps you were in too deep to care.

“No,” you insisted, but you didn’t really know what you were saying, or why you were saying it at all. “We don’t.”

“We don’t,” she said, then fell silent.

The funny thing about the two of you was this: Over the past few months, you had seen each other stripped bare, worn to the bone with want, more times than you could count. But the both of you knew, all right, that there were things that you couldn’t– that you didn’t say. Things that were secret even to yourselves. The scars on your forearm, the bruises on hers, the way she looked at you when she thought your mind was elsewhere. Those three words, weightier than any false promise you’d whispered against each other’s skin.

“Staircase. Tomorrow. I need to tell you something.”

–

That night, you dreamt of flying.

You weren’t a bird, weren’t yourself– just bodiless, incorporeal, sweeping through the hallways of the college like a ghost. You phased through the auditorium doors to see the loose ceiling tile, the one that had been hanging over your heads like a guillotine all term, topple to the ground in one fantastic crash, sending students fleeing out the doors and into the foyer. You fled with them, but the ceiling fan in the foyer was spinning just a bit too hard, just a bit too fast, and the students screeched to a halt just in time to catch it falling, an angel with clipped wings. It broke in two over the staircase railing, knocking down the tables and the notice boards, pulling down the ceiling with it. Then the chapel was the next to go, the shattering stained glass catching the light in a thousand colours. As you raced up the corridors, the destruction raced up, up, up, alongside you, past the staff room and canteen to the lecture halls, the classroom blocks, the PAC, every single building in the college folding in on itself like so much wet paper. Block J detached itself cleanly from its precarious perch, tipping head-over-heels into the field. You couldn't hear a thing, but you could imagine what it sounded like: the earth itself breaking, rapture the other way around.

Then you crossed the lower quadrangle, where two little blobs of baby blue lay pressed against each other’s bodies. Even without descending, you already knew who they were. It was strange to watch yourself like a movie. When you were younger, you'd thought that this was how God saw the world, top-down, like a player peering at a chessboard. When you’d failed an exam for the first time, you'd cowered under a table-cloth to escape His wrath. You’d stopped believing in a lot of things as you grew up, but you could never kick that instinct to flee, that inescapable, intrinsic fear that the presence of God really was everywhere: under a table, in a school, in every splitting cell.

The boy on the ground turned his face towards the girl, tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. She smiled infuriatingly, endearingly, back at him.

The school came down on them.

–

Most of the morning was taken up by this awful college event that you’d totally forgotten was happening, all cheering and sweat and thirty-eight degree heat. It was only when the day was coming to a close, then, that Cam and you could sneak away past the computer labs and guitar room into Staircase 6. As you entered, Cam pulled out something from the pocket of her sweater–an admin key–and latched the door behind her with a deliberate click. You blinked. “How’d you get that?”

Cam didn’t say anything, just tucked the key in the pocket of her oversized school hoodie. There was something strange and tense about her, stranger and tenser than she had been all term. She walked up to Level 4, where the sky through the grilled window cut long slices of light onto the concrete floor, and sat down on the top step. You sat down next to her.

She breathed, imperceptibly, in and out, looking straight ahead. The question rushed out in a gasp.

“You told me you’d do anything for me, right? I need you to kill.”

iii. the arrow

And when he has heard her give a loud cry,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

A silver arrow from his bow he suddenly let fly.

And she’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

WONG CHIEN PING

The New Paper, 1998

WONG: To me, family– family always comes first. My kids always come first. You know ah, I’ve got five children. Four boys, one girl.

INTERVIEWER: Wow.

WONG: [Laughter.] Can be a handful at times, lah, but what can you do? As I was saying, right, when I look at my kids, I’m thinking about everything they could be. Lawyers, doctors, maybe even MPs like me. [Laughter.] And I think about how Singapore’ll change in ten years, fifty years, a hundred years. My youngest, Camilla, she’s going to graduate from university in the 2010’s. In a new century. What’s Singapore going to look like then?

INTERVIEWER: Mhm.

WONG: I want to make Singapore a place where my kids can grow up safely. Where they can have a future.

For a moment, all you could do was laugh. Then you stopped, of course, but the echo lingered. “Cam?”

Without meeting your eyes, she lifted up her sweater. The first thing you’d thought was that she’d forgotten to bring her house shirt– she was still in uniform. Then you realised that her shirt was unbuttoned at the bottom, and her skirt was unlatched, and there was a solid, unmistakable, swell to her stomach.

The world tilted on its axis. There was no way this was happening. This was a really terrible prank. She’d stolen a prosthetic from Drama. It had to be something, something other than this, something other than a child– You made an inelegant noise, some spluttered form of protest. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Cam agreed, unhappily.

