Going Solo

by Cynthia Baxter

  GOING SOLO

  Cynthia Baxter

  Chapter One

  “I’d like three cheeseburgers, one Whopper Special, three large orders of fries, and, let’s see, how about three milk shakes? Make that one vanilla and two chocolate. No, change that. Make it three chocolate. No, make that one chocolate, one vanilla, and one strawberry. Oh, and you’d better make that four cheeseburgers instead of three. I guess that’ll be it. And make it snappy, will you? I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  “Yes, sir,” Megan Davis said with a nod.

  She was trying her best to sound cheerful. But underneath her bright smile, she was so tired and so fed up that she thought she would scream if she had to act friendly toward one more rude customer, lift anything heavier than a single French fry, or ask the question “Is that for here or to go?” even one more time.

  But of course she knew full well that as much as she would have loved to scream—or better yet, walk out on this after-school job entirely—she couldn’t. So instead she pushed the Total button on the cash register, adjusted her bright red-and-yellow Burger King cap, and asked, “Is that for here or to go?”

  The crowd at Burger King was particularly heavy this afternoon. No doubt it was because today was one of the first warm, sunny days that the city of Buffalo had seen in a long time. The arrival of May always meant that more people came out. And whether they went shopping, biking, or strolling around the nearby zoo, it seemed to Megan as if practically all of them ended up stuffing themselves at this Burger King, where she had been working afternoons and on Saturdays for almost five months, ever since her sixteenth birthday.

  At first she had thought she would enjoy working at a fast-food restaurant. But it hadn’t taken her long to learn that a lot of the work was drudgery. In fact, by the end of her four-hour shift, she sometimes found her stomach turning at the mere sight of the familiar red-and-yellow Burger King colors.

  But even in her darkest moments she had to admit that sometimes this job was actually kind of fun. For one thing, she was surrounded by a bunch of kids her own age. And for someone like her, whose shyness had always kept her from having very many friends, that meant a lot.

  She especially loved having the chance to joke around with the other kids who worked there. Each one of them was so different. Lisa, for example, was always playing practical jokes. Megan found herself chuckling every tune she thought about the time Lisa put a mask left over from Halloween in the refrigerator and scared everybody half to death. Bill was the clown, sometimes doing imitations of the customers—or much more likely imitations of the store’s manager—that had everyone laughing so much their sides hurt. Then there was Eric, a gawky but sweet high school senior who was always slipping Megan free chocolate shakes. She had suspected for a long time that he had a crush on her, but since both of them were pretty bashful she never really had a chance to find out. Besides, romance was something she didn’t have much time for in her life.

  Sometimes, after the two-o’clock-to-six-o’clock shift had ended, the kids all hung around together, sharing a table in the back and eating some of the food that all day they had been complaining about being so tired of. Those were the best times because they could all sit back and enjoy each other’s company without any time pressure. She actually looked forward to those times as one of the few opportunities she had to relax all day.

  Today, however, Megan had no intention of lingering after work. This was, after all, a special day, one she had been waiting for for months. May 15. She had even circled the date with a red marker on the calendar her mother kept tacked to the bulletin board in the kitchen. Not that she had to; it wasn’t as if she would ever really be able to forget this day that had been looming ahead of her for so long.

  So there would be no hanging around with the other kids today. As soon as it was six o’clock, she headed out to the kitchen, retrieved her schoolbooks and black leather flute case from the shelf, and grabbed the sweater she had brought along just in case the weatherman’s prediction of a real spring day turned out to be overly optimistic.

  “Hey, Megan, what’s your hurry?” Eric was grinning as he glanced up from the burgers he was cooking to call after the slender, delicate-looking girl with the perky upturned nose and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. “Don’t tell me you’re actually getting sick of this place? Or is it that my special chocolate milk shake recipe is starting to get to you?”

  “Today is May 15,” she returned. Quickly she unfastened the red-and-yellow hat from her head of thick curls, a fiery shade of red with pretty golden highlights that was invariably the first thing people noticed about her. “It’s the day that the committee’s decision should be arriving in the mail.”

  Eric’s expression immediately grew serious. He knew exactly what she was talking about; after all, Megan hadn’t talked about very much else since she had started working here. He also knew how important it was to her. He held up his hands to show that his fingers were crossed.

  “Good luck, Megan,” he said earnestly.

  She just cast him a nervous smile.

  * * * *

  The bus ride across one corner of the upstate-New York city of Buffalo always seemed long to Megan, but today it was interminable. Seconds seemed like hours as she hurried home to find out whether or not she had been accepted into the Wildwood Summer Program. She wanted to get in more than she had ever wanted anything in her entire life. After all, being lucky enough to go there meant six weeks of playing in a student orchestra made up of some of the most gifted high school students in New York State, students who had been specially selected after a rigorous auditioning process.

