for Maggi
Gregory
Looking up at the next candidate to enter the room, I immediately found myself subtracting points. Her dirty blonde hair was long and flew all over the place in ungroomed waves. She wore a sleeveless blue sweater and a grey skirt that was inappropriately short, well above the knee, with high black leather boots. She looked as if she were going out on a date. A young woman so attractive my breath caught a little as she positioned her sheet music on a stand and stood facing us with a confident expression.
James slid a folder across the table to me and spoke quietly. “Savannah Marshall. She’s got a somewhat unconventional background.”
I raised my eyebrows. He had an unreadable expression on his face.
I opened the folder, pointedly ignoring the girl who stood in front of us. I glanced over her application. Like most of the students auditioning this morning, she was in her senior year of high school. She listed an impressive number of performance credits on the application, but some of them were ... odd. Venues I’d never heard of, and a wide variety of music, not all classical. That was unusual for prospective students at the conservatory. In particular, she listed a summer spent touring with a rock band, probably in barns and warehouses since she was under twenty-one and wouldn’t be able to play in the dive bars that such bands frequented. I snapped the folder closed. This one was an unlikely prospect. I had no intention of admitting students who were not serious about their music.
I’d been through auditions often enough, though it had been a number of years. I could see the yearning in her eyes, but her composure was impressive. Most of the auditions that morning had been nervous affairs. Sweaty palms, dropped instruments, feet shifting, heavy breathing, the typical nervous terror of teenagers facing a life-changing audition. So many young people came here every year dreaming of music. So many failed. This one was different. Her confidence implied that failure simply wasn’t an option. Or that she simply didn’t care, which seemed more likely given her dress. We’ll see, I thought.
I waved a hand, beckoning her toward us. “Please proceed.”
She raised her arms, bringing the flute to her mouth. Her sweater rode up slightly, exposing perhaps half an inch of skin above her skirt. Highly inappropriate. However, her form was precise. She nodded her upper body slightly toward the accompanist, who began playing.
The piece was a Paul Jeanjean etude, a fairly advanced and difficult piece. I leaned forward, my elbow on the table, chin cupped between my thumb and fingers, idly pulling at my beard. Her execution was meticulous. James, sitting next to me, also inclined forward in his seat, his eyes focused. He heard the same thing I did. This one was something. By far the best audition we’d heard, and she was only a few bars into her first piece.
James leaned toward me as if to say something. I didn’t shift position. “She’s good,” he murmured.
“Shhhhhh.” I wanted to hear the music, not his commentary.
It was rare to hear an audition this well-rounded. Her sound was technically flawless, and the timing and tone were nearly perfect. As she wrapped up her first piece, I waved my hand again and said, “Continue.”
She began the second piece, a Mozart Concerto in D Major. I wrote some notes in the margin of her application then scanned it again. Good grades in high school thus far, though we didn’t have her senior year transcript. I looked through her recommendations. They were glowing. One of them caught my eye. The recommendation was from a private music tutor in Philadelphia who I knew and respected.
I closed the folder again, and just listened. Savannah was beginning her final piece, the Dutilleux Sonatine. An ambitious piece, but one students often attempted. Beautiful when played correctly. A disaster when not.
As the piano accompaniment began, she took a slow breath, composing herself. Then she brought the flute to her lips. Her sound was exquisite, and she had a level of confidence that made it seem as if she wasn’t even aware we were in the room. Her upper body moved with the music, and as she reached the most difficult, demanding portion, she closed her eyes, ignored the sheet music and just played.
I found myself holding my breath. Savannah was an extremely gifted musician. I closed my eyes, listening, delighting in the rich tone, the speed and beauty of it. I would never tell a student this, but she was nearly good enough to audition for the symphony now. We had to have her at the conservatory. We had to watch over her career, preserve it.
I opened the folder again, made some notes, and then leaned close to James. “We must have this one. If she can’t afford it, get her a scholarship. Whatever it takes.”
He nodded his agreement.
Savannah finished. I met her eyes for a brief second. She had an exalted expression on her face, a tremendous smile. Not the panic and fear I was accustomed to seeing on a student during and after an audition. She knew. Which was dangerous, because too much confidence could lead to being lazy.
I knew how to deal with that. I lifted my hand in a dismissive wave. “We’ll be in touch,” I said, my voice as cold as I could make it. Then turned away, not waiting to see her deflate.
Savannah
Eight minutes and forty-nine seconds.
I saved my major contemporary work for last, and that’s all that separated me from the end of the audition. It wasn’t that I always wanted to go to the New England Conservatory; it’s that I knew I would be going. It was the only option for me. I couldn’t help the instant connection I felt with the sound the minute I first picked up a flute when I was nine. I was meant to play it. Now, almost nine years later, I stood before the most pivotal panel I’d ever faced, taking a breath before starting Dutilleux Sonatine. I’d played every second of this composition, in pieces and at once, so many times that I could hear it in my sleep. I knew it cold. All eight minutes and forty-nine seconds of it. I wasn’t nervous at all. I’d prepared more than half my life for this.
That’s a lie. I was scared shitless.
