by Jeff Ross
“Nope,” Jon said.
“A little,” Dani said.
“Sure,” I said.
Olivia’s phone buzzed again, and she walked away staring at it.
“We have Powell for the whole morning,” Dani said, looking at the schedule. “You going to be all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Jon picked up his cello. “Sure you will be, buddy,” he said. “You just got to turn your Hulk-Aid rage into a perfect performance.”
“That’s not going to catch on,” Dani said.
“What, Hulk-Aid?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure it will. It’s gold,” Jon said. “Pure gold.”
As we walked to our practice room, Jon kept talking. “I mean, everyone gets nervous,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe not everyone. Like, I don’t. Not really. But that’s because I don’t care what happens. Like, if I mess up, I mess up. Maybe that’s what you need to do. Stop caring.”
“Quit it with that,” Dani said. “You care. I can tell.”
“I don’t. I really don’t. It has kept me invincible.”
“I don’t get you,” Dani said to Jon.
“No one does,” Jon said. “No one ever will.”
“If you don’t want to be here, then why are you? It’s not like you just pay and you’re in. You have to apply and send a recording in and be accepted. It is crazy competitive.”
“I’m naturally talented,” he said. “And terminally lazy.”
“So I guess you understand yourself pretty well,” Dani said.
“It is what it is. I was born with a talent.” He held his fingers up. “There’s magic in these here digits. But here,” he said, tapping his chest, “there is love only for the vids. Television. Flickering lights and pretty colors.”
Dani shook her head. “I don’t buy it. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be.”
“There you are wrong. I don’t have a choice. Plus, when you think about it, playing an instrument in, like, an orchestra or something is a pretty easy gig. No cubicles. No math. No early mornings but plenty of late nights. That’s not a half-bad life. So until I can get paid for playing Call of Duty, it is with the cello I shall suffer.”
I didn’t believe Jon either. And I didn’t know why he was trying to pretend he didn’t care about cello. I mean, I’d watched him play.
He went to another place when he started bowing.
We caught up to Olivia, and she raised her eyes from her phone to take me in. “You just need to relax,” she said. “Breathe. Focus. That’s the most important thing. Focus.”
“You’re good,” Dani said. “Just make certain you know your piece. That it’s as perfect as it can get. That’s what I do. I keep practicing until it plays in my head when I go to sleep at night. Until it’s the first thing I hear when I wake up. It’s the only way to do it.”
“Okay,” I said. I wanted them to shut up, because the more they talked about being nervous, the more nervous I became.
Dani and Olivia cut into the girls’ washroom as we were heading toward our practice room. Which was when Jon decided to say, “She’s amazing.”
“Who?” I replied.
“Olivia,” he said. “Wait—you’re not into her, are you?”
“What?”
“Because I looked her up online last night. I found her Facebook page and Instagram. She started something on Pinterest but I guess got bored with that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She likes all these obscure books and the Matrix movies, but also Legally Blonde and Frozen. So complicated. Her music isn’t just classical either. She likes some Swedish hip-hop. Did you even know that existed? I listened to some. It’s shocking. She also says she runs and would like to learn to longboard, but I have a feeling that was all about this guy on her Facebook page, because he left a comment that said Cool, would love to teach you, but there’s no chance for that romance because honestly, how deep can a love of skateboarding really go?”
“You’re talking about Olivia?”
“Yes. Keep up, man.”
We found our practice room. Jon stepped in first. “Not bad, not bad,” he said.
A bank of windows on the southern wall was open, letting in the fresh beginnings of summer. Music stands had been arranged in front of four chairs. Jon went to the two chairs where he and Olivia would be sitting and shifted them slightly closer together. A moment later Olivia and Dani came in. Olivia moved her seat away from Jon’s, then got out her viola, set it on her lap and went back to texting or whatever it was she was doing on her phone.
“You do the first part, okay?” Dani said when we were all set up. “I’ve only practiced the second.”
“Okay,” I said. “Should we do the Adagio?”
“Let’s try the Fugue again,” Dani said.
And just like that, we began.
And it was amazing.
Other than when Mr. Jorgensen accompanied me on the piano, I’d never played with anyone else. We made it about halfway through before Olivia slipped up. She’d already missed a couple of bars, but this time she dropped her bow as she was turning the page.
We ground to a halt.
“Sorry,” Olivia said as she picked up her bow.
“Wow,” Dani said. She poked me. “You are special.”
“Is that the only piece you have ever played?” Jon asked.
“No,” I said.
“Because if I practiced this one piece every day for, like, years, I might sound something like that. Only on cello. Forget the violin—I don’t know how you people get your fingers in the right spots on those little fingerboards.” He laughed and shook his head. “Boggles the mind. Same with viola. And what if you have fat fingers?” He looked at Olivia. “I’m not saying you have fat fingers and that’s what happened to you there. I mean, I don’t think you have fat anything, not that I’m…”
“Do you want to start from where we left off?” Dani said, saving Jon.
“That sounds like an awesome idea,” Jon said.
