Going Solo

by Cynthia Baxter

  Then there was a break. Megan made a beeline for the rest room after laying her flute carefully across the narrow ledge of her music stand. The last thing she wanted to do was hang around with the other members of the orchestra, talking and relaxing before the next segment of the rehearsal. After all, she was anxious to avoid Allegra, although she couldn’t help noticing that her roommate never once looked over in her direction. And as if that weren’t enough of a reason to keep a low profile, she was also afraid that Paul would get on her case again.

  After the break, it was time to read through a new piece, one that the orchestra members had not yet played.

  “Let’s take out the Bartok,’’ Thomas Albright said. “And I’d like to start by having the winds play the section beginning at measure 152. Flutes, you begin, then the oboes and bassoons come in, and finally the clarinets. Is everyone ready?”

  Everyone was ready, especially Megan. She enjoyed playing in front of other people, and she knew that all the other members of the orchestra would be listening carefully, just as they always did when one particular section was singled out to play. The flute part was not particularly difficult, and she just assumed that she would play it well.

  So when she went to play the first note of the phrase and nothing came out of her flute but an awful squawking noise, she was shocked.

  “Let’s start again,” the conductor instructed sternly, tapping his baton loudly against the edge of the music stand.

  Megan lifted her flute to her lips, certain she would do better this time. But as she started in on the same note, another strange sound came out.

  Behind her, somebody was laughing.

  Thomas Albright came over to her, a look of concern on his face. “Flutes, is everything all right over here?” he asked with a frown.

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe there’s, uh, a problem with my instrument.”

  “Well, why don’t you take a moment to check it?”

  As he turned back to return to his place, Megan was certain she could detect his impatience. She, meanwhile, was at a loss as to what to do. Cautiously she blew air through her flute. As she did, she got the feeling that something was stuck in there.

  She peered inside, still puzzled. Sure enough, there was a small white piece of paper clogging up the inside of her flute.

  “I think I found the problem,” she said to the conductor. Already she was reaching down to her flute case, tucked underneath her seat, for something to clean it out with.

  When the paper popped out, she saw that it was neatly folded. Somebody had purposely stuck it in her flute when she wasn’t looking!

  Megan was furious. But this was no time for trying to get to the bottom of this awful mystery. Once again the conductor had raised his baton into the air, signifying that it was time to try playing the phrase beginning at measure 152 for the third time. Anxiously Megan put her flute to her lips. This time, her notes sounded as clear and as pure as ever.

  Once the woodwind section had rehearsed its part, the conductor turned his attention to the violins. It was then that Megan had a chance to study the folded piece of paper that had found its way inside her flute.

  She unfolded it—and then nearly fell off her chair as she read what was written on it.

  It read “Hey, Mozart, how about going out with me sometime?” It was signed “The Big Bad Wolf—also known as Paul Banker.”

  Megan was fuming. She was angry, she was hurt.... She had never felt so terrible in her entire life. It was all too much. First, losing the concerto competition to her best friend.... And now, being tormented by a boy she couldn’t stand. All of a sudden she hated everything about Wildwood.

  There was only one solution. She was simply going to have to leave.

  Once she had decided that getting out of this place was the solution, she felt a little better. It was true that it was kind of hard to admit that she just couldn’t cut it here. Yes, she had failed—but so what? What really mattered, given the discouraged way she was feeling, was getting away from here once and for all.

  * * * *

  “Mom? It’s me. It’s Megan.”

  “Oh, sweetie! I’m so glad you called! How are you? I’ve gotten all your letters, and I’ve read them at least five times.”

  Hearing her mother’s voice immediately made Megan feel better. With money tight in the Davis household, Megan hadn’t called home very often over the summer. But on this particular evening she had something special she wanted to say. She was going to ask her mother either to come and pick her up or else to send bus fare.

  “Honey, I miss you every minute of the day, but I can’t begin to tell you how happy I’ve been all summer, knowing you’re at Wildwood having the time of your life. You are, aren’t you?”

  Megan swallowed hard. She could hear the tension in her mother’s voice. Joanna Davis, after all, wanted nothing more than to see her daughter happy. Besides, sending Megan to Wildwood had been a bit of a financial hardship. Not that Joanna had ever complained; Megan knew she would never do that. But she had noticed that there had been meat served at dinner less and less ever since she had first been accepted into the summer program back in May, and that her mother hardly ever suggested going out to dinner or even to the movies anymore when the two of them found themselves with the rare free evening.

  “Everything is great, Mom,” Megan heard herself saying, even before she had consciously chosen those words. “Things couldn’t be better. I have a terrific best friend. Her name is Allegra, and she’s from New York City. Her parents are both famous.’’

  “Oh, yes. She’s your roommate, right? I remember meeting her briefly the night of the reception at the Faculty Club, the day I dropped you off. And how is the music going?”

  “Fine, just fine.” Megan shut her eyes tight. “I, uh, I was in this concerto competition, and I came in second. That’s not bad,’’ she was quick to explain, “considering how good most of the kids up here are. Some of them even study with teachers from Juilliard.”

