Solo (Symphony Hall)

by Lauren E. Rico

  But fear of ghosts wasn’t a luxury I had as a freshman piano major. Not with classes and work taking up all my daytime hours. And, without my own piano at home, I’d spend hours in the practice rooms, occasionally getting to play the Steinway grand piano in the concert hall. That’s where I was the night he caught me “air conducting” on the big stage. I just couldn’t resist hopping up on the conductor’s podium and pretending I was leading an orchestra in a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. I kicked off my sandals so that I was barefoot, and closed my eyes, hearing the music in my head as I played. When I felt a tap on my shoulder I jumped and gasped, my eyes flying open.

  “What’s your name?” he asked gruffly, taking an empty seat in the violin section in front of me.

  “K-Kate,” I stammered. “Kate Brenner…”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “You’re the senator’s kid,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Why aren’t you a conducting major?” he asked.

  “Because I don’t conduct,” I said, wondering why he would ask such an insane question. Hadn’t he just seen for himself how little I knew about it? That I was just faking it?

  He considered me some more before speaking again.

  “You do conduct. You just don’t know it. Yet.”

  Fast forward nearly six years and I’m standing on the conductor’s podium—for real this time—in front of the Shepherd University Wind Ensemble. Unfortunately, they’re not making me feel especially welcome. In fact, they’re snickering, and it’s starting to piss me off. I pretend not to notice as I stand and flip through my score for the “First Suite” by Gustav Holst that we’re working on.

  I suppose I should have expected this after that debacle in Markham’s class this morning. Half of the students who were there are playing in this ensemble. And the ones who weren’t there have obviously heard about what went down. They don’t even bother to hide their pointing and whispers.

  I take a furtive glance over at Russell, who’s sitting to the side of the stage, observing. He gives a slight smile and an even slighter nod. They serve as a reminder that, while I do have to take shit from Drew Markham, I do not have to take it from the Shepherd University Wind Ensemble.

  Feeling my confidence level rise, I pull off my sneakers and toss them to the floor—something that looks weird but somehow seems to center me. Then, I take a deep breath and find the spot in the score where I want to start.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” I say, trying my best to sound pleasant. “Let’s work the final movement of the Holst Suite, please. Tyler?” My gaze travels to the section leader for the saxophones. “I really need you to hit the melody a little harder in the opening line. You guys are the main attraction there.”

  “Harder?” he echoes, trying to sound innocent. “You want it haaaarder?” He draws out the word like a moan. A sex moan.

  What a little shit! I survey him for a beat before responding.

  “Tyler,” I begin with a sympathetic tone and smile, “I know you’re used to things being…softer than you’d like, but, just this once, it would be great if you could man up and hit that section Good. And. Hard. Are you…up to it?”

  Until this instant, I had no idea that someone could blush and blanch at the same time. And yet here’s Tyler doing it right in front of my delighted eyes. There are catcalls and taunts from the rest of the band, and the poor guy looks as if he’d like to slide right out of his seat and melt into the floor.

  “Okay, okay!” I call out over the din, trying to put him out of his misery and out of my mind so we can get back on track. “We don’t have a lot of time, so let’s start this last section. Ready?”

  Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. It’s as if I’m invisible. Really? Why do they have to make everything so hard? I take another deep breath.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this…

  “Ready?”

  This time there’s considerably more edge to my voice, though not one of the musicians so much as glances my way.

  “Screw this,” I mutter under my breath as I raise my arms, baton in my right hand. I start to count down, pretending I have their undivided attention.

  “One, two, one, two, one, two…ready…AND!” I start to conduct at the same time I start to sing the melody that the saxophones should be playing. I throw a cue to the trumpets, who aren’t playing. They grin stupidly and look at me as if I’m nuts. But I keep going, my silver bracelet jangling with every downbeat.

  “Flutes! This is you coming up!” I yell as if I’m trying to be heard over the band. This time, they’re glancing at one another, clearly unsure of what to do. The first flute shrugs and raises her instrument with the others following suit and, when I cue them, they come in.

  Well I’ll be damned…

  The oboes and bassoons are right behind them. By the time we’re a minute into the score, they’ve all started to play for real and I can stop my singing.

  This is where the fun begins. I close my eyes and let the music take over my entire body. Conducting isn’t just about waving a stick around and counting beats. Reading a score is like being an air traffic controller. I can see every flight coming in, going out, circling, taxiing, and parking at the gate. While each musician can only see his or her own “flight plan,” it’s up to me to see to it that everyone arrives at the correct destination safely. And on time.

  I’m cuing sections with my left hand, beating time with my right. When my body folds in on itself and I grow smaller in stature, they instinctively play softer without me having to utter a word. When the lush part comes in and the melody drags like the drone of a bagpipe, I allow my arms to lead in long, broad strokes, as if I’m painting a canvas that’s twenty feet tall. They respond in kind, with wide swaths of lush, vibrant sound.

