OKAY. DEEP BREATHS. IT IS all going to be okay.
It was Friday afternoon, and Mackenzie sat in a gray institutional hallway in the University of Washington’s music building, cradling her cello against her chest. It was almost time for her audition—which meant that right now, Claire was in there, wowing the judges. Mac hadn’t seen her go in, but Claire’s audition time was branded into her brain. She wondered if Claire was nervous. She wondered if she’d feverishly washed her hands at least three times before she went in there, a little tic Claire had before every audition.
Because Mac was the last audition of the day, no one else was in the hall with her. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but panic bubbled up inside. She knew, deep in her bones, that she hadn’t practiced enough. She’d been so worried about Nolan and the investigation. She’d spent so much time with Blake.
But even now, thinking about Blake tugged her lips into a smile. She pulled her phone out of her pocket to see if he’d responded to any of her texts. When she arrived on campus, she’d texted him, Here goes nothing/everything. But he still hadn’t texted back. It was so unlike him. He knew she had her audition today. Then again he was working—maybe it was busy at the cupcake shop?
Suddenly, a change in the draft pushed the door to the recital hall open just a bit, and a familiar melody wafted out. Mac blinked for a moment, listening to Claire’s precise notes and emotional phrasing. The piece she was playing was familiar, and suddenly she understood why. It was her piece. The Tchaikovsky.
Mac leaped to her feet. This couldn’t be happening. Claire was supposed to play Popper. Blake had said she was. But did she really have to ask why she’d switched all of a sudden? Only, how did she know what piece Mac had chosen? The only people she’d told were her parents—and they wouldn’t say anything—and Blake.
Blake. Mac’s heart stopped. She looked at her phone again. Still no text back. No, she told herself. It couldn’t be. Blake wouldn’t betray her like that. Claire had found out another way.
“Miss Wright?” An iron-haired woman in a tailored suit stood in the doorway with a clipboard, peering over the top of her glasses. “Are you ready?”
Mackenzie felt as if her cello weighed five hundred pounds as she carried it into the recital hall. The stage was brightly lit, and she could barely make out the five panelists a few rows back. The Juilliard accompanist, a balding, dark-skinned man wearing a button-down shirt and tie, sat at the grand piano on the stage with her. Otherwise the hall was empty. She started to unpack her instrument and set up her things, her hands trembling violently.
“My name is Mackenzie Wright. Thank you for your consideration,” she said, her voice wavering. But then something came over her. Forget Claire, a voice said. Forget everyone. Think about your talents. Think about how much you want this.
She took a deep breath and started to play.
There was no applause after each piece, but it didn’t matter. She knew she was acing it. She didn’t miss a note of the Elgar or the Beethoven, and her rendition of “The Swan” soared elegantly from her fingers. Before the final song, she swallowed. “Excuse me,” she said to the accompanist. “I’d like to change my last selection, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He looked surprised but smiled. Mac took a deep breath. It was now or never—and she wasn’t going down without a fight. She looked at the judges. “I know I put on my form that I’d be playing Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo capriccioso, but instead I will be playing Popper’s Spinning Song for you.”
She raised her bow, holding absolutely still for a long moment. Then, nodding at the pianist, she launched into one of the most difficult pieces in the cello repertoire.
The song started with a frenzied succession of high-pitched notes. It was deadly fast and sent the cellist’s hands flying up and down the neck of the instrument at roller-coaster speeds. Mackenzie had always thought the song was kind of annoying, but it was one of the best songs to show off with, and now, as she played, a strange thing happened. For the first time, she found the playfulness of the piece. Instead of sounding strained and manic and frantic to her, it sounded fun. Flippant, and careless, and energetic. She almost laughed out loud as she played. For just a moment, nothing could touch her.
When she was finished, she sat still, almost breathless. She didn’t know if it would be enough to get her in, but she knew one thing: She’d just had the best audition of her life.
“Thank you, Miss Wright. That was beautiful,” said a voice from the panelists. “You’ll be hearing from us soon.”