  And the student orchestra was only one aspect of it. Being invited to participate in the prestigious Wildwood program also meant the opportunity to study music with the members of the world-famous American Philharmonic Orchestra, taking private lessons with the principal players, as well as attending all their rehearsals and conceits. And throughout it all, it meant living on the beautiful Clayton College campus, a short bus ride away from the outdoor amphitheater, the Wildwood Performing Arts Center. It was like a music camp, in a way, except that it was one of the most exciting such programs in the country. And as she knew only too well, it was also one of the most difficult to get accepted into.

  Megan knew that she didn’t really have to wait to find out the admissions committee’s decision. It would have been easy enough to put a quarter into a pay phone, dial her home number, and ask her mother if the letter had arrived in the mail—and, if so, what it said. But she wanted to open it herself. The way she saw it, if she had gotten in, it wouldn’t matter who found out first, her or her mother. But if she hadn’t, well, she knew she would be crushed, so disappointed that she was bound to burst into tears. And that was the very last thing she wanted her mother to see her do.

  After all, her mother tried so hard to make her happy, even though their life was not exactly the easiest. It was just the two of them now, ever since Megan’s father had died four years earlier, when Megan was just twelve. Things had been hard for both her and her mother ever since then. In fact, it was at that point, the point at which Megan thought of herself as having grown up, that she had come to feel that there was never enough of anything.

  There was not enough money; that was for sure. That was why it was important that she hold on to her job at Burger King. It was up to her to earn her own money for the things that were important to her, things like her weekly flute lessons with Ernest Barrow, First Flautist with the excellent Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra.

  There was never enough time, either. Between taking a full schedule of courses at school, including Advanced Music Theory, working at Burger King three afternoons a week plus Saturday mornings, and trying to find at l
east two hours a day to practice, Megan often joked that without her running shoes her entire life would fall apart. She was often tired. Many times, the only thing that got her through her long, demanding days was the thought that one day it would all pay off.

  The one thing there was enough of, however, was love. Megan considered herself lucky to have the wonderful relationship she had with her mother. Joanna Davis was a warm, generous woman who treasured her daughter above everything else in her life. She never complained, even though she worked long hours at her job as the assistant manager of the state university’s bookstore. She never let their scarcity of funds or her own fatigue get in the way of making the Davis home a pleasant place to live.

  Megan’s bedroom, for example, was filled with Joanna’s creative touches. The colorful patchwork quilt, in pretty pastel shades of pink, green, and blue, had been handmade by Joanna, a Christmas present a few years earlier. The furniture, bought secondhand, had been repainted white and trimmed in the same colors as the quilt. There was even a throw rug that Joanna had picked up for a few dollars at a garage sale, then dyed to match.

  There were other things as well. She always made tune for Megan, no matter how many hours she put in at the store. She never missed a concert of Megan’s, and she usually treated her to an ice-cream soda right afterward. Occasionally, she presented her with a single red rose. And she was always encouraging her daughter to bring friends home with her, urging her to invite them over on Saturdays or even for dinner during the week.

  Megan didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that she didn’t have very many friends. And it was only partly because she was shy, hovering in the background rather than mingling with the other kids even at school. It was also because she always put her music first, something that so many of the others she knew just didn’t understand.

  Playing the flute meant everything to Megan. When she played a Mozart symphony or a Beethoven overture in the school orchestra or in one of the two community orchestras to which she belonged, she felt as if she were being transported to another level of existence. This was a place where there was beauty everywhere, a kind of beauty that simply couldn’t be found anywhere else. There was room for all sorts of emotions, too—even anger and sadness—but even they were transformed into something wonderful, their power giving them an energy that could make her feel electrified.

  But music was even more than that. Megan saw it as her chance to escape, and not only into that imaginary world where beauty was the most important thing. It was also her way to move on, once she had finished her schooling. It was her chance to live the exciting life she had always longed for: playing with a world-class orchestra, living in a big city like New York or Chicago or even London. One day, when this fantasy became reality, she would meet fascinating people, eat in wonderful restaurants, even wear the sophisticated clothes that she would feel she belonged in once she had found her niche in life.

  One day, she told herself over and over, one day, that life will be mine, which was one of the reasons that being accepted into the Wildwood program was so important to her. With something that impressive under her belt she would have a much better chance of getting into a good music conservatory after graduating from high school, perhaps even someplace like the Juilliard School of Music in New York or the Peabody Institute in Baltimore or the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. Not only would she be able to begin sampling some of the thrilling life she was hoping for, but she would also stand a much better chance of earning herself a place in a good orchestra once she was out of school and on her own.

  Wildwood would provide a solid beginning, a chance to study with some of the finest professionals in the world. She would be able to study the flute with Carolyn Peters and play in the student orchestra, whose concerts would be conducted by the incredible Amos Derwood, perhaps the finest conductor in the world. What an opportunity to learn! She needed that kind of preparation if she was going to get into one of the fine music schools she wanted so badly to attend. She also needed a scholarship. And in order to be able to compete with the other talented music students around the country, she simply had to cultivate her natural talent further. It was important that she polish her already exceptional technique and expand her repertoire, becoming familiar with even more orchestra music than what she had had a chance to play. Yes, there was still a lot she had to do if her career was going to proceed the way she wanted—and spending the summer at Wildwood, she knew, was one of the best ways of accomplishing all she wanted to accomplish.