  “Megan, that’s wonderful. Oh, honey, I’m so glad it’s going well. I can’t tell you what a load off my mind it is, hearing you tell me that everything is all right.”

  There was a pause, then Mrs. Davis said, “As a matter of fact, I have some good news of my own.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  Once again, Joanna Davis hesitated. “Megan, I’ve started going out with someone.”

  Megan let out a squeal of delight. “Why, Mom, that’s wonderful! You mean you’re actually dating?”

  “That’s right.” The older woman laughed. “Just like a teenager. And to tell you the truth, I feel like a teenager. After all, this is the first time I’ve been dating since I was seventeen.

  “And I’ve been having such a wonderful time, Megan. We go out to dinner, to the theater.... Last night,” she added with a giggle, “we even went to the drive-in movies!’’

  “Oh, Mom, it sounds great. I’m so glad for you.”

  Megan’s reaction was genuine. Her mother sounded happier than she could ever remember her being before. She was giggling like a little girl, and there was a new lightness in her voice, something that overshadowed, or perhaps even replaced, the tiredness—or perhaps it was even a sadness— that Megan was so used to hearing.

  “So who is this Prince Charming? And when do I get to meet him?’’ she demanded.

  “You won’t have to wait too long. You’ll definitely get a chance to meet him over Parents’ Weekend. Although what I ‘m really hoping is that he and I can drive down one Saturday and take you and some of your friends out to lunch. How does that sound?”

  “You mean I don’t even have to wait until I get home?” Megan cried.

  “I think I’m the one who can’t wait that long!”

  In a much more serious tone, she went on, “You know, Megan, I never thought this would happen to me again. Meeting another man. I mean, someone who seems to be as wonderful as your father was. I didn’t even dare hope.... But there h
e is.”

  “Oh, Mom, this is so great.” Megan sighed. “I can’t wait to see you, Mom. Please come up soon! I don’t think I can wait until Parents’ Weekend!”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Besides, the time will go by more quickly than you can imagine. At least I certainly hope it will,” said Mrs. Davis. “I can’t wait to see you, either. And I can’t wait to show off my new boyfriend!”

  When Megan hung up the phone, she was overcome with contradictory emotions. She was happy for her mother, of course, tickled that she had found herself a boyfriend. But she also felt defeated, having realized that she was going to have to stick out the rest of the summer at Wildwood, no matter what. She would simply have to find a way to make the best of it.

  After all, she didn’t really have much of a choice.

  * * * *

  A large part of the Wildwood program was providing students with the opportunity to study privately with the principal players of the American Philharmonic Orchestra. While Megan had constantly bubbled over about how much she enjoyed taking flute lessons twice a week with Carolyn Peters, and Allegra was finding her new violin teacher’s perspective an interesting change from her sessions with Madame Oretsky, Tiffany had never bothered to contact Morris Church about setting up a regular lesson schedule.

  In fact, she had all but forgotten about that aspect of Wildwood, assuming that by ignoring it, she had managed to get out of it. That is, until she received a note from the cellist one morning, insisting that she put in an appearance in Rehearsal Room B at two o’clock that same day.

  “So, Miss Forrester, I see that you are capable of behaving responsibly at least some of the time,’’ he greeted her when she sashayed into the rehearsal room at ten minutes after two. “I wasn’t sure whether or not you’d even bother to show up.”

  Tiffany stood leaning in the doorway, making no move to enter the room.

  “Listen, Mr. Church, I’m not staying,” she said breezily. “I realize that getting these private lessons twice a week is part of the deal and all that. But you and I both know that in my case, it would be a total waste of time.’’

  Morris Church’s eyebrows shot up. “A waste of time?”

  “Sure. You know as well as I do that there’s no way that a handful of lessons is going to turn me into anything even resembling a cellist. Especially since I have absolutely no intention of wasting my entire summer practicing for hours and hours every day.”

  “I see.”

  “So I figured I might as well stop by to tell you that you might as well go ahead and use the times that are alotted for my lessons to do something else.’’

  “Miss Forrester,” Mr. Church said patiently, “at first, when you were the only student in the entire cello section who failed to contact me about setting up lessons, I wasn’t at all surprised. In fact, I’m willing to admit that I was even somewhat relieved.

  “But then I thought about it. And what I decided is that since teaching happens to be one of the things I’m good at, I should make a sort of mission out of trying to teach you how to play the cello this summer. After all, that is why you are here. To improve your music-making capabilities.’’ Half to himself, he added, “At least in theory.”

  “Look.” Tiffany sighed impatiently. This was stretching on longer than she had expected. “I understand that you’re committed to teaching and all that, even where somebody like me is concerned. But the truth of the matter is, I’m just not interested. Get it? Thanks, but no thanks.”

  With that, Tiffany turned on her heel and stalked off. She was surprised that as she did, her cheeks were burning and her heart was beating hard.

  There. You did it, she was thinking. Maybe it didn’t go quite as smoothly as you would have liked, but you told him. You got it over with. You’re off the hook as far as those dumb private lessons are concerned, no matter how high and mighty his intentions might be.

