Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Nyx
good girl – Artemas
My heart is beating against my ribcage. A chaotic Presto tempo that makes it hard to breathe.
I'm running late because Chase offered to drive me but didn't bother to show up on time. The argument we had in the car already put me on edge. Now Achilles still won't let go of the back of my neck as he walks us past the doors into the concert hall and guides me toward the audience seats.
I vaguely hear him say something, but he's standing on my left, and I’m not looking at him, so I'm not sure what to answer.
He walks us past anticipating students, wide eyes stuck on us.
"Let me go," I whisper-hiss. "What are you doing?"
He stops in front of a seat and finally releases me. I don't sit down, my legs simply give out, and my ass luckily ends up on the seat.
"Missed me this weekend?" he says quietly, and I realize that's what he asked a minute ago.
In case I wasn't already a second away from a heart attack, he has to remind me of this weekend. I can tell his eyes are searching for fear on my face, so I make sure to relax my features despite the panic still thrumming through my veins.
"No," I answer harshly. "Now will you please leave me alone? I have to focus on the piece I'm about to play."
"I'll leave you alone in a minute. Once you've given me your number."
"Why don't you lay down and fall asleep right here, because that'll only happen in your dreams."
He squats in front of me so his face is closer to mine, that insufferable smile of his plastered on his lips. His breath smells of mint with a hint of cigarette. "My opinion has a lot of importance in this orchestra. I'd suggest being extra nice to me."
I lean forward, making sure we're eye to eye. "You're not that big of a deal, Duval. I'll be focusing on the conductor today, if you don’t mind. Can you handle not being the center of attention for five minutes?"
Achilles is that big of a deal. The fact that he had composed such a quality concerto in his teen years makes him exceptional.
But I've had two days of suffering after Friday.
Enough time crying on my own in bed to realize that I can't separate an artist from his art.
Achilles could be the best player in the history of time, but he still lost my admiration after what he did.
All that’s there now is a bitter taste in my mouth, a terror I can hardly control. And hidden deep beneath, in a dark place within myself that I never want to truly acknowledge, there's the thrill and pleasure I felt when he touched me.
Still smiling like a fucking idiot, he shakes his head. "You and I both know I'm that important. But you keep running that beautiful mouth."
He puts two hands on my thighs and squeezes hard enough that it reverberates to my core as he stands before me.
"Play well."
I'm not sure if it's an order or encouragement, but he's going toward the stage by the time I'm coming back to the present.
He steps on stage, standing in front of the musician chairs and next to the head of department, Mrs. Oakes, and the conductor, Miss Rivera.
The concert hall is something out of a dream.
I tried to visit a couple of years ago, but they only let music students in unless there's a public show.
Silver Falls University was built in the 19th century, and its concert hall reflects the beautiful style of European opera houses.
Shaped like a horseshoe, it has the reputation of having exceptional acoustics that I'm buzzing to experience.
It has two levels of seating: the parquet on the ground floor, and the circle on the level above.
We're all currently sitting on the ground level.
All the lights are on, including the gorgeous chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Even being in the fifth row, Achilles's piercing eyes find mine, making sure I know he's not forgetting about me.
Mrs. Oakes takes a step forward and smiles. She's a woman in her early sixties who has a stern face and a tight bun at the top of her head, but every time she talks, there's a kindness in her tone that shows how much she cares for all of us to do well in our careers.
A round of applause rings out for her, and she puts a hand up to ask for silence.
"Welcome to all our new musicians, and welcome back to our orchestra. In case you don't know, we’ve called you here on the first day to assess where everyone should be sitting on stage within your instrument section. This is not a competition, nor a reason to stress. We aim to have the best harmony within the orchestra, and that’s it.
Every chair is just as important as its neighbor.
You'll learn that this is how it works in professional orchestras.
Respect for your fellow musicians comes above anything else. "
She shows the two people behind her and carries on. "Miss Rivera will be the main decision-maker here, but Mr. Duval and I will be advising her."
There's a round of whispers in the room, mainly from what I'm assuming are other new students. She raises a hand again.
"I'm sure you all know Achilles Duval, and I want to take a moment to thank him for his help.
We don't always have access to such talent, and we're very grateful for him to take time out of his busy schedule to guide all of you.
If he gives you any tips, consider yourself lucky.
Now." Her gaze becomes a little harder, her lips pinching.
"This is a professional environment. Please, don't bother him while he's working, and let him deal with one student at a time.
We're not at a meet-and-greet with your favorite celebrity. Do not disappoint me with that."
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.
I cannot play 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."