You instinctively reached out to touch her bump, like you’d seen in the soapy Mediacorp dramas Ma always watched. You didn’t feel anything. Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of parental instinct singing to you; love, love, love all through the water and the flesh and the blood?

“Didn’t you listen in Bio? You can’t feel the heartbeat yet. Not for a while, but not for long, either,” she said. “Not until I can’t hide it anymore.”

“Oh.” You didn't know what else to say. You pulled her into your arms, and she pressed herself against you, body against body. Like stragglers hiding from the cold, except it was thirty-five degrees outside, the air the same dull dead warmth that school air always was. She turned her face away, but you could still see her eyes go glossy, hear her take those shallow breaths. "I'm so sorry."

You couldn't begin to imagine what she was feeling, how much she'd lost in that instant when she knew she was carrying a life that wasn't hers: the scholarship, the law school, the clear American sky she'd never see. The future rushed out before you, a landscape vast and desolate, and you found yourself unable to picture it except for your mother's face, crumpling in on itself, her world imploded in a single moment. Thinking: all you had to do was study hard. We gave everything for you, pinned every hope on you, and this is what we get? Saying: stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

You don’t know how you say what you say next, but you do. “So. You want to- to kill it?” It, it, it. Still an it.

Cam laughs wetly. “Almost there. Kill–” the pronoun trips off her tongue– “me.”

ST CECILIA’S JUNIOR COLLEGE

CAMERA 235

12:28:03

YEOH shoots to his feet. WONG does too.

YEOH: You can’t just say that–

WONG: Just shut up for a moment and let me explain, can?

YEOH shuts up.

WONG [with a wince]: Sorry. But you know my father lah. You know how he is. He’ll have my head.

YEOH: What’s the worst he can do ah? Pack you off to some boarding school overseas?

WONG takes a sharp breath.

WONG: It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that he’s worked his whole life for this position. If he ever finds out what we’ve done, his career jialat liao, just like that. Every single day for the rest of my life he’ll look at me and only see a disappointment of a daughter, a stain on the family name. I snuck around and I lied to his face and I bribed my friends for alibis but at least for seventeen years he didn’t know better. He called me his princess, his golden girl, and he meant it. Now all of that’s gone. Or will be gone, I guess. I don’t know how I’d live without that.

YEOH: He doesn’t need to know. You understand that, right? There are ways to get rid of it, I mean, there has to be some way–

WONG: That’s the fucking problem!

WONG turns away, stifling a sob.

WONG: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you–

YEOH [instinctively]: And before you were born I consecrated you.

WONG: This is our child, Yeoh. This is a human life.

YEOH: Better any other life than yours.

A long pause.

WONG [overlapping]: You can’t mean that.

YEOH [overlapping]: I can. I do.

YEOH ascends one step. YEOH stares at WONG as if he’s daring her to say something, until WONG begins to cry. YEOH freezes for a split-second. He reaches for WONG, whispers something inaudible in her ear. WONG reaches up and kisses him in response. After a while, WONG extricates herself with an expression that seems almost like a smile. She walks over to the railing and leans against it. YEOH follows her.

WONG: I’ve always told myself I want to be a good person, but maybe the real truth is that I didn’t want my dad to figure out otherwise. Maybe all of that hiding was for nothing. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found out who I really was, deep down: rotten. Impure. That woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess.

WONG: And, sure, I can sneak away to a clinic, God knows we can afford it, I can do whatever it is girls do in movies with the clothes hanger or the back alley. But if my life after this is all an act– what’s the point, if I already know where I’m going when I go? I’m tired of keeping secrets, trying so hard to keep this part of my life from him– when one day I’ll slip again, I know it, and the whole house of cards is going to come crashing down. If I die now, all my sins are going to die with me. He’d be happy, and I’d be loved, and you–

WONG [almost envious]: You’d never understand.

YEOH tilts his head downwards, fringe falling over his eyes. He starts to say something, then stops.

YEOH: I do understand.

Like so many other people you knew, you never meant to go to St Cecilia’s. Everyone said you could make Temasek, maybe Victoria. Tampines at the very least. And you'd believed it, too, until you didn't anymore, until the college you were going to became the least of your worries.

When did you stop believing you’d ever have a future? It wasn’t a single moment so much as it was a series of them: stepping over the yellow line when waiting for the train, trying to find footholds in the railing of every overhead bridge, your eyes always flicking to every exit you could take. The words you said under your breath in prayers weren’t Our Father who art in heaven but a litany only you knew: I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to keep going. I can leave any time I want. For as long as you remembered, you’d already been halfway gone.