I only had eight minutes and forty-nine seconds left to seal my next four years, which would, in turn, seal the rest of my life. I had nailed the previous three pieces, and it was all down to this.
I took one last look at my judges before starting. I watched someone from the admissions office slide my folder to him again. Gregory Fitzgerald. While the identities of the judging committee aren’t released ahead of time for a number of reasons, I knew all of the professors and musicians at the school. I was certain Gregory Fitzgerald was put on the panel solely to intimidate. He was a cellist. The cellist. He played for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and taught at the conservatory. His reputation as a musician was undisputed. He was one of the youngest musicians, let alone cellists, to be granted a seat with the BSO. If the rumors Nathan told me were true, they nearly begged him to audition.
His reputation as a person, however, was less impressive. He had a knack for belittling students, making them feel like they knew nothing. No one needs that kind of harsh negativity in their lives. He could be a dark, broody, reclusive musical stereotype on his own time for all I cared.
He was hard to look away from, however. I’d give him that much. The pretense that surrounded him like a cloud vanished for a split second as he said something to the person sitting next to him and gave a slight half smile. Small creases that formed at the edges of his eyes proved he did smile from time to time, and it looked good on him.
Not wanting to give away that I might have been staring at him for a second too long between pieces, I nodded to the pianist and started. The song starts on a very low note, which is easy to completely screw up when playing a high-pitched instrument. But, that’s just throat stuff. Nothing big. My biggest anxiety in the piece came just before three minutes in. When staring a
t the notes on the page for that section, it looked like a set of rapidly ascending and descending stairs. If I wasn’t careful, it would sound like I was falling down them. It’s easy to let your fingers get ahead of your eyes, especially with the fast stuff, and that would ruin it. Everything. So, as I approached that measure, I did something I’d only done once before and still can’t believe I did in the middle of the most important audition of my life. I closed my eyes.
The notes came easily; they were woven through the fibers of every muscle in my body. My fingers floated across the keys and my tongue felt light as I executed the challenging note runs. The freedom that comes from playing rock and jazz is exciting and invigorating. Spending last summer on tour with The Howling Toddlers around the Tri-state area allowed me to dig into new creative spaces with my instrument. But, the comfort, structure, and pure beauty of classical music felt grounding. Like home. For the remaining five minutes, I sank myself into the piece, into the notes, into the sound. If I could have smiled without screwing everything up, I would have. I wanted to cry. Goosebumps sprang across my skin as I finished the last string of notes and opened my eyes.
I nailed it.
Gregory Fitzgerald met my eyes as I held my flute low in front of me, feeling shockingly nude under his scrutiny. Adrenaline I thought I’d depleted during my last song resurged through my veins. His right eyebrow twitched up before he looked back down at my folder, the rest of his face unchanged. He gave the requisite arrogant, dismissive wave before saying, “We’ll be in touch.” I tried not to let my shoulders sink, but his tone felt like a kick in the gut.
Still, I smiled, nodded, and walked backstage.
Asshole. He knows I nailed it.
As I walked through the backstage door to the hallway, Nathan greeted me with a huge smile.
“So?” he exclaimed, holding out his arms.
Nathan was already a student here, but I’d known him for years. We seemed to follow each other around to various musical summer camps across New England since I was ten and he was eleven. He plays the flute, too, and encouraged me as I prepared for this audition.
Finally away from the stage, and the music, and the opportunity to screw anything up, I let some nervous tears fill my eyes as I smiled. “I killed it!”
“Yes!” he shouted, wrapping his arms around my waist and spinning me around once before kissing my forehead as he set me down. “I’m so proud of you, Savannah.”
I playfully smacked his shoulder as I started taking apart my flute. “What the hell was Gregory Fitzgerald doing in there? Doesn’t he have some first years to harass or something?”
Nathan’s playful hazel eyes widened. “What? He was?”
“Oh, of course he was. Why wouldn’t I have one of the strictest judges ever for the most important day of my life?” I rolled my eyes and placed my music inside my bag before zipping it, still feeling the effects of his crystal blue eyes as he studied my carefully chosen clothing. “I’m just hoping I don’t end up in an ensemble he organizes. He didn’t seem too impressed with me.”
“Ouch,” Nathan sighed, “did he thank you for your time, or anything?” He already had a conciliatory look on his face.
“No, he said we’ll be in touch.”
Nathan’s smile returned as he grabbed my shoulders and looked me square in the eyes. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“Um ... yeah. That’s what he said, with his little asshole wave.” I mimicked the hand movement as my stomach sank. Maybe I didn’t sound as great as I thought I did. Maybe that was all in my head and I really blew it.
Nathan squeezed my shoulders and smiled bigger than I’d ever seen him smile. “You’re in, baby. You’re in!”
Savannah
“I’m glad we were able to put off this class until Madeline was teaching it.” Nathan stretched his arm across the back of my chair as we settled into one of our last required Music Theory classes.
It was spring semester of my junior year—his senior year—and while there was still a light covering of snow on the ground, since it was late January, I was thrilled to be taking a class with Madeline White. She was a flutist who I’d had the pleasure of working with off and on for the last few years, and she’d been my private instructor since I entered the conservatory. Most importantly, she shared some of the same liberal music theories we did.
