“Hi!” the girl said brightly, wearing a friendly smile. “My name is Betsy. What’s yours?”
“Tiffany.” She was hoping that if she sounded uncooperative, this nosy girl might take the hint and leave her alone.
But that was not about to happen.
“Gee, Tiffany. It’s nice to meet you. Are you as nervous as I am? I mean, I’ve played in a lot of orchestras and all, but I’ve never been in one of this caliber. A lot of these musicians are really good, you know? Some of the kids who live in New York City even study with teachers at Juilliard and the Manhattan School of Music. I’m from upstate, myself. Utica, in fact. How about you? Where are you from?”
Before Tiffany was forced to answer, Thomas Albright, the student orchestra’s conductor and the assistant conductor of the American Philharmonic Orchestra, stepped up onto the podium.
“Uh-oh, we’d better stop talking,” Betsy whispered excitedly. “It looks like it’s time to get started.”
“Good morning, and welcome,” Thomas Albright began. He was a slight, balding man with a friendly demeanor. “I’m extremely pleased to be here, and I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you over the next six weeks. I’m also looking forward to playing some excellent music with you. You have quite an impressive collection in the folders that have been assigned to you. Beethoven, Mozart, Bartok ... even some modern, rather experimental pieces by the American Philharmonic’s composer-in-residence, Jason Diamond.
“I’ll be telling you more about that later. For now, I’d like to get on with reading through some of the music right away. But first there is one announcement I’d like to make. Tomorrow, seating tryouts, auditions that will determine precisely where each musician will sit within his or her section, will be held throughout the day. The times and places will be posted in the cafeteria before dinner this evening. Please check the listings and make sure you are on time.
“And now, let’s start with the first movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.”
The members of the orchestra rustled through the music in their black vinyl folders, anxiously trying to find their parts for Beethoven’s Fifth. And then, for the next hour and a half, nothing else mattered except getting lost in the genius composer’s magnificent music. By the time the conductor placed his baton on his music stand and announced that it was time for a fifteen-minute break, the ensemble had already made giant steps in pulling the first movement together so that it sounded quite professional.
“Wasn’t that fantastic?” Megan cried, rushing over to Allegra. Her blue eyes were bright, and her cheeks were flushed. “Wasn’t it a great feeling, being right in the middle of that wonderful sound?’’
“Yes, it was pretty cool,” Allegra admitted. “But right now I could use something cold to drink. Let’s see if we can find a water fountain backstage somewhere.”
Tiffany, too, was heading out into the wings, hurrying out of the auditorium. But it was not a water fountain she was seeking. Somewhere in this building, she reasoned, there had to be a pay phone. And a telephone was key in her newly hatched plan to escape.
“Evan! I’m so glad I got hold of you,” she cried after dialing the familiar number and pushing an entire handful of change into the slot of the pay phone she had found in the lobby of the building. Just hearing his voice was making her feel better. Perhaps it was all going to be okay, after all.
“Wait a minute. Who is this?” Evan sounded confused.
“Can’t you guess?” Tiffany countered flirtatiously.
“Heather? Is that you? Hey, come on, Heather. Quit kidding around.”
“No, Evan. This isn’t Heather.” Every muscle in her body had grown tense. “This is Tiffany.”
“Tiffany!”
There was a long pause.
“Well, you certainly don’t sound very happy to be hearing from me,” she finally said, annoyed.
“Sure I am, Tiff. I’m just surprised, that’s all. Where are you? You’re not back already, are you?”
“No. I’m still in this prison. But,” she went on, her voice softening, “I’ve come up with a great idea, Evan. How about coming up here and rescuing me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was just thinking that maybe you could drive up here and get me. Bring me back to your place. I could stay at your apartment rather than up in this nuthouse. And Daddy would never even have to know.’’ She smiled to herself as she thought about how Arthur Forrester would react if he ever did find out. “So what do you think, Evan? Isn’t that a real brainstorm?”
