by Tia Souders
I left the woman and searched the halls for an empty room to practice, finding none available. Students passed by, some glancing in my direction, while others acted as if I were invisible. A yearning to belong settled so deep inside me, intertwining itself with the knot of nerves.
Thirty minutes of searching turned up no practice room, so I settled down at the end of the hall where I started, one among many. I continued my mental practice even while the gaze of others moved over me, making an instant assessment as to my abilities, often ending with my hand where they surveyed the gap where my fourth finger should be. The corners of some mouths curled in discovery, each a stab in the heart as I once again realized the odds against me.
When the attendant called me for the audition, both relief and anxiety burst inside me like a toxic bomb. I followed behind him down the long expanse of the hall. Just upon entering, a man stepped away from the wall and we collided. So wrapped up in my thoughts and the avoidance of thinking about anything other than my music, I hadn’t noticed him until now. I glanced up, the words, “I’m sorry” on the tip of my tongue, when they stuck in my throat. My eyes widened.
“Dad.”
“Sam.” Irritation flashed through his eyes.
His presence was insurance, I assumed. He wanted to make sure whomever he blackmailed on the panel followed through with their end of the deal. A picture of me receiving a rejection letter ran through my mind. I could imagine him, sitting there and watching while I read the words, despair sinking inside like an anvil. I could picture his ineffective consolation and insistence the bank was my only choice.
“I know what you’re doing here,” I rasped.
His thick brows rose, and his expression turned to stone. “Is that so?”
“Excuse me, ma’am. It’s your turn,” the attendant said from behind me.
Ignoring him, my gaze remained on my father. “I don’t care. You can’t take this from me. This moment is mine. I’ve worked too hard for this to have you take it all away.” I hated the tremble in my voice. Now was not the time to become unhinged.
“Despite what you think, this brings me no pleasure. But especially now that you know about June, I’m sure you’ll want to flee even more, and I can’t lose you to some silly pipe dream—”
I turned from him, unable to hear any more, my focus already shaken. The emerging buildup of emotion from the last few days, along with the last six months, mixed into a toxic cocktail. I walked into the room with my hand squeezing my sides, forcing away the rush of emotion but only partially succeeding.
A panel of four judges, not three as my father had mentioned on the phone, sat behind a long table, notebooks in hand. The discrepancy lightened the weight on my chest to the slightest degree. Maybe he was wrong about other things, too.
The white walls appeared dismal in the gloom from the windows. Metal ballet bars lined them, as well as several others which emerged from the oak floors behind the judges. Huge mirrors wrapped the expanse of the room, and I wondered briefly why the auditions were held in a room so clearly meant for dance.
A single chair sat directly in front of the judges table about ten feet away. The man in the middle of the table, an older gentleman with dark, graying hair reminded me of Mr. Fransisco. He nodded toward the chair, and when I made no move closer, he said, “Samantha Becker?”
I nodded and swallowed hard, unable to speak. Who was the traitor? Instantly ruling out the middle-aged blond woman on the right, I assessed the other two members of the panel. One had a full head of thick brown hair with a straight nose and round face. The final member appeared to be in his mid-forties with strawberry-blond hair receding slightly at the forehead. His intense green eyes darted from me to the papers in front of him and back again.
“I have to ask.” The older gentleman in the middle addressed me. “We’ve heard about your injury.” The reddish-haired man on the end bowed his head. The pale skin of his face reddened, and I assumed he was my obstacle. Did he discuss me before I came in? Was he already providing them with reasons I would be an inadequate choice for the program?
“Your story is intriguing. How is it you’ve managed to persevere?” the older judge asked.
“The difference between perseverance and obstinacy is that one often comes from a strong will and the other from a strong won't.” I paused, letting my words sink in as the judges smiled. “There was nothing I wouldn’t do to get here. Nothing could stop me.”
“And where did you hear that quote?”
“It’s by Henry Ward Beecher. I’m pretty sure I read it on a box of herbal tea once.” I laughed a bit. Be charming. “I guess it stuck with me.” I glanced to the window by the door.
My father’s face, perfectly framed by the glass, stared back at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as the redhead peered over his shoulder at my father, who shook his head in answer to an unspoken question.
“You can start whenever you’re ready, Samantha. We ask for the contrasting movements of Bach first and then we’ll move to the others.”
I gritted my teeth, blocking the image of my father, his hard eyes boring holes through the window of the audition room. The buzz of quiet surrounded me. I moved to the chair and sat, shifting to ensure the guitar felt comfortable in my grip, then closed my eyes. Someone cleared their throat, and I knew I must begin, but when I tried to move my hand to play, my fingers went numb. They wouldn’t budge.
I needed to play. There was no time for contemplation, but inside, questions attacked my senses. Could I do this? What if I failed? I drew a deep breath, exhaling even as I trembled. The cool, smooth surface of my guitar became my focus, calming me until two voices broke through my thoughts—voices, I realized, I loved. Tad and Laird would help get me through anything, including failure.
Their words of encouragement broke through my paralysis. Suddenly, there was no question of whether I could do it. I had to. For them. For me.
Strength and feeling rushed back into my shoulders, through my arms, and to my fingertips. My hand twitched, waiting for the command to play. I cleared my throat and forced the words from my mouth. “For my first piece, I chose Bach Prelude in D Major.”
On the count of three, I began. I played with the music flowing from my fingertips into the guitar as I danced over the strings. Floating above it, moving over the fretboard like the wind, my fingers flew. This particular piece was about the melody more than the rhythm. Soon, the guitar was no longer the instrument; my fingers were. My mind was absent of thought while my hands and fingers moved on their own accord, as muscle memory of the piece, and the many times I practiced, took over.