It was a comforting hypothetical, until it wasn’t, and suddenly you found yourself on the bathroom floor at three in the morning, a week before prelims. The cool white light bounced off the tiles, the mirror-cabinet above the sink hung ajar like it was beckoning you, and you were so, so exhausted. Why were you trying so hard? What were you even studying for? No matter what college you went to, the future would always be blurry and grey. Test after test after test, then onto– what, exactly? You’d never been able to imagine yourself past sixteen. You’d never be able to imagine yourself more than half-alive.

You’d tell the psychiatrist later that you didn’t remember the rest of the night, but that wasn’t true. You remembered the pills. You remembered the blinding, fluorescent pain– and through the pain, your father’s face, your mother’s voice. 911 on the cordless telephone. The ambulance. Changi Hospital. When you’d finally woken, there was a split-second where all you could see was white, and all that came to you was a rush of relief– until the white coalesced into white walls and white sheets and a ceiling spotted with air-conditioning vents, and you could almost laugh at yourself for expecting anything different. If you’d succeeded, anyway, it wouldn’t have been white.

So you failed both at dying and at Chemistry. That was fine. You took the two points off for affiliation. You took the 5AM bus. You took the desk at the corner of 1T26. That was fine too. You swore you didn't care about any of it, and you didn’t, you didn’t. Then Cam happened, and suddenly you did.

But you couldn’t shake the memory of that night in the hospital, your parents whispering next to your bed when they thought you were asleep. For once in their life, they weren’t at each other's throats. What’s wrong with him? your father demanded in Chinese, betrayal running like cracks through his voice. I don’t understand why he would do this to me. In response, your mother only sighed. Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

The story came uneasily to you, like writing an exam for a subject that you hadn’t touched in months. Once you were done, Cam turned to you. If it was anyone else, they would’ve said something benign, something untrue, like, I’m sorry or I’m glad you didn’t die. Instead, because this was the Cam you’d always known, she asked, “How much did it hurt?”

You thought about the answer for a long while. Then you said, “If you do it right, only for a moment.”

She laughed, then, throwing her head back with the force of it. For a brief, blasphemous second, you’d never seen anyone so beautiful: fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army all set in battle array. It was the kind of beauty wars were fought over, the kind any man would get on his knees for– to be knighted, to adore. And she’d chosen you (you of all people!) The fact made you dizzy with its weight.

“So.” Her voice brought you back to reality. It was casual as anything, like she was discussing essay outlines or Physics solutions instead of– whatever this was. “I was thinking about the stairs, right? If you pushed me, hard enough, it’d look like an accident…”

Below you, the concrete staircase looped in on itself, down, down, down. Tall, yes, but only three stories, not enough to kill. Not if you wanted to be sure. When you told her as much, she frowned, swearing in Chinese under her breath. The two of you bounced around a few more ideas, but none of them seemed to stick. You fell silent, tapping out meaningless rhythms on the rails, as you considered what you’d been dancing around since she’d asked you to kill. A competition-grade air pistol, a shot at just the right angle– it’d be, well, if not easy, at least simple. Less up to the fates.

There was only one problem with that plan– it’d no longer be an accident. There’d be police, lawyers, fuck, maybe even journalists. Your juniors would whisper about it for camps and camps to come. You couldn’t feign innocence with a shotgun, couldn’t frame the act of pulling the trigger as anything but what it was.

So, fine, they’d hate you. They’d shred all your certificates, put your photos face-down, pretend they’d never had a son. So what? Boy hung from his bedroom fan, boy hung from the prison beam. Whatever formula you used, the result was still the same: you’d be gone, and they’d be free. Besides, there wasn’t any way St. Cecilia's reputation could possibly be worse than it already was.

“I think–” you started, suddenly, “I might have a solution.”

iv. the grave

And he has dug a grave both long and deep,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

He has buried his sister with their babe all at her feet.

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

INTERVIEWER: You didn’t notice the keys were gone meh? I thought you were the captain.

THOMAS: The captain doesn’t carry the keys, sir. Um, he was the armourer, sir, he’s always had them. Since the beginning of the year.

INTERVIEWER: So you weren’t aware that Yeoh and Wong entered the armoury at 12.39 PM and retrieved a [pages ruffling] .25-calibre Baikal air pistol.

THOMAS: Of course the alarm went off, lah. To notify the teacher-in-charge. But he told Miss Judith he forgot his water bottle inside, and she was in a hurry anyway–

INTERVIEWER: She believed him?