“Gosh, Tiff, I don’t know....”
She was beginning to grow impatient. “Evan, is there something wrong?”
“Well, gee, nothing’s wrong, exactly. It’s just that ... uh, well, a lot has happened since you left.”
“Since I left! Evan, I’ve been gone for two days, for heaven’s sake.”
“I know, but, see, last night I was feeling kind of lonely. I really missed you, Tiff. And then Heather dropped by to see how I was doing, and she offered to keep me company....”
“Heather? You mean Heather Taylor? The girl who’s supposed to be a good friend of mine?’’
“Hey, you know how it is. She was only trying to be helpful. Anyway, one thing led to another, and ... You know, I never really had a chance to talk to Heather before. To get to know her. She’s really a nice girl, you know?”
“Evan Parker, don’t you dare start telling me what a ‘nice girl’ Heather Taylor is!” Tiffany shrieked into the phone. “You ... you snake! You’re nothing more than a ...”
“Please deposit eighty-five cents for the next three minutes,” the operator’s voice suddenly interrupted.
“Talking to you isn’t worth eighty-five cents!”
Tiffany slammed down the phone and whirled around. As she did, she found herself colliding with someone—someone who, she instantly realized, had been listening to every word.
“Trouble on the home front?” Mark Jackson asked congenially. “Well, you know how the old saying goes: ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ ”
“How about the old saying about minding your own business?” Tiffany snapped.
She sailed past him, heading back to the stage, but not before she heard him say, “Don’t worry, Tiffany Forrester. Your secret about your failing social life is safe with me.”
And then he chuckled as if he had just said the funniest, most clever thing in the world.
This is a horrible place, Tiffany was thinking as she went back to her chair. She picked up the music on her stand and pretended to be studying it. Most of the other kids were still milling about, talking to each other, making new friends, making themselves at home here, but she was careful not to make eye contact with any of them.
I despise it here, Tiffany was thinking, the notes before her nothing more than a blur. I despise that awful oboe-playing Mark Jackson, I despise my two goody-goody roommates, I despise Evan.... I despise everything in the whole world.
It was all she could do to keep herself from crying. And that feeling, the feeling of being at the end of her rope, alone and unhappy with absolutely no place to turn, was what Tiffany hated most of all.
* * * *
Once the announcement had been made that tryouts for seating within each section of the orchestra would be held the next morning, Megan could think about little else. There were four flute players in an orchestra, two playing the First Flute part, two on Second. Of the two Firsts, there was a first chair and a second chair. But as far as she was concerned, there was only one seat worth having. Megan just had to get First Flute, First Chair.
As soon as the day’s orchestra rehearsal was over, most of the other kids headed back to the dormitory, wanting a chance to relax before dinner. Megan, however, packed up her flute and headed straight for the backstage area.
There, she knew, were a dozen practice rooms for the students’ use. Each practice room was a small, windowless, fairly soundproof cubicle. Many of them had
pianos inside. There was no echo in a practice room, no resonance to mask any imperfections. If a performer sounded good in the merciless acoustics of a practice room, she would sound wonderful anyplace else.
She chose one of the smaller ones. Inside there was a music stand—and nothing else. No distractions, no pictures on the wall, nothing but her and her flute. Without wasting any time, she opened up the First Flute part to the Mozart Symphony No. 40 that had been handed out that day, music that she knew would probably be what she would be asked to play at the audition the next day. She intended to get it perfect, along with all the other music tucked into the black vinyl folder she had been given. She would learn it all, even if it took all night.
Megan had barely gotten started when she heard a loud rapping on the door. She turned around, annoyed by the interruption. There, through the glass window inset in the wooden door, she could see a boy she recognized from the orchestra. He played a brass instrument, probably the trumpet.
What was most memorable about him, however, was how good-looking he was. Already every girl at Wildwood, it seemed, had singled him out as the cutest boy around. Even Tiffany had come out of her hostile shell long enough to make a comment about how handsome Paul Banker was.