We readied our instruments and began to play. It took a couple of bars to get back in sync, but when we did, it really sounded awesome. I was smiling as I played. I could feel it in my cheeks. I looked to Jon, who smiled back, and to Olivia, who, amazingly, was beaming. Her face looked entirely different with the giant smile. She looked brighter and, for once, as though she was enjoying herself rather than analyzing everything that was happening around her.
Most important, I didn’t feel nervous at all. Not even slightly. The music just rose up through me and flowed out easily.
We came to the end of the Fugue at almost a whisper.
“Bravo!”
We turned to find Mr. Powell standing at the doorway, clapping madly.
“Incredible. Now the Adagio.”
My back was to the door, so when I turned around, all I could see was the side of Dani’s face and Olivia sitting bolt upright, bow posed over her viola.
“We’re really trying to nail the Fugue first, Mr. Powell,” Olivia said.
“Fine. Play it again then. I missed the beginning.”
It took us a few bars to really get together, but once we were going it was, again, amazing.
And still I felt fine. Absolutely fine. My fingers hit where they were supposed to. My bow was steady and loose.
When we finished, I felt Mr. Powell’s hand on my shoulder.
“Extraordinary,” he said. “Alisha was right.”
I didn’t look up, but I could feel his eyes on my head.
“Will we be performing this for the final concert?” Olivia asked.
“Absolutely,” Mr. Powell said. He returned to the doorway. “The Juilliard people will love it. I guarantee it. Run through it a couple more times. You four have the recording studio for the rest of the day.” And with that he was gone.
Olivia immediately picked up her phone.
“Well, this
is good,” Jon said.
“Why?” Dani asked.
“Because we’ve already nailed it.” He looked over at Olivia. “Seriously, what are you looking at on that thing?”
“I just wanted to be certain we would be performing this piece before I showed you this.”
“What?” Jon said, leaning closer. “And how does looking at your phone tell you anything about us?”
“It doesn’t tell me anything about us at all.” Olivia held her phone up.
“What is that?”
“The cover for Yo-Yo Ma’s recording of Adagio and Fugue in C Minor.”
“What? No!”
“That’s right. Yo-Yo.”
Jon cringed and buried his head in his hands.
Six
Lunch was held in a large hall. Sandwiches, salads, pickles and bottles of juice and pop. By the end of the first half hour, nothing remained but tomato juice and potato salad, circled by twisted napkins and little mounds of pepper.
We sat around the circumference of the room, cross-legged and sticking almost entirely to our ensemble groups. Olivia disappeared at first, hovering around a few other people, always standing and looking down at them with cell phone in hand, then finally returned to us, sliding down the wall to sit beside Dani.
“Hey, Will?” Jon said.
“Yeah?” I hadn’t been in a ton of social situations, but something about Jon’s tone left me feeling I was being set up.
“What are your thoughts on Timbuktu?”
“The place or…”
“The Swedish hip-hop artist.” Jon looked directly at Olivia as he said this. She may have twitched a little. Not much, but there was a brief moment when her attention was diverted from whatever was on her tiny screen.
“I’ve never heard his work,” I said.
Having nowhere to go, Jon managed, “Well, it’s pretty cool. I mean, I love it. I’ve been into the whole Swedish hip-hop scene for a few years. The beats are intense.” He continued to look at Olivia, waiting for her response. When none came, he shrugged, discouraged.
I felt I should add something to the conversation to help him out, but I had no idea what.
“Who have you been working with?” Dani asked me between bites of her sandwich.
“Oh, just this guy in my apartment building.”
“You’re not with a studio?”
“No, this is the first time I’ve ever really played with anyone else.”
“Who is this guy? I want to train with him.”
“His name is Mr. Jorgensen.”
“Like Alisha?” Olivia said, finally glancing away from her electronic world.
“Yeah, he’s her dad.”
“Well, that explains it,” said a familiar voice.
I looked up to find Cathy standing over me.
“Hey, Cathy,” Dani said.
“You’re not just special,” Cathy said. “You’re also a favorite. This is, like, nepotism. It also explains why you’re on the performance list today.” I had no idea what she was talking about. “You’re becoming the whole school’s pet, aren’t you? Miss Jorgensen brought you in here. You’re her dad’s little prodigy. I’ve already heard Powell going on about you.”
“No one said he was a prodigy,” Dani said.
“They will. But wait a second—only if they get to hear you perform. And that’s not likely to happen, now is it?”
“No one’s performing today,” Jon said.
“Au contraire, my four-eyed friend. Every day, three people perform in front of the entire group. They say the people are randomly selected, but he’s on today with Sung and Elliott, so they obviously are already choosing their favorites,” Cathy said.
“What are you talking about?” Dani said.
“The teachers. They all have their favorites. And Will must be Powell’s. The Juilliard people are going to be here today as well.”
“We have to play in front of everyone?” I said. Already, it felt like my stomach was ready to reject the egg-salad sandwich I’d just eaten—which, obviously, was the worst choice for someone worried about nerves. You just never know with mayonnaise.
