Going Solo

by Cynthia Baxter

  Lisa was not about to give up. “Who are some of your favorite composers?”

  Tiffany sighed. This question, she decided, even she could answer. “I like Beethoven and Mozart and Wagner....”

  Suddenly everyone in the bus burst into loud laughter.

  Tiffany realized a moment too late that she had mispronounced the name of one of the most famous composers of opera of all time. She had failed to say “Vogner,” the correct pronunciation of Wagner, a name that she had mainly seen in print and rarely heard pronounced.

  “Wagner!” Todd was repeating, over and over again, in between loud guffaws. “Wagner!”

  “Oh, why don’t you all just leave me alone?” Tiffany cried, turning her face to the window.

  She thought the bus would never reach the college campus. When it finally did, she raced down the long aisle of the bus, determined to be the first one off.

  As she did, she heard Todd say to his friend in a jeering voice, “There she goes. The self-appointed expert on music.”

  “At least she thinks so,” his pal replied.

  But Tiffany never even glanced up to give them a dirty look. She was too busy hurrying off the bus, wishing more than ever that she’d never set eyes on any of them.

  “Tiffany, wait up!”

  Tiffany cringed as she heard the familiar voice calling after her as she jumped off the bus and ran toward the dormitory building, wanting nothing more than to get away from everyone as quickly as she could. The last thing she wanted right now, Tiffany was thinking, was to have to deal with some mousy little do-gooder who felt sorry for her.

  But Megan was persistent.

  “Come on, Tiff. Slow down. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to talk to you,’’ Tiffany snapped as she hurried into the lobby, way ahead of everyone else.

  “Tiffany, please ...”

  Suddenly she stopped in her tracks and whirled around. “Megan, what do you want from me?”

  Megan blinked a few times, meanwhile staring at Tiffany. “Gosh, Tiff,” she finally said, “all I want is for us to be friends.”

  “Friends? Why on earth would I want to be friends with you? It’s bad enough I have to share a room with you!”

  She flounced across the lobby and up the stairs, toward her room. Much to her dismay, Megan followed her.

  “Tiffany, please wait up. I know you don’t really mean that. I know you think we don’t have much in common, you and I. I mean, you’re so pretty and outgoing and sophisticated and all. And I’m just... just me. But if we could just talk to each other ...”

  By that point, Tiffany had reached her room. She turned around and, narrowing her eyes into two slits, hissed at Megan, “You want to be friends? Fine. Abracadabra, poof! We’re friends. Now, friend, why don’t you be a good friend and just leave me alone?’’

  With that, she slammed the door in Megan’s face.

  Tiffany collapsed on the window seat. But instead of bursting into tears, as she had expected, she found that she didn’t feel like crying at all. Instead she just stared out the window, watching the other kids climbing off the bus in front of the dorm.

  They were walking together in twos and threes, laughing and joking, having a good time. There was Allegra, walking with Steve, probably talking about rock and roll. Here came Betsy, the girl who played the cello, chatting with her two friends.

  For some of the kids, Tiffany realized, this was probably the best summer of their lives. She, meanwhile, was counting off the days, wishing they would go by as fast as possible. But from where she was sitting, it looked as if they would stretch on forever.

  When she heard a knock at the door, she sat up and straightened her dress. She still didn’t feel like socializing, but it didn’t look as if she had much choice.

  “Come in, if you must,” she called, sounding as cranky as she was feeling.

  She couldn’t imagine who it could be, since she could still see most of the kids milling around on the front lawn. But she found out a few seconds later. When the person who had knocked stuck his head in the door, looking concerned, she made a face.

  “Hi, Tiffany,” Mark Jackson said lightly, looking around and then coming into the room. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Tiffany replied in an equally casual voice. “Just trying to think up ways of killing myself.”

  “Things aren’t that bad, are they?”

  She looked at him with fire in her blue eyes. “Yes, they are. As a matter of fact, they couldn’t possibly be worse.” Her voice was edged with hysteria. “First of all, I just made a total fool of myself in front of everybody. Second, my roommates hate me. Third, as you know, I just found out a few days ago that my boyfriend dumped me for a girl who was supposed to be one of my best friends. Fourth, I’m stuck at a place where I stick out like a sore thumb, where nobody likes me and nobody will ever like me.” She paused to catch her breath. “There. Is that enough, or should I go on?”

  “Gee, Tiff. You’re right. Things do sound terrible.” Mark’s expression was completely serious. “I guess you’re doing the right thing, then. Listen, let me help you open that window over there so you can jump out of it.”

  Tiffany looked at him as if he were crazy. “Goodness, Mark, aren’t you ever serious?”

  “Goodness, Tiffany,” he countered, “don’t you ever stop being serious?”

  She was taken aback. “Me ? Serious? I’m not serious. Why, I’m always the life of the party!”

  “Maybe that’s the way you act with your friends down in Scarsdale, or wherever it is you live. But from what I’ve seen, you seem to take yourself more seriously than just about anybody else I’ve ever met.” In an even gentler tone, he said, “Have you ever tried letting up on yourself a little bit?”