  She expected to feel relieved, glad that she had washed her hands of at least one annoying part of the summer program. At the moment, however, much to her puzzlement and her dismay, Tiffany discovered that after her brief conversation with the cellist, she wasn’t feeling very good about herself at all.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Tiffany went off to the orchestra rehearsal feeling the usual sense of boredom. She expected to spend the entire session faking it, the way she usually did, joining in on the really easy parts but simply pretending to play the moment the music got the slightest bit tricky.

  And for the first half hour of the rehearsal, she was able to proceed as usual, daydreaming and watching the clock and studying the outfits the other girls were wearing ... in short, waiting for the torture to be over. But then, as the orchestra was playing through a Beethoven overture, one of the pieces she usually ended up skipping entirely, she was surprised to see Morris Church wander out of the audience, up the stairs, and onto the stage.

  “My goodness! What a pleasant surprise!” Thomas Albright brought down his baton as he turned to greet the cellist. “You all know Morris Church, don’t you? He’s the principal cellist with the American Philharmonic, of course. Tell me, Mr. Church, to what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

  “Actually, I came by to hear how the orchestra was doing,” he replied.

  “And how do you think they’re doing?”

  Morris Church frowned. “I couldn’t help noticing that the cellos sounded a little muddy in the passage you just played. The allegro section. I know it’s a tough one. I was wondering if perhaps the cellos could run through it. Just for my own peace of mind, that is.”

  “Of course.” The conductor turned his attention back to the students. “All right, then. Cellists, let’s begin at bar 251.”

  He raised his baton, but before he had a chance to give the cellos the signal to begin playing, Mr. Church interrupted him.

  “I have a suggestion, if you don’t mind. Let’s have each cellist play through that twelve-measure section. That way I can see who needs to work on it. I can use some of the lesson time I have with each student to run through it and get it cleaned up.”

  Tiffany could feel the color rising in her cheeks.

  Oh, no, she was thinking. Is the conductor really going to listen to that monster? Is he actually going to make us each play this section ... by ourselves? It was bad enough that I had to humiliate myself by playing all alone in front of Mr. Church at the audition, but is he really going to make us all play it one at a time—me, included—in front of everybody?

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Tiffany stuck her bow on the bottom ledge of the music stand. She was getting ready to put her cello down and flee, just walk out of the rehearsal.

  But Morris Church, it seemed, was one step ahead of her.

  “How about if we start at the back for a change?’’ he was saying. As he spoke, he was looking right at her.

  Tiffany, who had just been about to stand up, glanced around and saw that everyone in the entire orchestra was looking over in her direction. She could feel their eyes burning into her. Mark, Allegra, Megan, Betsy ... everyone.

  “Miss Forrester, you impress me as a rather brave soul,” Mr. Church was booming. “You seem like the type who wouldn’t be intimidated by something as simple as playing a dozen measures of music in public. So why don’t you begin? Let’s start at measure 251 the way Mr. Albright suggested.”

  “I really don’t think ...” Her voice cracked as she attempted to speak. But it hardly mattered, since she could see that this time there would be no talking her way out of a bad situation.

  “Begin whenever you’re ready,’’ the conductor instructed.

  A heavy, expectant silence hung over the entire student orchestra. Tiffany’s palms were wet as she picked up her bow and laid it across the strings of the cello. Her hands were trembling, and her eyes could barely focus on the tiny notes prancing across the page.

  “Come on, Tiff, you can do it,’’ whispered her stand partner.

  She licked her
dry lips. She forced herself to find measure 251. The first note, she saw, was an E. She put her bow in place and arranged her fingers correctly.

  “Any time you’re ready,” Mr. Albright repeated.

  Somewhere, back in the brass section, someone tittered.

  Tiffany’s heart was pounding as she drew her bow across the strings. Slowly, painfully, she struggled through each measure. She knew as well as everyone else how uneven her rhythm was, how out of tune each note was. The sounds she was making were excruciating to her own ears; she could only imagine how they sounded to everyone else.

  As she stumbled through the first four measures of the difficult passage, she could feel the eyes of the others continuing to burn into her. She could sense their reaction: surprise, disapproval, perhaps even shock. Yet she continued, having no choice but to go on making a complete fool of herself.

  “Er, that’s fine,” the conductor said when she finally reached the end of the passage. He cast a quick, barely perceptible glance at Morris Church. In that fraction of a second, the expression on his face summed up what she knew was the reaction of everyone else in the room.

  “All right, let’s try the next person,” Thomas Albright went on. “Miss Felton, isn’t it? Would you please begin at bar 251? Start whenever you wish.”

  She knew they were all making a point of not looking at her. The members of the orchestra, the conductor ... even Morris Church was no longer paying any attention to her. He didn’t have to; he had already made his point.

  She felt completely defeated. She could only imagine what everyone thought of her now. Even if any of the kids here at Wildwood had had even a shred of liking or respect for her, it was now definitely gone.

  She could live with friendlessness, and she could live without respect. What she found intolerable, however, was knowing that she was the object of their pity. That was something that Tiffany Forrester didn’t care for at all.