  Finally the city bus pulled up to the stop half a block away from her house, a pale green, two-story row house that was identical to all the other houses that were tightly packed onto the same block. Megan’s heart was pounding so hard she was certain that all the other people on the bus could hear it. She was breathless with fear and anticipation as she jumped off the bus and hurried toward home.

  As she raced up the block she could hear Eric’s wish of good luck echoing through her head. But she knew full well that it was too late for luck. She had done her best at the auditions, she had written the most sincere essay she could on her application, she had sent in the enthusiastic recommendation of her flute teacher. Now all that remained was to find out what the judges’ decision had been.

  * * * *

  “Mom, I’m home!” Megan called gaily as she let herself in through the front door.

  She took a moment to stoop down to pet her cat, Amadeus, who had sauntered over to greet her. Then she headed toward the back of the house, knowing that she would find her mother in the kitchen preparing dinner. As she walked through the short hallway that led through the house, she glanced at the small wooden table that was kept there, next to the staircase.

  Sure enough, propped up against the vase of dried wild-flowers was a white envelope. It was addressed to her, Megan Davis, and the return address printed in the upper left-hand corner was the Wildwood Summer Program.

  “Hi, sweetie. I had a feeling you’d be home early today,” Joanna Davis called from the kitchen. A few seconds later she poked her head out the door. She was smiling, but her blue eyes, identical to her daughter’s and usually bright, today were clouded with tension. “It came, Megan.”

  As Megan walked into the kitchen, she was clutching the envelope.

  “Well, Megan, honey, there’s only one way to find out what it says,” her mother said gently.

  “Do you think I should wait until after dinner?” Megan asked, her tone pleading. She kept her eyes fixed on her mother.

  “Would it be easier if I opened it, honey?”

  Megan just nodded. All her resolves about keeping her reaction to herself, especially if it turned out to be bad news, were totally forgotten. She couldn’t bear to be alone with that letter right now. And she realized that there was no one besides her mother that she wanted to share this moment with, no matter what the outcome.

  Her knees were weak as she handed the envelope to her mother. She sat down at the small table, looking around the room for the first time since she had come in. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was pleasant, decorated with Joanna’s caring touches. On a bulletin board, next to the calendar with today’s date circled in red, were the programs from Megan’s most recent concerts, displayed with the greatest pride. There was also a newspaper clipping from the local paper that described Megan Davis as one of Buffalo’s most promising music students. She was noticing the oddest things tonight: that the printing on one of the programs was slightly off-center; that the yellow flowers on the curtains were the exact same shade as the walls; that her mother had splurged on a small bouquet of fresh flowers this afternoon.

  She also observed that her mother had set the table with her “good china” this evening and that the dinner she was making was Megan’s favorite, a curried chicken and rice dish. There was even a homemade chocolate fudge pie for dessert, warming to room temperature on the counter. She realized that her mother must have taken off from work early today to
put all this together.

  But she could only distract herself with thoughts of dinner for so long. Her stomach was as tight as a kettledrum as she watched her mother tear open the envelope with a knife, her movements careful, as if she were handling something that was very precious.

  Joanna Davis’s face was expressionless as she unfolded the letter and silently read the first few lines.

  And then, her face still somber, she said, “Well, Megan, I’m really going to miss you this summer.”

  Slowly, the meaning of her mother’s words dawned on Megan.

  “You mean I got in?’’ she cried, leaping up from her chair and grabbing the letter so she could see for herself.

  “Congratulations, sweetie!” her mother cried, her eyes filling with tears. She covered her mouth with her hands. “I’m so happy for you that I could burst.”

  “I made it! I made it!” By now, Megan was jumping around the room, squealing. “I’m going! I’m really going!”

  “It’s such good news,” Joanna said, throwing her arms around her daughter and giving her a big hug. “Not that I’m surprised, of course.”

  “Oh, Mom. I can hardly believe it. Do you have any idea how much this means to me?”

  “I certainly do. And I also know that you deserve this, Megan. Don’t forget that you’re the one who made it happen.”

  Joanna Davis sighed. “Well, now, if we can manage to bring ourselves back to planet earth for a minute, I’m going to have to get that chicken into the oven. Otherwise, this dinner of ours won’t ever be ready.”

  “I hate to have to tell you this, Mom,” Megan said, unable to stop smiling as she flopped back into the kitchen chair, “but I’m afraid that tonight I’m simply too excited to eat!”

  Chapter Two

  “Allegra, please. For the third time, stop looking at that clock!”

  With the jeweled cane she always had in her hand, Madame Oretsky rapped on the edge of the hand-carved wooden music stand, just one of the priceless antiques that were crammed into the small apartment in which she gave violin lessons. Stuffed within the three tiny rooms were a grand piano, three bookcases filled with old programs and violin music, dozens of black-and-white photographs of the dignified old woman posing with some of the century’s most important names in classical music, a red velvet couch—and, on the mantel of the marble fireplace, an ornate clock, the one that today Allegra Ferrante simply couldn’t keep her eyes off.