“I totally agree. Our last two classes were painfully boring. At least we have a chance of staying awake this semester.” I chuckled and rested my head on his shoulder for a second.
Nathan and I are both natural flutists. That’s not bragging—it’s a damn relief. We were able to tackle harder note runs and the highest and lowest octaves before most of our peers, opening a wide range of opportunities for us when we got here on campus.
While our technical abilities might lead some to assume that we would spend our days digging through the vast historical music library to conquer pieces written before the founding of America, sometimes we did just the opposite. We played with the music. We took the gift we were each given and tried to make it fun, alive. I love the classical pieces, don’t get me wrong. There’s something chilling about playing pieces written during the middle of a plague when the world was falling to total shit. However, being able to take notes invented before certain cultures and languages, and turn them into something fresh and new was invigorating. White, we knew, felt the same way. While I knew we’d have to cover a lot of the nuts and bolts of music and scales and the way pieces were written, I was happy to work through the tedious material with someone as bright as Madeline. She always told us to call her Madeline while we were at camp, and I wondered if it would be the same in class.
“It’s ten after.” Nathan shifted in his seat. He can’t sit still for long. Which, by the way, is hilarious to watch him try to control during a performance. “Where the hell is she?”
Just then the door opened, and the class sighed in a mix of disappointment at having to stay in the class, and relief that it would get under way.
“What the hell?” I groaned as Nathan pulled his pencil out of his bag.
He sat up and looked to the door. “What’s he doing in here?”
It was Gregory Fitzgerald, smugness wrapped in a cello, from my audition three years prior. I had, obviously, gotten into the conservatory. Not only did I get in, I’d received glowing accolades from the judging committee upon my first few months here. From everyone except him, that is.
Whatever.
I hadn’t seen much of him around campus since getting in, but, three years later, he was walking into Madeline White’s Music Theory class. With his cello case. He still had the same beard, though it was slightly shorter. It was well-groomed but made him look a bit older than the thirty-one years I knew he was. That was probably what he was going for. I read an interview with him once, in the BSO newsletter that was sent to my grandparents’ house every quarter, along with newsletters from the other four Big Five orchestras. The reporter asked him what he thought about being one of the youngest first-section cellists for the Pops. He shrugged it off, arguing that age and experience were trumped by hard work. His dark hair didn’t seem to have any grey in it, though I assumed that would change quickly if he never wiped the scowl off his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced unapologetically. “Unfortunately, Madeline White has had a personal emergency and will be out for the whole semester.”
Nathan leaned over and whispered in my ear, “And they couldn’t find someone else to fill in for her today but him?”
I shrugged. “We should call Madeline after class and see if she’s okay,” I whispered.
“I know. I really don’t want to have to find another instructor. I’ve worked with her forever.”
“Compassionate.” I smacked Nathan’s arm and shifted in my seat before I turned my eyes back to our new, attractive professor.
“So,” Fitzgerald continued, “I’ll be taking over this class.” A cacophony of complaints and che
ers filled the class.
Christ.
Gregory Fitzgerald was a surprisingly divisive topic amongst students, given how little time he spent with the actual student body. Most of the population was in agreement about his ability; there was little you could do to argue that he was at the top of his field. And, most of the females seemed to be in agreement about his looks. As the guys around us began to frown at not getting to have class with the beautiful Madeline White this semester, the girls took on blushing grins, suddenly looking much more interested in music theory. His allure didn’t come exclusively from the clear blue of his eyes, but from the way they sought me out. Like prey, as he surveyed the field of students and targeted in on me.
Breathe.
The disagreements, however, began when we all tried to break down how it was he got there. He was known to spend twenty hours a day practicing before he made it to the Pops. Sure, that’s fairly typical, I guess. But, what wasn’t typical, were the rigorous hours he put in on a regular basis. Ten, fifteen hours every single day was the rumor, and it was only slightly less on performance days. Work, work, and more work was definitely his reputation, and my excitement about music theory this semester bottomed out in an instant.
“If you’re all quite finished and ready to act like the adults the government insists that you are, let’s get started.” He set his cello case on the floor by the podium and began the driest introduction to an upper level music theory class in the history of humanity. He didn’t even introduce himself. He didn’t have to, but that he knew he didn’t have to really got under my skin.
Nathan wrapped his arm around my shoulder once again. “Get comfortable, beautiful. It’s going to be a long-ass semester.”
By the end of the lecture I was watching the seconds tick by on the clock, certain it was slowing down on purpose. I bounced my knee anxiously as Gregory spent the lecture discussing why musicians should learn certain scales in certain orders, and how that translated into certain classical pieces. He stepped away from the podium and the students began to shift in their seats, collecting their bags, some standing up. He grabbed his cello and headed for a seat in front of the podium. I looked up at Nathan, and he just shrugged his lean shoulders and turned back to Gregory. Without addressing the class, without asking anyone to sit back down or be quiet, he started playing.
Nocturne Page 1