“Well, I hope you’re right,” Lana says, blowing on her nails. “Anyway, don’t mention this conversation to anyone, okay?”
“Of course not.” The guilt presses against my stomach once again, and I tell myself it’s okay, I’ll keep doing the right thing. I’ll continue staying away from him, even if they do break up.
“I’m really bummed we can’t go to your showcase tomorrow,” Lana says, changing the subject. “I can’t miss tutoring if I have any hope of passing Monday’s chemistry test, but believe me, I would much rather be in the city watching you.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I totally get it.”
“Do you have anyone else coming?”
“Just my mom. The school orchestra has their own rehearsal, so Brianne and the others won’t be able to make it. It’s probably for the best, though,” I admit. “I mean, Brianne was sweet about it when I finally told her I got into the showcase, but…things have felt kind of awkward since then.”
“You’ve risen above her socially, too,” Lana says bluntly. “You’re popular-adjacent now.”
I laugh, but I feel a twinge of discomfort. I’m not supposed to be this girl—the kind of girl who makes Brianne jealous, who attracts Lana’s boyfriend.
Except for the moments I’m onstage, I’m meant to be on the sidelines. That’s how it’s always been.
APRIL 3, 2016
I peek through the curtain backstage at David Geffen Hall, the familiar preshow nerves setting in. Yet there’s nothing familiar about a stage this grand. I can’t even make out who’s who in the mass of faces under the blinding bright lights; all I can see is that the theater is packed. They’re all here for us, to witness “the next generation of musical greats,” as the poster outside says. Scouts from Juilliard are supposedly in attendance, along with reporters from the New York Times’s performing arts beat. I’m beginning to feel faint.
“You got this,” Damien says, squeezing my shoulder as he passes by.
I let go of the curtain, following him to our seats in the strings section.
“How is it that you don’t seem nervous at all?” I ask. “I feel like I might throw up.”
“Oh, I still have the about-to-throw-up feeling,” Damien says with a wink. “You just get used to it over time. And the high once you’re onstage and the waiting is all over makes it completely worth it.”
“That’s true.”
I watch as the rest of the musicians take their seats on the stage, all of us in standby mode until the curtain lifts. And then we hear the thunder of applause as our conductor takes the stage. The moment is almost here. I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
“Over the past month, it has been my pleasure to work with twelve of the finest young musicians in the country,” Franz Lindgren says, his voice booming through the theater. “I’m delighted to present the 2016 New York Philharmonic Contemporary Youth Showcase!”
The curtain rises. Applause and whistles fill the air. I glance at Damien and my fellow string players, my nerves building, palms growing sweaty. This is the one day I have to be perfect, the one time I can’t afford a single mistake. Thankfully, our opening number is “Summertime,” the one I know best. But the beginning notes are all on me.
I blink in the bright lights, my legs trembling, waiting for the conductor’s cue. As he raises his baton, I lift my bow to the strings. This is what I was meant to do. It’s my turn.
I close my eyes and begin to play, letting my favorite melody lift me up, until I no longer see the lights or the seats or the hundreds of faces in the audience. I’m in another world, one whose only inhabitants are me and the musicians on this stage, and this glorious sound.
The roar of applause after the final note jars me back to reality. And now, I can look out at the audience without feeling shaky from nerves. I spot Mom in the third row, beaming with pride, and I smile back at her. We move into Brahms’s Hungarian Dance no. 1 in G Minor, and I let myself relax, have fun with the intricate string work, even though it’s one of my trickiest numbers. It’s a trio piece, with just me, Damien, and the pianist attempting to do justice to Brahms. And from the light in their eyes as we finish, I can tell we nailed it.
And then, just as I’m hitting my stride, something pulls my focus. A latecomer is walking down the aisle of the theater, and there’s something about his walk, his build, his profile as he turns to slide into a seat. It’s Chace. And he’s come right at the moment when I’m about to play his song. My hand stumbles, my bow drops into my lap. I bend down to pick it up, my cheeks burning with humiliation. I’ve never dropped a bow onstage before. Damien shoots me a look, and I can read his expression. What the hell?
I shouldn’t look at Chace; it’ll distract me even more. But he’s smiling, his expression urging me on. I close my eyes, forcing myself to shake off my slipup and focus on the song. When Mr. Lindgren heard me playing it before rehearsal, he insisted on including it in the showcase as our jazz piece. I must have been good then—and I’ll be even better now.
“Tomorrow is my turn,
No more doubts, no more fears.”