  Tiffany was annoyed. “Really, Mark. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She sighed as he came over and sat next to her on the window seat.

  “You know, I had you figured out from the very first moment I laid eyes on you. You’re one of those people who’s never happy unless she’s the best. In the things she considers important, anyway. You have to have the nicest clothes, the most popular friends, the most expensive car.... You have to be the prettiest, which you are without even trying....”

  Tiffany could feel her cheeks burning.

  “But what you said before about sticking out like a sore thumb around here, about being so different from the other kids in this place—well, I don’t think it’s true at all. Everybody here wants really badly to be the best, too. Take your roommate Megan, for example. She wants to be the best flute player she can possibly be. Maybe even the best in the world. Then there’s Allegra. She wants to be the best rock singer.”

  “And what about you, Mr. Know-It-All?” Tiffany asked, refusing to soften even a little. “What do you want to be the best at?”

  “Well, let’s see. I want to be the best at being Mark Jackson, for one thing. I’d love to be the best jazz oboe player around, but I know there’s no chance of that.” He thought for a few seconds. “One thing I know I’m always really good at, though, is being a friend.”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes upward. “Oh, brother. How corny can you get? Now you’re beginning to sound like my father.’’

  Mark grinned. “Oh, yeah? So maybe your father and I have more than one thing in common, then.”

  She looked over at him, confused. “What do you mean, ‘more than one thing?’ What else do you and my father have in common?’’

  He shrugged. “We both care about you.”

  Tiffany was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically soft.

  “Hey, Mark?” she said. “How come you like me so much? Especially since all along I’ve been anything but encouraging?”

  “You know, Tiff, I’ve asked myself that exact same question quite a few times over the last few days.” Mark chuckled. “But I guess I know the answer. It’s
because for some strange reason I can see through that front you put up for the rest of the world. I know there’s somebody else in there, somebody who’s simply putting on a big act.”

  “Putting on a big act! Why on earth would I be doing that?”

  Mark shrugged. “Maybe because you’re afraid of finding out what the real Tiffany Forrester is like. It’s so much easier for somebody to be just like all their friends than to grunt and groan and work really hard to get to know the true person who’s inside of them.”

  “You certainly sound as if you’ve got it all figured out.” Tiffany sounded annoyed. “You talk like some kind of philosopher or something.’’

  “Let’s just say I’ve given this kind of stuff a lot of thought. Hey, there isn’t much else to do out on Long Island where I live besides think.’’

  Despite herself, Tiffany smiled at his little joke.

  “Hey, you’re smiling! You’re actually smiling. Does this mean you’re starting to like me or something?”

  Tiffany’s smile quickly faded, and she stuck her chin up into the air. “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say that I’m beginning to think maybe you’re not entirely hateful, that’s all. I don’t know; maybe I could even start liking you.” Quickly she added, “As a friend, I mean.”

  “A friend, huh? I take it that means you’re not going to be falling madly in love with me sometime within the next week or so.”

  “No, Mark, I’m not.” Teasingly she added. “I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you.”

  “Well, that’s okay, Tiff. I’m happy to be friends with you.”

  Very softly, so softly that Tiffany wasn’t sure whether or not he meant for her to hear, he said, “At least, for now.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you nervous, Megan?”

  The expression on Megan’s face as she looked up from her untouched breakfast made it unnecessary for her to answer Allegra’s question. It was the day of the concerto competition, and after practicing madly for days, taking advantage of every single free moment she got, she was wondering if perhaps she should be feeling a little bit relieved that it was finally time to get it over with. To do her best and then sit back to wait for the results. Instead, just thinking about the fact that in less than an hour she would be standing on the stage of the Clayton College auditorium, playing the Mozart flute concerto for a panel of three judges and an audience made up of the discriminating students at Wildwood, made her so tense that her heart pounded like a jackhammer and her stomach tightened into knots.

  “Oh, it’s going to go well, I just know it,” Allegra said consolingly. She glanced over at Megan’s plate, the food on it still so neatly arranged that it looked like a photograph in a magazine advertisement. “Listen, if you’re not going to eat that, do you mind if I have one of your sausages?”

  “Be my guest,” Megan replied morosely, knowing there was no way she would ever even attempt to inflict a sausage on her poor stomach. “Take both, if you like.’’

  “Thanks. How about your toast? If you don’t plan to eat it, that is.”

  “Take it.”

  Allegra reached over greedily. “Hey, you’re not going to let that whole glass of orange juice go to waste, are you?”

  Megan couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Allegra, aren’t you even the least bit nervous about this stupid concerto competition? I mean, you’re scheduled to play this morning, just as I am. So why am I a nervous wreck while you’re acting like ... I don’t know, like an eating machine or something?’’

  Allegra shrugged as she popped a large chunk of sausage into her mouth. “I guess when you come right down to it, Megan, I really don’t care about this concerto competition very much. You know as well as I do that the only reason I’m even going through the motions is for my parents’ sake. Now that they’ve heard about it, they’d kill me if they ever found out I didn’t compete.”