  Finally, when the jig returns, I start to dance. Dance! An actual little jig lifts my body up and down on the podium. This is how it feels to have the music take over every cell. When I open my eyes, I see my flutes and bassoons, horns and oboes, saxes, and brass. They’re playing lighter and brighter. I see heads bopping and toes tapping as if they’re enjoying themselves.

  As I bring them to the spiraling conclusion and drop my baton, I’m breathing hard and smiling big. They stare at me, dumbfounded.

  “Yes! Now that’s how you play that piece!” I holler with a triumphant hop on the podium. I’m beaming as my eyes roam across the risers, meeting the gazes of every musician there. “Except for that shitty opening, you gave me, that is.” I chuckle, and they join me. It’s the first time they’re laughing with me instead of at me and it feels good.

  “Really,” I say a little softer now as I lean over my podium toward them, inviting them into an intimate conversation. “You guys sound amazing and we’re going to kick ass on this when we play it at the spring concert.” I pause for a long moment, look down at the podium and then back up at them. “My job—my only job—is to help you sound as good as possible so we can remind people that this is one of the top music programs in the country. I am here for you. Please keep that in mind,” I beseech them, getting my point across as several of my musicians look away from my gaze guiltily.

  I let my face relax into a lighter expression. “Now get out of here! I’ll see you for our next rehearsal in a couple of days,” I say and they scatter to put their instruments away.

  I’m making a note in my score when someone clearing his throat. I look up and see Russ standing there.

  “Well played, Kate,” he says now that we’re alone on stage.

  “I’ll be damned,” I say quietly but excitedly. “I might just get them to respect me yet.”

  “You might just,” he agrees with a grin. “Seriously, you handled that very nicely.”

  “Thanks, Russ,” I say as I start to pack up my things.

  He takes a seat in front of me and I can tell he’s got more to say. I don’t have to guess what about.

  “So, I hear that Drew Markham gave you a hard time
this morning.”

  I swear this guy has ears everywhere in this school. “It wasn’t a big deal.” I shrug as I close my score and stuff it into my bag.

  “That’s not what I hear. What happened?”

  I stop what I’m doing and take the seat next to his, recounting the morning’s events with minimal emphasis on what an ass Markham was to me. But Russ isn’t stupid. He knows there’s more to this than I’m telling him and he’s getting angrier by the minute. His ghostly white skin is growing crimson from under his collar up to his hairline. His hands have clenched into fists and he’s trembling.

  “He’s got some fucking nerve, threatening to fail you,” Russell spits. “Who the hell does he think he is? He’s just a little shit who teaches music theory. Music fucking theory! Does he really think he has the authority to keep you from graduating?”

  “Apparently,” I say, a little taken aback by the venom in his tone. I don’t often see this side of Russell Atherton, thankfully.

  “Well, I think it’s time I disabuse him of that notion.”

  I lean forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Please don’t,” I beg him softly. “Russell, it’ll just make things worse if he thinks you’re trying to protect me. Please.”

  He shakes his head either in disgust or disbelief. More likely both. “Stop it, Kate. You’re not some frail, abused little girl. You’re a strong, confident conductor. You just proved that in the way you handled that rehearsal.”

  My stomach tightens with the prospect of Russell confronting Dr. Markham about this—or anything involving me. After a long, uncomfortable minute, he stops his ranting and takes a good look at me.

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” he says after drawing a long, deep breath. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” And then there’s concern in his voice and his expression. “You know, you don’t look so good, kid.”

  Now that the conducting adrenaline has left my body, I realize that I don’t feel so good. My forehead has stopped bleeding, but the aching throb has morphed into a dull pounding behind me eyes that makes me wince when I blink too hard.

  “Yeah, well, it’s been the day from hell. I think I’ll feel better after I get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Then I suggest we cancel our lesson for tonight so you can go home and get one.”

  “Really?” I ask, trying not to sound too relieved.

  “Absolutely. Go and try to get some rest. The last thing you need is to get sick right now.”

  He couldn’t be more right about that. I get back to my feet and snatch my sneakers from where I’d tossed them down on the stage.

  “I will, thanks,” I say, slipping them on without bothering to lace them. “And Russ?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Please don’t go chasing down Dr. Markham. I just want to graduate and get the hell out of here.”

  A chilling smile crosses Russell’s face and it makes me stop in my tracks.

  “Kate, I was chasing Drew Markham a long time before you came into the picture.”

  I have no idea what that means. Something tells me that I hope I never do.

  Chapter Four

  Drew

  “One grande, half-caf latte with almond milk and two sugars,” Tessa Morgan says cheerily as she hands me a steaming white cup.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to make a little more room for her as she slips into the seat next to mine. We’re all shoehorned into the small conference room, waiting for our boss to arrive for the weekly faculty meeting.

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for saving me a seat.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have you standing for the entire meeting in those ridiculous heels you wear.” I grin, then take a sip of coffee.

  “Just because it’s cold outside doesn’t mean I can’t be fashionable, Drew Markham.” She huffs with faux indignation.

