Page 51 of Riot Reunion
Carrie snorts under her breath, making it clear what she thinks of that statement. I tuck her hair behind her ears—it’s extra curly today, fat corkscrews sticking out all over the place. Ihavebeen very wound up about this audition, but standing in front of Carina now, everything snaps into perspective. We’re young. Healthy. We don’t have to worry about money. My girlfriend is the sweetest, sexiest, most amazing astronomer on the face ofthisplanet, at least. I’m basically the luckiest guy alive. Not being selected for this conservatory isn’t going to change that.
I pepper the freckled bridge of Carrie’s nose with three light kisses, then tip my head in the direction of Auditorium Three, where today’s auditions are being held. “Shall we?”
The Pacific Northwest Institute of Contemporary Music, commonly referred to amongst local musicians as ‘The Institute,’ is a grand, modern building that overlooks Washington Park. Loosely modeled after the Sydney Opera House, its curved outer shell has been designed with perfect acoustics in mind. The inner space comprises two monstrously large concert halls, either of which I would be fortunate as fuck to play inside one day. Beyond the halls, the academic facility takes over. Behind closed doors, music rooms and auditoriums span as far as the eye can see.
A very straight-backed usher checks my printed invitation to audition when we reach auditorium three, remarks on my punctuality, and sees us inside. Per my invite, I’m allowed one guest to accompany me and watch my performance, so he tells me to wait for him while he seats Carrie in the extraordinarily quiet, dimly lit theater. When he returns, he takes me down a long, carpeted hallway, then through a side door that leads backstage behind the auditorium. Seems like overkill, to have me enter from the wings, but then again, this is a highly revered school; it shouldn’t be a surprise that they hold to tradition.
“Break a leg,” the usher says stiffly.
“Thanks.” I take a deep breath and step out from the curtains, approaching the stunning grand piano that awaits me in the middle of the stage.
This process isn’t new to me. I’m used to being shown straight to an instrument and told to prepare in silence. A spotlight washes the piano in a warm, off-white light. It’s so bright that I can’t see a damn thing when I look out toward the theater, seating myself on the bench.
“Dashiell Lovett?” a formal female voice asks over the speaker system.
“Yes.” I nod as well as speak just in case my voice is swallowed by the vast space.
“A warm welcome to you from Pacific Northwest Institute. We’re honored that you’ve chosen to join us in this audition for the Seattle Summer Composition Conservatory. Can we confirm the name of your piece?”
“Stellaluna,” I answer.
“Thank you, Dashiell. You may proceed. The very best of luck to you.”
I’ve been working on this piece for over a year now. When I stretch my fingers and close my eyes, the pathway of the music greets me like an old friend reaching out for me to take its hand. My nerves leave me. I sink into a quiet, dark, safe place, a deep certainty enveloping me. And I play. The piece flows, dancing, fluctuating, rising and falling as my fingers skip over the keys of the piano. Sound floods Auditorium three, swelling, reverberating, sweetly echoing off the walls in such a way that the music feels like it shakes the very foundations of the building.
I lose myself.
Somewhere out there in the dark, one of the most accomplished young composers of my generation is listening with his eyes closed, taking mental notes, assessing my skill as a writer, and deciding ifIam the musician who deserves the one open spot on this course. The pressure of the moment weighs on me, but it doesn’t cause me to break. It invites me to soar, to play my heart out, to imbue every note with as much passion and feeling as I can muster. And that is the easiest part, because this song is about Carrie. It’s sweet like her one moment, fiery and bold just as she is the next. Love spills into every note I play; even I can recognize that the auditorium rings with it—so much love that it could make a man’s heart break.
When the music ends, a part of me feels like it dies. There’s always a cost to playing something so visceral; itrequiressomething of you, and I gladly give it, handing over a piece of myself in exchange for the sublime storm I wrought at the keys in return. I didn’t make a single mistake.
Breath coming fast and hard, I open my eyes, a cold sweat breaking out across my back.Now,the nerves come rushing back in. Now, a wave of anxiety proceeds to kick the absolute shit out of me.
Was it enough? God, was itenough? WasIenough? Shiiiit, I think I’m gonna throw up.
The bench legs screech as I push it back so that I can stand. My legs don’t feel strong enough to support me. If I collapse on this stage, I will never recover from the embarrassment. I’ll fly back to England and never show my face in this country again.
Turning to face my invisible audience, I pull in a deep breath…and bow.
Clapping fills the auditorium, and a wave of shock fires up through the length of my body.
Not the sound of one man clapping, politely showing his respect for my performance.
Not the sound of my girlfriend clapping, enthusiastically showing her support.
No, this clapping is a cacophony of sound, deafening and wild. Many people clapping. Hundreds even. I don’t understand.
When the house lights go up, I nearly double over, the breath knocked straight out of my lungs. This doesn’t make sense. The auditorium isfull.
Faces smile back at me from the rows and rows of seats. Men and women, all strangers, get to their feet, and they clap forme—a resounding standing ovation for me, as I stand astonished, taking them all in.
Where’s Carrie? Where thehellis Carina Mendoza? I can’t—I can’t fuckingseeher.
“Congratulations, Dashiell. A magnificent performance,” the warm female voice says over the P.A. system. “I think we can all agree, a truly remarkable piece. The P.N.W. Institute thanks you for sharing your music with us. You may now exit the stage.”
My legs are twin rubber bands as I walk as calmly as possible off stage right and descend the stairs there. The same usher that escorted me through back-of-house is waiting for me, a kind but professional smile on his lined face. He gestures toward the aisle that leads toward the back exits. I follow after him, the sound of applause still ringing in my ears. Rather than showing me out of the auditorium altogether, the usher stops about halfway up the stairs, and I realize that he’s showing me to a seat…right next to my girlfriend.
“That was incredible. Fuckingincredible, Dash!” Carrie throws her arms around my neck the moment I sit down next to her, her eyes shining bright with tears.
