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 at 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.