“Um, yeah. It’s called performing.” Cathy shrugged. “I guess with you it’ll just be a different kind of entertainment for the rest of us.” I thought she was going to walk away, but she just stood there, like she didn’t know where else she belonged. “Do you think you could throw up for us? That would be epic.” She pulled her cell out. “I’ll be recording for posterity.”
Then she spotted someone across the room and marched off as though she’d just made some kind of grand statement.
“Did you guys know about this?” I said.
“I knew they did it,” Dani said. “I didn’t know they’d start on the second day.”
“That does seem really soon.”
“But they’re only doing three a day,” Olivia said. “So it’ll take the rest of the week to get through everyone.”
“What time is this supposed to be happening?” I said.
“It’ll be okay, Will,” Dani said. She put a hand on my forearm. “Just get up and play something.”
“No, I know, it’ll be fine. I mean, I’m just trying to figure out when it will happen and what I’m supposed to play and…”
“Chill out, Hulk-Aid.”
“Don’t call him that, Jon,” Dani said.
The buzzing in my ears had returned. I could feel my body vibrating. Already I was inhaling in short gasps.
“Here’s the thing about this place,” Dani said. “They expect that they’re teaching you to be a performer. Like, to be a professional. So just get up and play something you already know by heart. Something you’ve practiced a lot. It’ll be fine.”
It wouldn’t be fine.
I mean, I knew that was a negative way to think, but my body was telling me it wasn’t going to be fine. I felt clammy and shaky and I didn’t even know when I was going to have to do this thing. The next time I looked up, Mr. Powell was standing above us.
“Will, have you heard about your performance this afternoon?” he said, as though it were already done.
“Just kind of.”
He crouched and put a hand on my shoulder. “We’re hoping you’ll play something you know well. Something in the three-minute range.”
“Where? Why?”
“Oh, it’s something we like to do here to get everyone ready to perform. You’ll be announced and then you can come out, bow, tell us what you will be performing, play your piece, bow and be done. It’s an opportunity for the students to hear one another.”
“I don’t want to,” I said. And I really, really didn’t want to. It already felt as if everyone was watching me.
Staring.
Waiting for me to screw up or freak out.
To fail.
“It’ll be fine, Will. You need to be able to perform in front of people. That’s what you’re here for.” He shook me a little. “Trial by fire, son. You’ll be great.”
I was about to respond, to tell him again that I couldn’t do it. That I had nothing prepared or felt ill or had an unfortunate paper cut right on my index finger, but he’d already patted my shoulder and walked away.
“You’re his boyo,” Jon said.
I stared blankly at him. “What?”
“Every one of these teachers has a horse in this race, you know? Like, next year one of them will be able to come back and say, ‘Oh, did I mention, that student of mine from last year, Will Neises, well, he has gone on to Juuuilliard.’ And everyone will have to be all super impressed with them, and then that year whoever that teacher is—and I guess if you can pull it together that’ll be Powell—will be the superstar. The best teacher evah. Like it had anything to do with him.”
“I…I…” I didn’t even know what I was going to say.
Then Jon leaned back, hands in front of his face, and said, “Look out, everyone. Hulk-Aid will erupt in ten, nine, eight…”
Seven
; Elliott played like a man possessed.
It was ridiculous.
I’d seen him around but never spoken to him. He was small and quiet, but when he got up on that stage he was a different person.
He seemed to grow.
To expand.
What confused me most was how he could be so calm about it. Playing in front of all these people, his soul completely exposed.
He played the opening of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor. Some of the other students knew the piece and were humming along, anticipating each step. He moved—dipping, shifting from side to side. He wasn’t perfect, but he was very, very good. Obviously, he’d practiced this piece. He’d polished all the edges until they shone.
He finished to a round of applause. Whispers of conversation fluttered around me. Some of the kids were talking about how great he was. Others were pointing out small mistakes to their friends. Something they might have done better.
Sung got up next and didn’t bow or introduce her piece. She just stood there for a few seconds, staring out at the audience. As she brought her bow up, I could see her fingers shaking. She kept sniffing as well, and after playing maybe three bars, she stopped and scratched her nose. Then she started over.
I couldn’t tell what Sung was playing. At first I thought it was Mozart, then Bach. It shimmered and wavered in the strangest ways. She seemed to be constantly doubling back on herself. It actually sounded like more than one piece, maybe three or four mashed together. But no one in the audience appeared at all confused. I thought I heard someone else playing as well. A cello rumbling out long, low notes.
Cathy was right in the middle of the crowd, her arms crossed, her eyes on me. On the other wall I could see Mr. Powell. He gave me a flip of his eyebrow, then a thumbs-up.
I leaned toward the stage again, and what I was hearing didn’t match the movement of Sung’s bow, which was steady and tight. I closed my eyes and felt worse. All the sounds came at once. I exhaled, slowly letting the air out.
What was I doing here? Why was I even bothering? All these people would be staring at me. Judging me. Trying to figure out ways they were better than me. Just waiting for me to fail.