  It was all true, of course; she had been honest with Megan about it from the very start. She was just going through with the competition to keep her parents happy. At first, when she had told Megan the news, her friend had been alarmed by the thought of the extra competitor. But in the end, Allegra had convinced her that she really had nothing to worry about. Given the violinist’s attitude toward the entire thing, she insisted that she was bound to give a mediocre performance at best.

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned,” said Megan, “this concerto competition is the most important part of this entire summer. Whoever wins it and gets to perform as a soloist backed by our student orchestra—conducted by Amos Derwood, no less—is going to be getting the chance of a lifetime. Why, I could hardly sleep all night, I’m so nervous and so excited about it.”

  “Not having gotten a good night’s sleep isn’t going to help your performance very much,” Allegra observed. “As for me, I slept like a baby. Isn’t it funny how much easier things are when you don’t really care about them?” She picked up the orange juice and drank down the entire glass in just a few large gulps.

  “Well, I for one want to win this competition,” Megan said fiercely. Her two hands were clamped into tight fists as she spoke. “It would mean everything to me.”

  “And I just want to get it over with.” Allegra grimaced, then stood up from the table. “Which reminds me. I’d better run through the Mendelssohn one more tune before I go on at ten. I don’t want to make a total fool of myself in front of the judges.”

  Megan looked up at her with surprise. “You mean you haven’t even been practicing?”

  “Well, I figure I’m pretty familiar with the piece already. My teacher, Madame Oretsky, must have had me play it for her a million times this past spring. She kept insisting that I know it like the back of my hand. After all, it is part of the standard repertoire for the violin. Sure, it’s a little rusty, but when it comes time to go on, the old adrenaline will start pumping, and I’ll manage just fine.”

  “Good luck,” Megan muttered.

  “And good luck to you, too.” Allegra’s sincerity showed in her voice as much as her concern for her friend. “I just know you’re going to knock ‘em dead.”

  “Thanks.” Megan only wished she could believe her.

  * * * *

  Her stomach was still in knots an hour later as she stood on the stage of the auditorium. Looking out into the endless rows of seats, she could see that in the tenth row sat the panel of three judges. They were all principal players from the American Philharmonic Orchestra, one a violinist, one a bassoonist, and one a trumpet player. They were resting clipboards in their laps, their pens poised right above as they prepared to take notes. At the moment, they looked like three of the most frightening people Megan had ever seen in her life.

  Sprinkled throughout the auditorium, she could see, there were also many Wildwood students. They were watching the stage intently, anxious to hear how their new friends were going to play. On the stage, meanwhile, off to the side and slightly behind Megan, was a piano accompanist, a woman who would play on the piano the part that, should she actually win, would be played on the night of the concert by the orchestra.

  Megan knew that out of the one hundred students at Wildwood, only fifteen were trying out for the concerto competition. Since it had been decided only recently that such a competition would be held, not everyone had come prepared.

  Besides, many of the students preferred to spend the summer concentrating on their orchestra music, rather than having to deal with the preparation and performance of a concerto. It was, after all, quite a major undertaking mastering a piece that lasted for twenty minutes or so and was designed to show off the musical skill of the performer. Out of the fifteen who would be playing today, she had noted, about half played string instruments, with the others divided evenly between wind and brass. No other flautists were competing; that was good news.

  She stood on the stage for what seemed a very long time as the judges discussed the previous competitor, a boy who played a French horn conc
erto. To Megan, sitting in the second row and listening as well as she could, he had sounded excellent. His would be a difficult performance to follow. By that point, she really was beginning to feel as if she simply wanted to get the whole thing over with once and for all.

  And then, finally, it was time.

  At the judges’ prompting. Megan turned around to the piano accompanist to let her know she was ready. The woman began playing the opening bars of the concerto’s first movement, sticking nicely to the tempo she and Megan had agreed upon earlier. And then the introduction was over, and it was time for her entrance. Her hands were trembling ever so slightly as she held her flute up to her lips, fingers in position, and began to play.

  The first few notes sounded awful to her overly critical ears. Her nervousness showed, at least to her. But the tone of her instrument was lovely, shown off to its finest here in this huge auditorium with its excellent acoustics. Her accompanist, meanwhile, was doing a wonderful job of following her, rather than simply going off on her own and expecting Megan to keep up.

  And then, after she had played no more than three or four measures, her nervousness dropped away. She shed it in the same way a snake sheds its skin, suddenly and completely, no longer burdened by something that was no longer necessary. She lost herself in the music. She was carried away by its beauty and the thrill of playing it, of making it happen.

  The auditorium, the judges, the other students, sitting out there, listening ... they all but vanished as she disappeared into her own performance. While she never forgot that she was playing in a competition, that other people were listening to her, it ceased to matter very much. It was like being at the dentist under the influence of laughing gas: you knew what was going on, you knew that it might be something that wasn’t particularly pleasant, but somehow you didn’t really care.

  And then it was over. Megan’s knees felt weak as she brought her flute down and, blinking hard, looked out at the audience that, just a few minutes earlier, had scarcely been a part of the whole experience. And she saw that they were applauding and smiling. Much to her amazement, a half dozen or so were giving her a standing ovation.