THOMAS: Miss Judith’s always had a soft spot for him, sir. And we all trusted him. That’s why we made him the armourer. Of course he was quiet, um, but in a calm, reliable sort of way. Out of all of us we thought he’d be the last person to do what he did. [laughter] I trusted him– oh god–

INTERVIEWER: Calm down, boy.

THOMAS: Sorry, sorry.

INTERVIEWER: Can continue or not?

THOMAS: Okay. Can. Go on.

Laughing the loud and triumphant laugh of the already dead, you and Cam crashed back into the staircase landing like you’d done so many times before. How many giggling, short-lived couples had this place borne witness to? The seniors who’d winked and nudged you in its direction must’ve learnt it from their seniors, who’d learnt it from their seniors in turn– back and back it went, a story in two-year cycles, mutating each time it was told. A haunting, a myth, a folk song.

Cam, leaning back against the wall, ran her hands along the sleek pistol. She looked, still, beautiful: even after the run, after the tears, despite the baby. If you hadn’t seen her before, you couldn’t have guessed that she was the kind of girl who would ever cry. “It’s like I’m a spy.”

“I mean, we kind of are, right? People are going to start getting suspicious soon. We should do this quickly.” You shot a furtive glance through the window in the door. The corridor, as always, was dark– the lightbulb had been busted for a long, long time.

“Soon. Won’t take long, right? Just–” She aimed the gun at her temple, mimed pulling the trigger with a grin. Miss Judith had trained you well– your first instinct was one of sheer panic, of tripping over your own feet in your haste to rip it from her hands– but you didn’t do any of that.

Instead you only swallowed, shifted. “Just like that I don’t think is strong enough. It’s not real ah. Can’t do that much damage. Um, can I–”

Downstairs, someone shouted. Cam shoved the gun in her hoodie pocket. You stopped breathing. Something clunky was being dragged across the floor, chatter following in its wake. But no one had opened the door yet, so when the clamour finally died down, Cam removed the gun from her hoodie and passed it to you.

In your hands, the pistol was cool, familiar, deadly in a way it had never been before. It reminded you that despite any pretences to precision or skill or patience, this sport was, at its roots, a killing sport– drawing blood and blood and blood again.

You’d only been a shooter for a few months. You'd always been a chess club kid in secondary school, and in St Cecilia, you’d even applied for Strat Games before you walked into the interview, saw an old classmate, and walked right back out. At least shooting was a singular sport. No emotions involved, no one to fool, no one to ask you what happened.

About a week or two past orientation, you’d hit bullseye for the first time. You didn’t notice, at first, still reeling from the ricochet, until Greg shouted and the club gathered round and you saw that tiny wound on that tiny target, fifty whole metres away. In another few weeks, it’d become routine, but you never forgot that first time: the breath held, the trigger pulled, the bullet sailing through the air. The gun like an extension of yourself.

She must’ve sensed something had shifted, because she hurried out, “If you don’t want to do this, just say, OK? If you really want, we can– I don’t know, figure something out.”

You’d do anything for me, right?

Okay, so maybe you were helping her because you knew what it was like to be so tired that you wanted nothing more than to be gone. You knew what it was like to fail– your mother’s eyes avoiding yours, the flat stinking with shame, cut fruits slid under your door like an apology– and you knew, you knew, out of all the people in the world she didn’t deserve it.

But maybe you were helping her because you’d never known anyone who could go to their grave with a smile quite like her, brilliant and foolish and brave. It was your hand brushing hers under the desk and her laughing with her head thrown back and the two of you sharing earphones on the bus. It was the fact that in life or death, you’d never wanted anyone but her.

So, fine. The moment you’d opened your eyes in a hospital bed, you couldn’t find it in you to care about Heaven or Hell or anything in-between, couldn’t care about a God who’d turned his back to you as you were bleeding out. But even the staunchest of atheists could admit that it was nice to believe that you’d been brought back for a reason; that more than any grade you’d ever gotten or any target you’d ever hit, the greatest achievement of your time in college– okay, your entire short and sorry life– was this: to love her, to kill her, to be loved, impossibly, in return.

You kissed her like it was an answer. Maybe it was. You’d never know.

–

Just like you’d predicted, it wasn’t easy, but it was at least simple:

The muzzle dimpling her button-down shirt. Her heart beneath the gun, frantic and wild. Her smile– smug, inscrutable, like she was getting away with some great and treacherous heist, like she’d stolen something you’d never notice missing until it was too late. Coloured-in Converse perched on the edge of the top step.

A moment to aim. Less to fire.

A crack. A body arching backwards, falling, falling, falling. A body against concrete. A body with its neck all wrong– no, that wasn’t right. Two bodies. One body. But what was the difference, really?

