With another warm smile, she nods. "You've all learned the one-minute piece we sent you over the summer. For those of you who don't know, the way this works is that we listen to you play and decide where you'll make the orchestra sound the best. We’ll be moving you around all day, so no one’s leaving until this is done. Please refrain from questioning us as we go, nor commenting on our choices, and keep noise to a minimum. That means no applauding after someone's performance. You're all extremely talented, and we know it, or you wouldn't be here. The aim today is to listen to each other and move as quickly as possible. We have seventy-five of you to go through and place."
As soon as she's done, Miss Rivera takes her spot on the conductor's podium and opens the score.
"One last thing," Mrs. Oakes says. "Unfortunately, our soloist has broken her wrist over the weekend. Since we'll be selecting a new soloist for the semester, we'll listen to violins at the end. We'll be starting with brass."
I'm not the only one who gasps painfully. Breaking anything in the upper body as a musician is our worst nightmare. Mrs. Oakes nods politely at a woman sitting in the front row, and I can't see her face, but I can see the cast on her forearm. Poor girl.
All morning, I watch the brass, woodwinds, percussions, and any other string instruments but violin play for Miss Rivera. Cello, viola, double bass. As every musician performs for her, I tap on my violin and unconsciously do minimal movements with my bow, repeating the piece as they're accompanied by the grand piano that replaces the soloist for the sake of the auditions.
As soon as they're done playing, Achilles writes a number on a Post-it note and sticks it on the musician's uniform. Pink, yellow, green, blue. Random numbers that make no sense to any of us before he sends them to the side of the stage. Sometimes our conductor scratches her throat, and Achilles automatically changes the number. He doesn't talk to anyone, no matter how much they stare at him with expectant eyes. And he looks so out of place in his hoodie and jeans, compared to all of us in SFU undergrad uniforms.
The second they start with the first person in the alphabet for violins, I look for the rosin in my case. And that's when my heart free falls. It's not there.
What the hell? In my stress and argument with Chase this morning, I must have forgotten to pack it.
Icannotplay if I don't rosin my bow. They won't hear the sound.
"Oh my God," I murmur to myself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The guy next to me shifts, and I feel him eyeing me and my case. I'm already feeling the cold sweats going down my back. This is over for me. I wouldn't be surprised if they kick me out because of this. It's such a rookie mistake.
"Here," I hear a deep voice say. "Have mine."
I turn to him, lower lip trembling from how hard I'm trying to hold back my tears. He's offering me his rosin box.
"Thank you so much," I whisper. "Thank you, thank you." I grab it, quickly opening the paper box and pulling out the circular hardened resin. I carefully apply it on my bow, more at the two ends than in the middle, and finally give it back to him as I thank him over and over again.
Putting it back in the box, he smiles at me. "No worries. I'm Josh, by the way."
"Nyx," I huff. "Today has been just as stressful as I thought it'd be."
He laughs discreetly and says, "At least we don't have a random Post-it note stuck on our uniform yet. What year are you?"
"Third and you?"
"Same. Third year, violin"—he shows me his instrument—"but I've never seen you before. We should’ve been in the same classes until now."
"I just transferred." I smile brightly at him, sensing some of the stress falling off my shoulders. "Thank you again. I don't know what I would have done without you."
"Probably get eaten alive by Miss Rivera. It stresses me out that she still hasn't said anything."
"Agreed—"
My name is called, and I jump in my seat.
"Shit. Gotta go."
"Good luck."
I walk down the aisle to the stage with trembling knees. I have no confidence in myself whatsoever. Everyone here is better than the previous person, as if there's truly no limit to how talented they all are. Those kids have had private teachers, own expensive, quality violins, and clearly have an advantage over me.
I sit in the only seat in front of Miss Rivera and look at the sheet music we've all learned over the summer. Or at least for the violins. Every instrument had a piece. Ours was the first minute of Vivaldi sonata D major RV 10: II allegro moderato.
I tune my violin in thirty seconds, and the anxiety eats me alive as I know they're all about to see how weird I am. That I'm going to be judged, probably put in a corner of the orchestra and be sent strange looks for the rest of the year.
Mrs. Oakes must be aware of my little peculiarity, but our conductor looks at me with no expectation or anticipation, just a bored gaze over reading glasses. I don't think she's been told.
She's a Filipino woman in her fifties and has worked with some of the biggest orchestras in the world. She was the conductor for the Los Angeles Philharmonic for ten years, yet she’s probably never seen what I'm about to show her. What she mighthate mefor.