Megan had disliked him from the start. She knew exactly the kind of boy he was. She had that kind at her high school, too. Good-looking, popular, so self-confident that they were brash, convinced that every girl in the world was madly in love with them. Yes, she could tell by the way Paul carried himself that he was that type. And she had every intention of steering clear of him—that is, assuming he even bothered to pay her the slightest bit of attention.
But no matter who it had been knocking on the door of her practice room, she would have been in no mood for visitors.
“Yes?’’ she said impatiently, opening the door just a crack.
“Hi,” the boy said brightly. “Listen, I couldn’t help overhearing. It sounds great. What’s the name, anyway?”
“Mozart,” Megan said, without thinking.
The boy looked amused. “Mozart, huh? Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mozart. My name is Paul.”
Megan was getting flustered. “No, no, my name is Megan. The piece I was playing is the Mozart.”
Paul pretended to be confused. “Whatever you say, Mozart. Listen, it looks as if you and I are the only ones holed up in here. I don’t have a watch, and I don’t want to miss dinner, so I was wondering if you could—”
“I don’t plan to stop for dinner,’’ Megan snapped. “I have a long evening of practicing ahead of me and, frankly, I’d appreciate having a little privacy.’’
“I understand that,” Paul said, nodding. “But I was just wondering, Mozart, if you could—”
“Stop calling me that, will you?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, Mozart. I kind of think it suits you, you know? Intense, talented, driven ... That sounds a lot like both you and Mozart.’’
“Look. I really don’t have time for chitchat right now,” Megan insisted with an annoyed frown. “You’ll just have to find another way to keep track of the time.’’
“Touchy, touchy,” Paul teased, flashing a wide grin. “Well, okay. Be that way. But don’t forget one thing: it can get pretty lonely at the top.”
Megan closed the door firmly behind her and immediately launched back into the Mozart symphony. The clock was ticking away, and she had no time for socializing. She pushed Paul Banker out of her mind, fully convinced that if she intended to remain serious, really serious, about her music, there was simply no room for distractions of any sort. Especially a rude, conceited boy like Paul Banker.
* * * *
“Allegra, I’m a nervous wreck,” Megan wailed. “I was up until eleven o’clock last night, practicing the orchestra music for the seating tryouts this morning. I even skipped dinner.” Mournfully she looked at the plate of scrambled eggs and toast sitting in front of her, completely untouched. “I thought I’d be starving this morning, but there are so many butterflies in my stomach that I couldn’t possibly eat a thing.”
“Relax, Megan,” Allegra said, leaning over to pat her friend’s shoulder. “They’re only tryouts for seating. Don’t get too hyper about it.”
The two girls were having breakfast together again, having headed down to the Clayton College cafeteria while their other roommate, Tiffany, still slept. The large, sunny room was jam-packed this morning. It seemed as if everyone wanted to make sure they had a full stomach for their seating auditions.
‘“Don’t get too hyper about it.’ That’s easy for you to say,” Megan countered. “There are, what, sixteen chairs in the violin section? There are only four in the flute section.”
“That doesn’t mean that all the violins aren’t stepping all over one another to get to be First Violin,’’ Allegra reminded her.
Both girls knew that that was true enough. After all, First Violin was the key position in any orchestra. The First Violinist was the leader of the musicians and, in a sense, the conductor’s right hand.
“Aren’t you nervous about these tryouts, too?” Megan asked her friend.
Allegra shrugged. “Not really. Right now, I’m feeling kind of mixed up about playing the violin. You see, I do enjoy it, and it is a big part of my life. But I’ve already told you what my first love is. And these days, I can’t help feeling that being involved with the violin is doing nothing for me except getting in the way of my ever becoming a rock singer.’’