I pressed my eyes shut again, letting the music sink into my heart, my bones, my soul. The rhythm and melody in the Prelude spoke of hope, something I needed. The song peaked and receded. When I finished and opened my eyes, the judges sat before me. Two of them took notes, but the man in the middle watched with a slow-spreading smile and a gleam in his eye. The redhead sat rigid in his seat with worried eyes. Moving with the momentum and adrenaline the music gave me, I announced my next piece and once again began to play.
I played two etudes by Heitor Villa-Lobos. First, Prelude No. 1 Andantino. Then Lent-Piu Mosso-Anime. My fingers moved with the complexity of the music, striking quick and soft like a bee gathering honey, knowing instinctively where to go and what to do next. My middle finger helped sub for my missing ring finger, but mostly, my pinky, strong from months of strengthening and stretching, made up for my inadequacy.
Next, I played the complete works of Guiliani in the classical period, and upon finishing, I realized with a start the next would be my final piece. I had played well, but as my gaze lingered over the man I suspected my father had bargained with, the bitter edge of panic gripped me. What if I hadn’t done enough? My breath hitched, exhaling in labored puffs. I tried to focus, gripping my guitar for support.
“For your final piece, Miss Becker, you are to play any style of choice from a twentieth-century compose
r.”
I exhaled, blowing a wisp of dark hair out of my face. “My final piece is 'Five Bagatelles,' by William Walton.” The center judge nodded appreciatively.
With the pluck of the first string, I began, plunging into the music like a diver into water. My fingers moved over the fretboard in a sensual dance with the strings. Slim fingers reached and stretched. I imagined strong hands reaching within me, digging deep and revealing all the strength I had to give, and lending it to my hands to play. I was my own strength. And perhaps the events of the past six months, and even the last two days, gave me the wisdom and the pain with which to play stronger.
I drew on my emotions, both hearing and feeling the music strengthen as I did. Using them, I realized, was the key. I pictured my mother rummaging through the cupboard for just one more drink, a ravenous look in her eyes, and I played harder. The erratic behavior, the delusions, the hysteria she displayed over the years poured into me, allowing my fingers to move faster, play with more intensity than ever before.
My father’s plans for my life now consumed my consciousness. Heat soared through me as I recalled his phone call yesterday. Heat ignited into fire when I glanced up to see the redhead’s gaze, fueling the frenzy of the music I needed in the correct part of the piece. During the softer part, I shifted my thoughts to Tad and Laird. The pain in Tad’s sobs. The love in Laird’s eyes.
My fingers slowed, allowing the smoother, less frantic part of the melody to ebb and flow through my fingers and the chords. When the melody quickened, once again, a call to pain and fury emerged. My fingers struck each note accordingly. June’s lifeless body and the discovery she was my real mother pushed me farther into the song with ease. I played so hard my fingers ached until the music was inside me. I played until I was the music, until I breathed it, never letting up until the final note resonated in the air, even after I finished.
I stared, breathless and drained, my cheeks moist from tears I hadn’t realized I shed. My eyes focused only on one person, the redhead, whose piercing gaze flickered to the window where he made a cutting motion with his hand against his neck. My eyes widened, moving to the window as well, to see my father’s reaction. His reaction to what I clearly took as the panel member calling off their deal.
And nothing prepared me for what I saw.
27
My father stood, unmoving. Eyes as wide and blue as the ocean shone with freshly fallen tears. A combination of astonishment and something warm flashed behind them. Silvery tracks marked the trail of tears down his face. And even as I watched, stunned by his expression, he raised his hands above his waist so they could be seen through the window and clapped.
I glanced back to the panel. Eagerness glimmered in their eyes, and one by one, they too stood and applauded. They applauded for me, for the girl with the missing finger. The one I myself doubted at times.
This time, when the panel spoke, the redhead was their spokesman. “Thank you, Miss Becker. Watching you perform was a pleasure. And if I can speak for the rest of the panel, I’d like to say, assuming you’ll have us, that we’ll see you in the fall.”
Dazed, I left the room. My head spun, the joy of the moment only beginning to burst through the relief and shock. I entered the hallway and faced my father. His lips trembled as slow tears continued to fall. “I know I haven’t always been a good dad. Far from it. But, despite what you may think, from the moment I held you in my arms, I loved you. I’ve always wanted what’s best for you. But I just had so much guilt inside…”
He placed a heavy hand over my shoulder and squeezed, before drawing me in in an embrace. “I’m so sorry.” His voice shook on the cusp of a sob. “For not seeing. I never knew how gifted you were. I’m sorry, I never knew.”
He leaned back, those icy eyes melting into pools of blue. He lost his son, his wife to alcohol, and he had all but lost me. Whether I could ever forgive him, I wasn’t sure. My future relationship with him was a decision for action and time to decide. But the pain he displayed now was as real and raw as I had ever seen him.
“Now you know.”
He nodded, glancing to the floor, and as the sound of the next audition floated through the hallway, I touched his arm, then turned and left. I stepped outside onto the busy New York sidewalk, pausing to watch the crowd of people hurry by. I arrived at New York the night before with determination and a dream. I thought of Laird and Tad waiting for me back home. I thought of my unofficial acceptance into Juilliard along with my father’s acknowledgement, and I realized I left New York with something far greater. I left with a future.
About the Author
Tia Souders is the author of bestselling women’s fiction novel, Waiting On Hope and award-winning young adult novel Better Than This (formerly titled Freedom Road). When she isn’t writing, she’s likely renovating their century home. She’s a wine-loving, coffeeholic with a sweet tooth and resides on a farm in rural Ohio with her husband and children.
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