Somewhere, someone was singing.

–

I got tired of waiting

Wonderin' if you were ever comin' around

There was a boy at the edge of the canteen, that isolated corner where the cafe used to be before it went bankrupt and left neon-yellow wreckage in its wake. I could just barely make him out through the other kids who’d swarmed like moths around the speakers we’d looted from the grandstand, a do-it-yourself rave all our own. We were seventeen and free from Promos and knew every word to every song on the radio and there was nothing in this world to worry about, nothing at all.

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town

My voice faltered as I tried to peer over the heads, earning myself a poke in the ribs from Joshua from 28. The boy was tall, in uniform–on the one day we were allowed to wear house shirts? He’d be sweltering hot. He stared off at something I couldn’t see, collapsing on a bench– and the moment I saw the fringe, I knew who you were.

“Xavier!”

I painfully extracted myself from the knot of students, making my way over to you. You didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t seem to care. There was something red on your face, probably some failed attempt at Go SC! It seemed like the sports leaders had gotten to you. Funny. I’d never thought you were the type.

You turned to me.

“Xavier?”

I broke into a run.

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Your hands were shaking, your eyes wet. There was red on your shirt, red on the corner of your lips. Shit, there was so much of it. “Are you hurt?” My brain was going at thirty miles a second. “What happened? Did you– are you–”

“I’m fine. I just–” You broke off. Slowly and carefully, like you were explaining something to a very small child, you forced out two more words: “--lost something.”

I cast desperate glances around the canteen. There was something wrong here, something I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, like standing on the edge of a cliff with a sea below you. “It’s OK, bro,” I muttered out, stupidly, awkwardly, “You’ll get it back, whatever it is. Um. You need me check with the GO? Call teacher?”

Through the thin walls, a scream rang out. The singing died a quick, violent death, but the music, still, played on.

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

“No,” you said. “No need.”

It's a love story, baby, just say yes.

After everything– after the police, after the trial, after the drop– Wong’s father swept in and gave half of St Cecilia’s a dizzyingly long contract that boiled down to Don’t tell a soul this happened or I’ll kill you myself. Of course I’d signed it. What else could I have done?

In the years to come, I’d want to tell you about so many things: The times we’d instinctively turn in our seats to ask you about homework or classes or anything at all. The two empty desks we’d dodged for the rest of the year, even after we switched classrooms, even after they struck out your names from the class list— as if long before that October afternoon, you were already gone. The shiny, upgraded surveillance system, a threat, an eulogy, as much acknowledgement as they’d ever give you.

Now, though, I want to tell you about the staircase.

When I stepped back into St Cecilia’s for the first time in ten years, so much of it remained the same. The same old coat of paint, the same wobbly tables, the same starched blue uniform. The only thing that’s changed is the kids– how young they seem now, how they call me Mr Thomas when I’m listening and ‘cher when they think I’m not. In the spaces between classes, when the halls are full of chatter, I’ll overhear snippets of their conversation: I’m yellowslipping for Taylor tickets or Walao, my stats really CMI, like this how can pass or Wah, are you going to take her to Staircase 6? That last one’ll be invariably followed by a wink, a nudge, and loud, boisterous laughter, the kind that only teenage boys can summon up. I can’t blame them much for it. Weren’t we once seventeen too?

The staircase isn’t particularly hard to avoid. For the kids, it’s more of a novelty than anything– a quick selfie at the door during Orientation, then it’s out of their minds for the rest of the year, too far from the classrooms to be of any use. Soon enough, though, exam season rolled around, and I was on my first night study shift of the year. I didn’t have to do much– just make sure nobody escaped the well-lit confines of the library, which was just as crowded and chilly as I’d remembered it. But the campus seemed different after dusk, every flickering light a blinking eye, and I felt myself being led down the concrete corridors, past the office and the hall and the lockers, past the bulb they’d never fixed, and I unlocked the door.

It looked, obviously, like any other staircase in the school. The floor was grey, the walls white. I went up to the top floor and to the railing, the security camera swivelling as I walked. Over the railing, the stairs went down, down, down. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find any part of it that suggested your presence. No pale figure, no blur of light. I felt, suddenly, foolish– what answer was I seeking? Even if you’d lingered, even if you’d somehow escaped where I’d most feared you were, this was the last place you’d want to stay.

Maybe I would never really understand why you did what you did. But I’d known you, even still, and so I could say this with certainty– if there was any justice in this world, you weren’t here. You were somewhere edgy kids couldn’t gawk and giggle at you, somewhere the camera couldn’t find you. Somewhere only you knew.

