Awards

Now that I’m up here, the only thing I have is the knowledge that I’ve done everything I can to prepare. You’re watching. My sister is watching. My future self is watching, probably trying to get back to sleep rather than reliving past events and (we’ll see how this goes) traumas. You’ll say I’m the worst. Say I’m the best. Say I’m so-so. And I can’t control that. So the only thing I have is the knowledge that I’ve done everything I can to prepare.

So then I’m fifteen, in front of another crowd.

My eyes are focused, my muscles are tense, and my breathing is meted out evenly as I fly across the lines that mark my progress. My sister isn’t far behind me, and observers seem to follow our movements. I don’t pay them much attention, then, though. What matters is where I’m headed, the finish line. It’s facing me down, though seeming much further away than in practice, and me much slower.

I’m out of shape, and I start to sweat. I miss my next mark. I start to decide if I’ll doubt myself, lose my concentration, and run out of steam, or if I will find a place in my rhythm, find a solidifying breath, and carry on to the end.

My sister and I reach the next point together, and I remember we’re a team. We’re near the finish line, and getting faster. An applause is looming.

Our last note carries out into the audience, and I drop my flute in front of me to bare my flushed face at the judges of our solo and ensemble competition. We’ve finished our flute and clarinet duet.

I rock back on my heels, relaxed for the first time since stepping in front of the small room of people. My heart’s beating slows, and I catch my breath. Next, we’ll hear the judge’s feedback, hear the total of points they’ve awarded us, and ascertain whether we’ve made it to the state competition.

The nervousness and doubt I felt while playing belies a strong feeling of sudden, melancholic unconcern. I’ve played and they liked it. Or I’ve played and they hate it. I’ve done my most to prepare.

For weeks, my sister and I have practiced on the edge of my bed, sharing a stand and tucking our music pages neatly inside the other’s to turn the pages when the measures ran out.

When we practice, she’s almost like a teacher, though at first impatient when a run of notes mismatches, or we run amuck of a flat or sharp, or the rhythm doesn’t make sense. But then she squashes her nose up and picks her music sheets up off the stand and looks at the staff bar closely, counting in her head and tapping her foot. I wait patiently, happy to let her figure out what the issue is. Then a tut, and she shoves the papers toward me and says “here, you’re missing the C sharp and those are supposed to be 16th notes. It’s a scale, so you’re probably going too fast.” I hum it out:“da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da, right?” Her head nods along, and then she frowns and asks me if I want the metronome.

Back in the room with the judges and the audience, I glance over at her for the first time since we began playing just a few minutes before, and she shrugs at me and nods. My heart rate slows even more - at least she doesn’t look angry, or worse, disappointed.

The first judge pipes up, thanking us for playing and offering pointed comments about our breathing, staccato, and tone. But I’m worried about her. I’m worried about the middle judge, who is shuffling through copies of the piece with a confused look on her face.

The second judge mentions those quickened scales that have plagued me since the beginning, and my sister nudges me with her knee, smirking. So far, so fine. But then, the judge in the middle stacks the sheets of music together and taps them straight together on the table, clears her throat, and asks us, “how did you pick this piece? Did you mean to play something meant for trumpet?”

I freeze in place, my knees stick-straight and my lips pursed. I look over at my sister, who cocks her eyebrow at the judge, then at me, then at our music. I don’t understand the question, and I wait for her to solve the issue like when we practice together and something sounds off.

Just as she does at home, she scrunches up her nose, leans in close, and roves her eyes around the black and white page looking for the culprit, that errant sharp or missed tempo change. Then she sees it, and points at small black letters in the top left of the first page, so easily missable on a page full of sixteenth and thirty-second notes: “trumpet,” it said. As in “for trumpet.” My heart sinks.

“Huh,” my sister said. “I guess we missed that.” To my surprise, she laughs, bumping her shoulder against mine.

The judge smiles, laying the papers down on the table, and tells us it’s the best duet played on the wrong instruments she’s heard all day.

I collect our music from the borrowed stand at the front of the room and follow my sister out into the hall. She turns to me, and I expect anger or disgust or embarrassment. Instead, she starts packing up her clarinet, and says that she thought my 16th notes were perfectly on beat.