Twenty
“How are you feeling?” Dad asks as I step into the kitchen. He, Aunt Liz, Emma, and Garrett are all gathered around the island, watching me intently.
“Fine.”
Aunt Liz bustles forward and begins fiddling with my bow tie. I feel stupid, getting dressed up in my performance clothes only to walk upstairs and play my oboe in front of my laptop.
I look over her shoulder at the rest of them. “Promise you’ll stay down here and won’t listen in.”
They nod in unison.
“For real. You’ll only make me more nervous.”
Dad’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Is it usual for an audition to take two hours?”
“Yeah,” I lie, and guilt tugs at my stomach. “There’s a lot of waiting around, and I have to play a few different pieces. Plus, since I’m applying to be a composition major, they’ll have a few interview questions.”
He pulls me into a long hug. “Whatever happens, I am so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
And then, of course, everyone else wants to hug me, too. Emma’s is quick and light, Aunt Liz’s is teary. Garrett holds on to me a second longer than I would have expected, considering we’re in front of my family, who may or may not have any idea of what’s going on between us.
Well, Aunt Liz obviously does.
And Emma’s been eyeing the two of us knowingly for a week.
So everyone except Dad.
“You’re incredible,” Garrett breathes in my ear. “There’s no way they won’t be able to see that.”
I nod, pull back, and make my way up the two flights of stairs to my room.
I set my music stand up near my desk and do one final microphone check.
I play a few warm-up scales, run the first lines of my audition music, and try not to think of the outsize impact the next few hours will have on my future.
Opening my laptop, I click the link that Burton-Clark emailed to me weeks ago to access the video call.
A panel of professors appears on my screen, each in their own office, at their own laptop.
A middle-aged man with cold eyes and a disinterested expression sits in the top left of my screen, an older woman with hair twisted into a severe bun sits in the top right, a younger woman with dark curly hair is in the bottom left, and my own nervous face blinks at me from the bottom right.
“Good afternoon,” says the older woman with the bun.
“Hi, I’m Enzo—”
“You can begin with scales,” interrupts the cold-eyed man.
I’m shaken by his impatience, like he wants to get this over with. I pick up my oboe, and they take turns calling out different scales. I play each one. I make a minor mistake on my articulation during the D-flat major scale because I’m so focused on the stupid number of flats that I have to catch.
When I finish, the young woman grants me a smile.
“You may begin your lyrical selection,” the man says.
I do. The lyrical part of the audition showcases a player’s ability to perform emotive, expressive music. My tone quality isn’t as good as I’d like because I’m feeling breathy from nerves, but when I end on a clear, sustained high note, the older woman nods approvingly.
“Technical selection, please,” the man says. The other two are jotting notes, but he sits with his arms folded across his chest.
This second piece is all rapid-fire sixteenth notes, meant to show quick fingerings and precise articulations. I do better at this one because it takes every ounce of focus I possess.
“Very nice,” the younger woman says when I finish. “You have beautiful tone.”
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s nice to hear since my sister tells me I sound like a dying loon.”
I probably didn’t need to share that.
“You have a sister?” she asks kindly.
I should say something charming to offset the dying loon comment. Katrina said these interviews are just as much about showing off your personality as they are about demonstrating your talent. Unfortunately, I don’t have the kind of personality that begs to be advertised.
“I have one sister and an exchange student who still possibly thinks this is a clarinet, no matter how many times I tell him otherwise.” I try to smile at my own anecdote, but on the screen, it looks more like a grimace.
The young woman—bless her heart—tries to keep this awful conversation going. “Where’s your exchange student from?”
“Georgia.”
To my horror, her face brightens, and she says, “Oh! I toured in Eastern Europe a few years ago. Which city is he from?”
“Atlanta.”
She laughs at the joke she thinks I made, then waits for my real answer. While I try to decide whether or not to lie and pretend Garrett is from Tbilisi, the call gets very quiet.
The man shuffles the papers in front of him impatiently. “You’re applying for our composition program, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And yet I see no music theory classes on your high school transcript.”
“No. My school doesn’t offer them.”
“How unfortunate.” His tone makes it clear that he believes this deficit is my fault.
“I’ve taken a few online ones,” I quickly add. “Through a college dual-enrollment program. You should have gotten that transcript, too.”
“Don’t worry,” the woman with the bun says, eyes flicking toward the man in annoyance. “We have it right here. I like to see that you put in the effort to find those classes on your own. And your composition portfolio is due on our online portal by the end of the week.”
“I’ll submit it today.”
“Thank you so much,” the younger woman says, too friendly, like she’s trying to make up for the man’s attitude. “You’ll receive our decision in late March.”
“What about financial aid?”
The man snorts.
“Financial aid is separate from our process,” the bun woman explains. “But should you receive one of our few merit-based music scholarships, you will be notified at the time of your acceptance.”
I try to read her tone, try to get a sense of my chances at receiving one of those few scholarships, but it betrays nothing.
When we finish the call, I’m breathing heavily.
I know everyone downstairs, despite what they said, is straining to hear my playing.
They think it’s a two-hour audition, and I need them to continue believing that.
So I pick up my oboe and play another piece to make it sound like I’m performing for someone.
I still have half an hour before I have to do all of this again with the other school. The one I haven’t told anyone about.
After seeing the plan in Dad’s manila folder, I decided that I can’t bank my entire future and our family’s savings account on one small conservatory in L.A.
It’s too big a risk to assume that I’ll get in, let alone receive any scholarships.
And Dad’s plan didn’t account for the fact that Emma will need to afford college a few years after me.
I don’t like lying to anyone, but I know that Garrett and Aunt Liz would think it’s settling, would tell me I need to focus on myself, on my dreams. Dad would think it’s about money—which it is—and get stubborn, would tell me it’s his job to worry about finances.
For now, I don’t need people weighing in on my future.
I need options and time to think about them.
It’s not setting anything in stone. It’s just an audition.
So I finish the piece I’m playing for no one but my nosy family, take a short break, and jump back online to do it all again.
Later that afternoon, as the shadows deepen across my bedroom, and the blue glow of my laptop burns bright against the gathering darkness, I log in to two separate application platforms for two very different schools.
Before submitting my compositions, I take one last look at the folder containing all the music I’ve composed in the last few months, the scores and audio files that define me.
My portfolio isn’t perfect. It doesn’t include technically challenging solos meant to showcase the limits of an instrumentalist, isn’t pushing the boundaries of convention to show off my originality, isn’t a self-aggrandizing portrayal of my knowledge of theory or orchestration.
Instead, it’s Aunt Liz in the form of a suite for string quartet, warm and optimistic and filled with soft melodies that remind me of candlelit dinners.
It’s Dad: a fanfare for brass, with chords that echo of determination and patience, like the personality of a small-town man who fights for the survival of his business.
It’s Emma: a viola duet, ambling and thoughtful, like a girl who reads books while walking through sunlit parks.
It’s Lake Superior: a piece for full band, overflowing with thudding waves of percussion and low brass and splashes of clarinet, oboe, and flute.
It’s the Caving Grounds: hymnlike, haunting, and slow.
And it’s Garrett: the simple piano sonata I wrote after our first real date. It is ice and waves, pine branches and sunset, stormy eyes in the fading golden light, ending on a longing, unresolved chord.
It’s the soundtrack of my life, and I hope it’s enough.