An engine growled beyond the gates. Sweet and heavy in the air, the scent of flowers lingered.

I closed my eyes.

And when he has come to his father’s own hall,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

There was music and dancing, there were minstrels and all.

And he’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

O the ladies, they asked him, “What makes you in such pain?”

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

“I’ve lost a sheath and knife I will never find again

And I’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

“All the ships of your father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can bring as good a sheath and knife unto thee.”

But they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

“All the ships of my father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can never ever bring such a sheath and knife to me

For we’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

#child ballads #singlit #songs from saint cecilia's #writing

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kowlsy · 1 year

Text

The Strad Ep. 18 with Brett Yang

Me and Ash worked together to transcribe this for anyone who wanted to read it!

[Davina]: Hi and welcome to the Strad Podcast! I’m Davina Shum, I’m a cellist, and I’m the online editor at The Strad. Regular visitors to thestrad.com will know that TwoSet Violin celebrated a significant milestone late in 2022. Upon reaching 4 million subscribers on YouTube, the violin-comedy duo put on a performance of a lifetime with the Singapore Symphony Orchestra, with Brett Yang playing the Mendelssohn violin concerto and Eddy Chen joining him later for the Bach Double. Not only this, but for the occasion, Tarisio loaned the pair two Stradivari Violins from 1708 –The Empress Caterina, and the Regent Superb. What an opportunity!

Brett and I chatted recently about his experience playing this marvellous instrument, what it taught him about his playing, as well as other instruments he’s played throughout his career. Here he is.

Brett, welcome to the Strad Podcast! Wonderful to have you here today. You’re joining me from Singapore so it’s quite a global collaboration today. First of all, let’s talk a little bit about instruments that you’ve played throughout your lifetime, throughout your career. Readers of the Strad will know that you’ve been lucky enough recently to play the 1708 Empress Caterina Stradivari violin for your four million subs concert in November 2022. So, a wonderful opportunity, but opportunities like that don’t just come out of nowhere – there’s a build-up to that. So, tell me a little bit about your first instruments that you played.

Brett: Well, sure! First of all, thank you for having me on board. And thank you to all the Strad listeners out there. It’s an honour to be here. Violins! It’s always interesting, I felt like when you grow up as a kid, you kind of just get passed an instrument. And you just go along with it, right. And as you grow, and as you learn, practising more and more, you start developing [an] awareness for, let’s say, quality of sound. Or, type of violin you’re playing, the playability of it, things like that.

My first full-sized instrument was a Scrollavezza, and I hadn’t changed for, honestly, a good… 16 years. 17– 18– 17 years. Sorry, I’m just adding numbers up. So, about 17 years, I played on the Scrollavezza. As a student, shout-out to my parents, actually, for helping me buy that instrument. It’s definitely… They’re very supportive. I think definitely when you play an instrument this long, you start growing with it, right? And a Scrollavezza, like … the violins change over time. The sounds change over time. So, that was kind of my first instrument. I never had many experiences playing multiple instruments. Because… back then, I was just really focused on practising. So, it was just whatever I had, then, right. Fast forward to now, I mean, right now I play on a Widenhouse, which is a new violin.

But talking about the Strad, that’s super interesting! That was on loan by Tarisio. We went to New York last year, in 2022, in April. We visited Tarisio to make a video out of it, I think they were auctioning the Da Vinci Stradivari. So they had us there to, you know, play a bit, share to our audiences what the world of instruments is like. Talking about Stradivaris, Guarneris, and all these makers. Because, there are a lot of people out there that don’t know who these makers are, actually, from our audience. So, I think they really find it fascinating how crazy expensive it can be, right. Because it’s almost like a collectible, it’s like Picasso, in terms of art works. Things like that.

The Strad [for the four million concert] came about when I reached out to Carlos, so shout-out to Carlos. I was like, “Hey, we’re doing this concert, what does it look like when you loan instruments?” and Carlos was like, “Hm, how about we get you a couple of Strads?” and I was like, “Sounds fine by me!” [laughs]

Davina: “Yeah, okay, yeah.”

Brett: “Yeah, sure, why not?”