  And she is fashionable. From silky, golden-blond hair, to tan skin, to perfectly manicured nails, Tessa Morgan always looks as if she’s just stepped off a runway.

  I started teaching at Shepherd just after my fiancée—scratch that—ex-fiancée bailed on our relationship. Tessa was a good friend when I needed one. And she still is.

  “I got your email about Kate Brenner,” she’s saying now, dropping her voice so our colleagues won’t overhear. “No, she hasn’t come to see me about you. Or anything else, for that matter. What makes you think she might file a complaint against you, anyway?”

  “She was late to class and I wouldn’t accept her homework. Things got a little heated.”

  She raises perfectly arched blond eyebrows over perfectly shaped green eyes.

  “How heated?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Just enough that I wondered if she’d gone crying to you after class.”

  “Well, tell you what, how about I call her in for a chat? I can feel her out on it—”

  “Stop right there,” I interrupt, shaking my head and holding up a hand.

  “What?” she asks innocently. “Really, I don’t mind facilitating for you—”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t mind,” I accuse with a knowing smile.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her tone is indignant now and I notice a couple of adjunct professors glancing our way.

  “Just that I know you, Tessa Morgan. You’re dying for a reason to get Senator Brenner’s daughter in your clutches. A chance to get a little dirt on our local celebrity.”

  “Hey!” She gives me a playful shove. “I’m her advisor. It’s my job to facilitate things like this.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Drew!” she hisses at me under her breath.

  “Am. I. Wrong?”

  She glares at me before finally rolling her eyes.

  “Fine. Fine. You’re right. I’d love a chance to talk to Kate. She’s been at Shepherd for more than five years and the only time I ever see her is when she stops in once a semester so I’ll sign off on her schedule. She’s very mysterious, that girl. I’d love to know what she’s hiding.”

  “Uh-huh.” I smirk. She raises her hand as if to smack my arm again, but I’m saved by the arrival of the dean of music, Maureen Clevenger. She bustles in, wearing her trademark no-nonsense suit and her trademark no-nonsense expression. Lagging behind her is her frazzled assistant, Mary. They take the two seats at the head of the table, which have been left vacant for them.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. So sorry to be running late. And sorry for the cramped quarters. They’ll be finished installing the new carpet in the main conference room sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, I promise to get through the agenda as quickly as possible so those of you who are standing don’t have to do so for very long.”

  Between full-time, part-time, and adjunct professors, there are about two dozen of us on the music staff at Shepherd, and today we’re all crammed into the small meeting room next to Maureen’s office. Every square inch of the oval table is accounted for, and the overflow professors are standing in clusters along the walls.

  “I’ve got several items on the agenda, so let’s just get started. The first item is final exams. I know we haven’t even gotten to midterms, yet, but I want to avoid the confusion we had last semester. Please submit your proposed schedule for exams and your preference for room assignments so Mary can start work on the master schedule,” she says, with a nod in the direction of the fortysomething-year-old woman next to her. “No harassing Mary for special favors. Period. Everybody understand?”

  We all nod. Last semester was a disaster with students in the wrong rooms on the wrong days because half the faculty was fighting over early time slots so they could get out of town for the holidays. Clearly Maureen’s not having that this time around. And, clearly Mary is under the impression that we’re all going to swarm her, based on her terrified expression and darting glance.

  “Excellent,” Maureen says, ticking off an item on her meeting agenda. “We have about half a dozen senior recitals coming up, starting the week after next. M
ary will get an email out to each of you sometime today. Drew and Barry, you’re excused from adjudicating those because you’ll have your hands full prepping for graduate oral exams at the end of the term.”

  We all nod our understanding and Maureen checks a second box.

  “A reminder that the tenure committee has been considering applications since the beginning of the school year. As you all know, we have one opening this time around. I expect an official decision will be made in the next month or so.”

  “As if Drew hasn’t got that all locked up,” snorts my colleague Barry Green.

  I shoot him the frostiest glare I can muster, but he’s oblivious, as usual. Several of the adjunct faculty members in the room nod and mutter their agreement with his observation.

  Maureen is not amused. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she grits out. “I’ll thank you to keep your comments to yourselves. We have more than one suitable candidate, and it’s up to the committee to determine who gets the slot.” She waits until silence again settles over the room and then she continues. “All right, moving on. If you haven’t been keeping an eye on the weather in the last twenty-four hours, then you should know that what was expected to be just another early-spring snowfall, has turned into something quite a bit more substantial. As of right now, it looks as if it could get bad over the weekend. They’re not calling for the snow to start until sometime Saturday morning, but the university is going to cancel classes on Friday.”

  “Snow day!” someone calls out from the other side of the room. Maureen ignores the comment.

  “Please make sure your students know to monitor their email for that announcement. I know it’s only Tuesday, and the weather’s beautiful right now, but we all need to take this situation very seriously. If this thing is as bad as they say it’s going to be, we could all be snowed under and stuck at home from Saturday into next week.”

  She puts her pen down and folds her hands in front of her on the table. Uh-oh. That’s “Maureen Code” for serious business.