42. Montana
42
Montana
T he seats surrounding me fill in as each member finds their place and begins their initial warm-up. Tuning, tweaking, and perfecting their instruments, they ready their stands, assembling each piece in accordance to the repertoire.
I keep my face neutral, but worry stirs beneath my skin. Today is the day he’ll notice me for something other than my musical abilities. My eyes drift around the room and back to the main entrance door. Where is he?
“God, I can’t believe I’m late,” Alek’s voice gains my attention. “I’m never late.”
I turn, smiling at his presence. He’s dressed in his designer suit, looking dapper as ever, smelling wonderful in his designer citrus scent, with a slight sheen of sweat across his forehead. Running a hand through his hair, he draws his bow across the strings, completing a quick tune check and adjusting his pegs slightly until perfection suits him.
“It’s all good,” I say, peering at the double doors at the back of the auditorium. “Conductor Hopkins appears to be running late as well.”
His eyes narrow, and his lips twist into a frown. “That’s odd. That man’s clock is set a half-hour ahead on a regular day.”
I chuckle lightly. “Right? Seems a bit odd.” My eyes narrow on him. “Oh, hey, you got…”
I pretend to wipe the corner of my mouth where I see he’s got some sauce, presumably from lunch.
“Good Lord, I’m a mess,” he says with a sigh, wiping his thumb beneath his bottom lip. He takes a calming breath, then stares at me for a beat, his eyes twinkling. “You look really nice today, Montana.”
My smile never falters, and I quickly roll my lips to contain it.
“You just,” he stammers. “That color. You just look so full of life.”
My brows raise as his eyes unabashedly scan me.
It’s not every day that I have to zip into a fancy pantsuit for a dress rehearsal, but the way he’s regarding me is causing something else to stir.
“Just ignore me. I’ve said too much,” he finishes with a bashful glance.
“Forgive me,” I begin, “I’m just not used to real-life compliments.”
“That should never be the case with a woman like you—”
The double doors burst open at the back of the room, silencing any lingering conversation, and Conductor Hopkins quickly struts down the center aisle. A collective hush settles in as we all sit in attendance, awaiting him and his next move.
He stands before us, a deep scowl blanketing his usually serene expression. The wrinkles of his forehead cast a dark shadow beneath the auditorium lights, nearly blackening his eyes. Shuffling through his folder, he finds what he’s looking for, finally placing it before him on the wooden stand and lifting his baton.
Silence penetrates the space, casting an eerie calm before the storm. Conductor Hopkins swings his arm briskly, and the music ensues.
We coast through the first song of the repertoire, stopping periodically to address minor tweaks. As the second song ensues, the violins begin their dance, sending waves of glorious music through the air before the rest of the strings section prepares their bows to join. With a turn of his head and a quick flip of his wrist, the cellos begin their melodic tune.
Seconds into the third note of our bar, Conductor Hopkins drops his baton, silencing the entire orchestra. I close my eyes tightly for a half beat before I hear him call out to us.
“Cellos, once again.”
He lifts his baton as we ready our bows, and once again, three notes in, he drops the baton.
“D Minor,” he calls out.
We play it.
“C flat.”
We play it.
“A minor.”
We follow his command.
“There.”
My face flushes and I quickly glance at Alek, who’s looking tenderly at me, his spine straight and his shoulders ready. He knows just as well as I do that it’s actually me this time. His eyes trail over the Cecilio before he closes them and licks his lips. I’m in for the wrath of Conductor Hopkins.
After some meticulous repetitions, Conductor Hopkins singles me out, asking for a lone sixteen count. Completing it to the best of my instrument’s capability, I sit silently as he ponders a decision.
“My office,” he says simply, not a trace of anger in his tone. He dismisses me, and I’m not sure how to feel.
Alek flashes me a sorrow-filled glance, and I know there’s no saving me.
As if being singled out by the conductor in front of eighty-seven musicians wasn’t embarrassing enough, walking through the tight rows of music stands, their metal screeching on the floor as I bump into them, and passing the other musicians in the dead silence of an auditorium is by far the worst experience. The condescending eyes cast on the youngest member of the orchestra, being kicked out for having an inadequate and out-of-tune instrument, sear through my flesh.