People always ask, did we get to choose or not? I kind of left it in his hands; I knew he would pick great instruments for us. Stradivaris, I mean – – at this point, I don’t really care. It’s a Stradivari, that’s, you can’t really complain, right? And Carlos picked two violins for Eddy and myself, both from 1708. So I played the Empress Caterina, and Eddy played on the Regent. Now, I’ve been fortunate enough to play on Strads before, in videos, so I’ve had a slight taste of what it was like, playing Strads. But I’ve never had a Strad for, you know, a longer time. To practise on, to get to know. You know, I was asking like, a lot of soloists, Hilary, Ray, “Hey, what is it like playing on a Strad? Are there any tips?” A lot of them were just saying, look, it takes time to get used to. You have to spend time, you have to play it more. And that was definitely something I experienced. You have to change technique in a very delicate way to adapt to a Strad. And, you hear these stories, “Oh, a Strad, you can’t just kind of force the sound out, or really play into the string like a Guarneri or Vuillaume, you have to kind of let it sing by itself”. And that was definitely the experience.

So I actually changed my technique a little bit during the month leading up to the concert. And that was very scary. So, even though it was a Strad, I was also very nervous because I was not familiar with it.

Davina: That’s interesting, isn’t it. I’ve heard the same thing about Strads as well. I’ve not played a Strad cello before, that may change one day, who knows [laughs], but I have heard that definitely it takes getting used to. That’s exactly what people say, it’s not always smooth sailing. In a way, it kind of plays you, the instrument and you, you’re playing, you have to sort of meet… in the middle. I know you’ve just said you had to change your technique in a certain way. What sort of techniques did you have to change? In terms of the right hand, the left hand?

Brett: Yeah, I like what you said – it’s almost like a dance together with the instrument. You can’t just lead all the time, you have to work with your partner on a dance floor, right? It kind of felt like that. The biggest change I noticed, actually, was in my right hand, bow arm. The left hand had some changes, mainly just, you know, typical intonation, spacing issues, when you're shifting up and down. The size of the violin is slightly different to the violin I normally play on. But, the bow really was the big change for me. The Strad just would not give way. If I decide to press a little bit too hard, it kind of just won’t give me the colourful, velvery sound it has, that this Empress Caterina had. And so, it really taught me how to approach my bow technique, actually. Because after playing on a Strad for a month, I’ve noticed my sound production is better.

Davina: Right, when you go back to your other instrument, you mean?

Brett: Yes. Because I’m trying to recreate that same sound. And a Strad really told me how to make that sound.

Davina: That’s interesting. So, was it a change of, you know – I mean, we can get quite technical here, because it’s string players. But you know, in terms of contact point, or like, pressure, like, what sort of things had to change? And also, how much of it was to do with the setup? I’m aware that the setup back in 1708 would have been very different, the way that people would have approached the strings, presumably gut strings, would have been quite different because you really have to coax the sound out of a string, in that way. You know, you can’t press into gut strings because your instrument will just say, “No, thank you.” How much of the setup has an influence on the way you produce the sound?

Brett: Oh, a lot! Honestly, I couldn’t make any changes – I was too scared. You know, I was like, “Ooh, maybe I could…” You know, tweaking the sound post, and things like that, it was too close to the concert. But, in terms of, like, the setup and the technique, I had to use a lot more bow, in terms of bow speed. My distribution of my bow weight had to change a lot too. So, I really had to kind of change my bowing technique in a way where when I was playing piano, soft, I wasn’t just lightening the bow up, I was actually removing weight. It’s very hard to explain. It’s like, there’s still weight,so you still have that fullness in that tone…

Davina: Yeah.

Brett: But I think that’s what they talk about, what they say about pianists: your softness has to project to the end of the hall.

Davina: Yeah, that’s the hard thing about playing piano – soft — It sounds like we’re talking about the instrument.

[both laugh]

Davina: Yes, piano is very hard. But that’s the difficult thing about playing soft, isn’t it, to have that core, that still focused centre of the sound, but at a lower dynamic. And it can hurt physically if you’re not doing it correctly, right.

Brett: Exactly! And it can’t sound like it’s whispery, or like you lost contact point… [sighs] fluffy, right. It needs to still have that core in the sound. And the Strad really taught me how to do that. I mean, I’m no professional at it, but it really taught me how to create that sound. And it was a new sound, actually. It taught me, you know, it’s like you have to know what you want in order to be able to create that sound you want. If you can’t hear it, it’d be pretty hard to make that sound. So the Strad kind of gave me guidance in the type of tone I like. And actually, I’ll be honest, when I first played it – this is going to sound crazy – when I first played the Empress Caterina, I wasn’t so sure if I liked the tone. But very quickly, I started understanding it more and more. It was almost like my ears hadn’t developed the understanding for the sound I’m hearing. And then literally over the course of a month, wow, I heard the difference when I went back to my violin. I was like, no way! It’s undisputable, the tone is so much more complex. It offers a lot more colour, you know. But, when I first played it, I couldn’t hear it.