“Attention, students!” Thomas Albright had just appeared in the doorway of the cafeteria. “It’s almost nine o’clock, and we’re ready to begin seating tryouts. The American Philharmonic’s principal players for each instrument are all ready, and we’re anxious to get going. Will those of you who are scheduled to play at the nine o’clock tryouts please report to the proper rooms right away? Thank you for your cooperation, and good luck to all of you!”
Allegra reached over and took Megan’s hand. She gave it a squeeze as she said, “Go get ‘em, tiger. You’ll be great; I know you will.”
Megan just swallowed hard and looked at her, her expression reflecting how anxious she was feeling.
* * * *
Allegra’s prediction turned out to be true. Megan did play well at the seating tryouts, so well that she was awarded First Flute, First Chair. Allegra, meanwhile, was awarded the position of Third Chair in the First Violin Section—not the prestigious First Violin seat, perhaps, but still quite impressive given the fact that she hadn’t been able to muster up very much enthusiasm for the tryouts at all. There had been little passion in her reading of some of the more difficult passages in the orchestra music. Even so, her technical skill had given her the strong edge required to do as well as she did.
Tiffany, however, didn’t fare nearly as well as her two roommates. While she tried to act as if she couldn’t care less about the seating tryouts, that she was simply above it all, the truth was that she was petrified.
I can hardly even play this ridiculous cello! she was thinking as she sat outside the classroom in which the auditions for her instrument’s section were being held, waiting her turn. She was on next, a fact that her pounding heart and sweating palms would not let her forget. From inside the classroom, she could hear the deep, melodious tones of an expert, sailing through one of the more intricate passages of the Beethoven symphony the orchestra had run through the day before. Tiffany had barely been able to keep up.
In a group, at least, she had been able to keep her inadequacy as a musician a secret. Now that she was going to be forced to play all alone—in front of Morris Church, the First Cellist of the American Philharmonic Orchestra, no less— she was bound to be humiliated.
She was trying to come up with a way of escaping this dreadful fate when the door of the classroom suddenly opened. The boy who had been playing came out, looking disturbed, as if he had for some reason been disappointed in his performance.
If he thinks he sounded bad, Tiffany thou
ght miserably, how am I going to measure up?
But there was no more time for agonizing over the probable outcome. It was time to go ahead and get it over with.
“Tiffany Forrester? Come right in,” said Morris Church, a dignified man in his mid-fifties who today was wearing a suit even though the thermometer was reaching into the nineties. His tone was crisp, his manner no-nonsense. Tiffany knew instinctively that no amount of pleading, no excuses, would make a bit of difference with this man.
Then she had an idea.
“Mr. Church,” she said politely, “I, uh, I’d be happy to accept last chair, if we could just skip ...”
But the man acted as if he hadn’t even heard her.
“We’ll start with the Beethoven,” he said. “Symphony number five. Please begin at measure 258.”
Tiffany gulped. There was no way out. She opened her black vinyl folder and found the correct music. Then she arranged the cello between her knees, positioned the bow, and took a moment to regret all the times she had wangled her way out of practicing, preferring to go out with her friends.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Morris Church prompted. He was obviously getting tired of waiting.
Slowly Tiffany drew her bow across the strings. The sound that came out did not come close to the rich tones of the boy who’d played before her, but at least it didn’t sound terrible. At least not to her. Slightly encouraged, she stumbled through the next twelve or fourteen measures, biting her lip the entire time, grimacing every time she hit a bad note.
And then she heard Mr. Church saying, “All right, that’s enough.”
Tiffany glanced up. In a way, she was relieved that she was already done playing. When she saw the look on the cellist’s face, however, her relief quickly turned to shame. He did not look angry, or even disgusted. Instead, he simply looked puzzled.
“Miss Forrester,” he said, “I was under the impression that admission to this summer program was based on a combination of the student’s audition plus his or her past experience. Is this incorrect?”
Tiffany could barely look him in the eye. “No, that’s correct.”
Going Solo Page 6