T he only sound that fills the hollow room of Chief Conductor Hopkins’ office is the soft purring of an AC unit in the window. My pounding pulse adds a tempo to the melodic hum before my stomach groans with a pang of hunger. The ticking clock resting on the wood-paneled wall joins in working as my personal metronome, and the only thing missing in this symphony of nerves and endless anxiety is the conductor.
I grab my phone out of my bag and check for messages, but lately, as usual, it’s void of any interaction.
It’s odd, going from hundreds of messages and awaiting callers a day to nothing at all. The static and vibrance of a world where I’m consistently needed by someone is dulled to a silence of purpose and intention. I’m so close, Ella. I can practically taste the retributive justice on my tongue.
Just as I have done the past few days, I click Markie’s name and read through our old messages. All of my most recent messages have been viewed with no response. I keep talking to her, sending her random updates about my life, hoping that something will urge her to respond, but I’ve received nothing back. Confusion wracks through me, and I feel the dejection I’ve been avoiding. I’ve never felt so alone. I don’t have my mother, I’ve never had my father, and my best friend is lost to me. All I have is my music and this mission before me.
I take a seat in the chair I was in not so long ago, hearing words of praise and admiration for my tenacity, only to now be readying myself for confrontation.
The door twists open as my spine steels, and I fold my damp palms in my lap. Anxiety seeps through my every pore, and I focus on breathing slow and steady through my nose as Conductor Hopkins shuts the door behind him.
“I’m sure you are well aware of why I pulled you from the stage today,” he says before clearing his throat.
He makes his way to the front of his desk, taking a seat on the oak before me. Crossing his legs at the ankle, he casually folds his arms over his chest.
“Yes, sir.” I swallow. “I was out of tune.”
Tipping his head, he runs his tongue over his teeth.
“ You weren’t out of tune. Your cello was.” He stalls, tapping his finger over his lips as he sits, deep in thought. “Your replacement instrument; tell me where you got it,” he says softly.
I knew he’d pick it out immediately. When you are a trained professional who focuses his entire musical career on picking up different frequencies, naturally, you’ll pick up any little altered pitch that isn’t hitting quite right.
“My apologies, sir. I needed a replacement cello immediately and was only able to find this one at the local music store. I—”
He holds up a hand to silence me. His expression gives nothing away, and I’ve yet to decipher his mood. Is he irate that I thwarted his entire rehearsal? Is he sympathetic to my case? Or is he indifferent, ready to cast me aside as if I was never here? The worst of them all.
“As you know, the concert is quickly approaching.”
I nod my head.
“And preparedness is something I not only expect but demand of my members.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Due to the fact that this isn’t your generalized behavior, I’m willing to oversee this predicament.”
My heart races. Here it comes.
“Members all have access to the music rooms, and I won’t take away from their time slots, given that the concert is upon us.”
My stomach plummets. Where is he going with this?
“However, I will consider meeting with you after the open hours to resolve this situation.”
“After hours?” My heart stammers in my chest.
“Yes, it is not customary, and by no means are you to inform anyone of this kindness. It goes beyond what I should be doing,” he says sternly. “However, I see so much in you and may have a soft spot in my heart for underdogs.”
My mouth drops open. Underdogs.
“I know I shouldn’t be aware of your circumstances. Your past is your past, and no one should be allowed to judge you for it. But I believe everyone deserves a fair chance. Even if their starting line was set far behind the others.”
He knows I’m her . He knows I’m vEn0mX. He has to. Right? I can’t tell what he’s referring to or what he’s aware of.
“Thursday. Ten o’clock.”
With that, he stands upright and makes his way to the door. Opening it, he gestures for me to leave. I stand, gripping the handle of my cello case, and take a few steps toward him. Softening my eyes, I release a breathy sigh.
“You only get one,” he says, insinuating a chance.
“T-thank you, Conductor,” I mutter nervously.
His hardness begins to soften at my demeanor, and he closes his eyes and nods.
Nothing about this is by the book. It’s completely irrational for a conductor to meet with a member late at night and outside working hours. My plan is set in motion; the truths will be unveiled.
As long as I can ensure I do my part and sacrifice my soul for hers.