Davina: Yeah, I could imagine that if you were new to a Strad, and you have this sound, and initially, you just think, “Oh I don’t like this sound because it’s unfamiliar”, but, what it does offer, if you allow yourself to open up to it, is that it’s got [a] much wider colour palette.

Brett: Yes.

Davina: And it enables you to discover those, but you have to put in the work to actually find those colours and develop your ear, in that sense.

Brett: Yes.

Davina: I mean, I wanted to ask you a little bit about the approach to a very old instrument like this – 1708 – compared with modern instruments. You know, you mentioned the instruments you’ve played, that you currently play, and also the Scrollavezza. I’ve played a cello by him, before, once. I tried one out.

Brett: Oh, wow!

Davina: I met his daughter in Cremona, I met her, and I played her father’s cello from 2000. So, presumably, modern instruments, when you play an instrument where you’re the only owner to have had it, compared with a Strad or a [instrument from an] old Italian master that has been played by numerous hands before, you know. Tell me a little bit about how you think that has an impact on the instrument’s sound. You know, you mentioned before about how, like, [a] modern instrument, it sort of grows, you sort of grow with it.

Brett: Well, [laughs], I’m wondering, “Oh my god, do I even deserve to play this Strad right no?” That’s the first thought. But I think in terms of the sound … [sighs] To be honest, there’s so many times where I … A soloist has played my instrument and it sounds completely different, and I’m just like “Huh, wow, I got to practise. It does not sound like the violin that I play on!” [laughs] That’s kind of the modern instrument’s side.

Davina: That’s kind of the weird thing, is hearing your own instrument back, because we’re not always in a position to do that. But someone recently played my instrument and I play a modern instrument from 2005, and I heard it and I was like, “What? That’s not what it sounds like!” I mean, there are other factors as well, the fact that it’s not right under your ear, and you’re at a distance, but it’s interesting, seeing how a different person approaches your–

Brett: Oh, for sure! And especially when you get soloist to play. Eddy’s always like “Woah, I’ve never heard that from your violin before!”–

Davina: You’re like, ‘Oh, thanks.’ [laughs]

Brett: “–That does not sound lik– Oh thanks, thanks, thanks for that” [laughs]]

But I just think in terms of the Strad – it just seems like it’s more developed, over time. It’s a great maker, and time was on its side, on the violin’s side, right. And, it’s been played a lot more, and has a lot more colours to offer. Even the slightest bow change, the slightest pressure or weight that’s placed on it, different contact point. It’s very obvious that the sound has changed. And actually, the way I see it, the Strad kind of guides you do discover the sounds, which is what I mean by when I went back to my instrument. It kind of gave me tools to try to figure out how to make the sound I want, right. I started getting a bit more experimental. It’s, “Oh, okay, this is the type of sound I can make on this violin. Oh, this is the type of sound. Oh, it gives me …is kind of more … edgier sound if I’m here. Oh, here’s a bit of a more … rounder tone or warmer colour, you know, yellow, sunshine.” I don’t– things like that.

Davina: Kind of daunting, at first, because I imagine that when you’ve got something like this, you can kind of have multi-option anxiety, like ‘Oh my god, where on Earth do I start?’ I don’t know why this is the first example to come to my head, but, for example: if you have a drill with a thousand different drill bits, you just think, “Oh my goodness, like, what on Earth am I going to use all of these tiny little drill bits for?” Then, once you get a bit more education, and you understand maybe a little bit more about your craft, you’ll find the right drill bit for the right occasion.

Brett: Yes. And can I add also, I was very scared of hitting it, or dropping it, that is all very true. So actually, the first week, I was super wary of just, playing, even playing fortissimo. I know I’ve played violin for a really long time, but I just really didn’t want to chip it in the corner or do something like that. You know, of course it happens over time, it just happens, it’s normal, of course, sometimes you hit the side when you’re getting really into the piece. Everyone does it. But I just didn’t want to be that person. [laughs] In the first week anyway.

Davina: The instrument’s survived this long, this is not the end of the road, not with me!!Brett: Yeah, but that gge me a little bit of like– it made me a little bit anxious, at the beginning. Actually we made a video about it, funny enough, in the video I did, the tip of my bow hit the side of the Srad a little bit. Eddy was like “WOAH!” and I was like “NO!” So that was a bit of an experience.

Davina: Bit scary, yeah.

Brett: Bit scary.

Davina: Yeah, definitely. That would just be the time that your hand would just open involuntarily.

That was Brett Yang, and that was just an excerpt of our conversation. Keep an eye out on thestrad.com in the coming weeks for a series of web articles featuring Brett.

#twosetviolin #twoset #Brett Yang

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