I whisper the words as my bow flies across the strings, making the minor chords and blue notes dance. Knowing he’s watching might have thrown me off before, but it fuels me now, giving my performance a new fire. I leap up from the formal orchestra chair and my body moves to the beat, losing myself in it, as the drums, piano, and horns play behind me.
“And my only concern for tomorrow
Is my turn.”
After the last long, wailing note, I can’t resist raising my violin in the air, beaming upward, where that performance surely came from. And then the audience jumps to its feet. It’s the first standing ovation of the night.
I find Chace’s eyes in the crowd. They’re glimmering.
“Thank you,” I whisper. He can’t hear me, I know. But I hope he can read my lips.
Backstage, we shake off our proper onstage personas and turn wild, unleashing the joyful beasts born out of all the applause. We jump up and down, we scream and cheer, we throw our arms around fellow musicians whom we’ve maybe only said two words to outside of rehearsals.
“To the best young players in the country!” Damien declares, holding up his bottle of Evian.
“To us!” we cry, clinking plastic water bottles.
Franz Lindgren throws open the doors to the backstage greenroom.
“I don’t say this often, but wundervoll!” he exclaims, sweeping into the room with a rare smile. “You were marvelous.” Is it my imagination, or is the conductor looking directly at me when he says those words?
“Your public awaits,” he continues, nodding at the theater doors. “Enjoy this victory, and remember: keep up the good work and you just might find a regular home for yourself here at Lincoln Center when you graduate.”
The thought sends shivers of excitement through me. I can see that life so clearly in my mind: My own one-bedroom in the city, walking distance from Juilliard. My music stand permanently set on this stage, ready for me to return, night after night, to play. And Chace Porter, sitting in the front row or waiting backstage, but always near.
I blink rapidly. Where did that come from? How did he enter my daydream, as seamlessly as though he’s been there all along? What kind of person envisions her friend’s boyfriend in her own future? I shake my head to rid the image from my mind. Not me.
The crowd backstage is thinning out now, my fellow musicians making their entrance into the theater to greet the audience. I follow them through the stage door and out into the orchestra pit.
“That’s her, the violinist!” “Nicole Morgan!”
I glance around me in a slight shock, as well-dressed men and women line up to shake my hand or ask for a picture. In this heady moment, all I’m capable of is a repeated mumble of “Thank you.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see the people I’m dying to talk to the most. My mother, of course, a proud smile brightening her face as she films my audience encounter on her iPhone. And Chace, standing in the back, away from the lights but still capturing my focus. Why is he here?
“Miss Morgan, I’m Professor Portman from Juilliard’s Music Division.”
My head snaps up.
“Juilliard?” I echo, taking in the woman’s sharp features, framed by wire-rimmed glasses.
“Yes.” Her face relaxes into a smile. “I have to say, I was very impressed tonight. You shine when playing both classical and contemporary music, which is a rare gift for a violinist. Will you be applying to Juilliard?”
“Of—of course!” I stammer. “It’s my dream.”
“Consider it a dream very likely to come true.” She slips a card into my hand. “My information is all there. You can have your parents contact me. If your performance remains at this standard, we will certainly have a place for you in the String Department.”
I have to grip the back of a chair to keep from falling over at this dizzying news. Professor Portman catches the eye of my mom, who waves at me while continuing to film with a giant grin.
“Is that your mother?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’d love to speak with her.”
“Professor Portman,” I call out, as she turns in her direction. “Thank you so much.”
I watch, pinching myself, as the Juilliard professor approaches Mom. And then, as they begin to talk, I make my way up the aisle of the theater to where he stands.
“I knew you would be amazing,” Chace says. “But you were even better.”
“Thank you for giving me that song.” I look up into his blue-gray eyes. “And thank you for coming. I don’t know why, but I…I played better once I saw you here.”
The words feel like too big of an admission after I say them, and my cheeks blaze with guilt. I try to focus my attention on Mom and Professor Portman, who appear engrossed in conversation down at the foot of the stage.
“I can’t believe tonight happened,” I marvel. “I mean, is this real life?”
Chace laughs softly.
“It most definitely is.”
“Does Lana know you’re here?” I blurt out.
He shakes his head.
“Why are you here, Chace?” I whisper.