And he cannot ignore how his shoes feel too tight. It’s 7:55 p.m. and thirty-two seconds — he knows because the second hand on the clock is too loud, or it’s too quiet backstage. Cardboard cutouts from old school plays sit in the dark, hiding even older holes in the walls and in the floor. His hand quivers, and the bow in his fist shakes with it. It’s in desperate need of a real quiver, but the fist serves as a placeholder. The boy feels like a placeholder, these people in the audience could be at home, reading a book or watching a show. He tells himself the best he can do is make up for their lost time, that if even half of them enjoy it he will be fine.
It’s January 15th, and winter break was spent on unglorified practices. The boy blinks, and spits out his gum. It lost its watermelon flavor long ago, but kept his mouth shut for long enough. Onstage, a girl smiles, unaware of his presence, only focusing on bowing and praying the bead of sweat doesn’t escape her forehead. Her show was exactly that — a show. Had she meant to showcase raw talent, it would have been longer. Parts of it would have gone quickly enough to fade away, and audience members would have either leaned in or tuned out. Her piece was shorter, but flashy in every second. No audience member ever lost faith in the performance; the pianist never lost faith in her fingers. To the boy, she is just another performer with the poise, polish and professionalism that he will never reach for. She is just another girl, flamboyant and faultless, anonymous because that’s a fancy word for him to be able to use, and anonymous because she is the kind of girl that he will never reach for. The boy, still backstage, ducks behind the curtain again. She exits stage right, and the piano follows her offstage, wheeled away by adults who could be at home, reading a book or watching a show. But they are here instead, having possibly spent more money than they’re making on looking nice while moving instruments. Someone whispers behind him, and a chair pushes its way past, held by another adult. The boy finds it odd that he’s trusted to play a show but not to set up his chair, and frowns because he’ll have to adjust it anyway before he sits down. The audience has just finished clapping. The boy has just finished praying all goes well.
It is 7:59 and fifteen seconds — he knows this because tapping his foot thrice a second and counting the repetitions is the only thing keeping him from wilting. He is on to blinking now, if he keeps tapping his foot the habit will follow him onstage, and that would be unprofessional. Not that he’s a professional, but the shows and books that the audience members are missing out on certainly are. Fifteen seconds later. He peeks out of the curtains, just enough to see and not be seen, and sees the girl. The pianist. She is smiling with her family, and he wonders if they know that piece was easy for her. He wonders if his family will sit and smile with him after his part, but really if he will have the energy to sit and smile with them. 20 seconds left, and the man who’d moved the chair (the chairman, in the boy’s mind) stands offstage, arms crossed. The boy thinks he’d feel rather tired of moving equipment all night for people younger than him. Five seconds. He smiles, then frowns. He looks at the audience, at everyone waiting, and genuinely smiles again. He strides out, making a mental note to ignore timestamps on recordings he’ll see later. He can’t stand being a second off. One foot in front of the other, turning his head to see everyone. And he cannot ignore how his shoes feel too tight. He is used to playing cello with a hoodie on, and often without shoes. His suit doesn’t bend enough, and the chair is too hard. It is also too far to the left, but he doesn’t want to make the chairman feel bad. He’s forgotten to bow, and other performance technicalities. He remembers his cello, though. The endpin slides out, searching for the floor. He clutches his bow, putting his left hand into first position, shifting to third.
It’s twenty seconds past eight when his bow hits the string, when horsehair finds its purpose against the metal alloy. His piece is a flurry of triplets, of syncopation and grace notes, it is the kind of piece that will draw confusion on bystanders’ faces when hummed in a store by members of the audience for the next week. He blinks once. He smiles once, as he puts the hardest part behind him. And he stands, once he’s finished. It is 8:06 and twenty seconds, he knows this because he has ingrained the six-minute piece into his hands, and he smiles again. Not for the audience or the family or the girl, the chairman or the cardboard cutouts. It is of relief, of being allowed to just relive it. He exits stage right, followed by a chairman and his chair, the audience’s applause and the thought that he may never stop smiling.
It’s January 15th, and winter break was spent on unglorified practices. The boy blinks, and spits out his gum. It lost its watermelon flavor long ago, but kept his mouth shut for long enough. Onstage, a girl smiles, unaware of his presence, only focusing on bowing and praying the bead of sweat doesn’t escape her forehead. Her show was exactly that — a show. Had she meant to showcase raw talent, it would have been longer. Parts of it would have gone quickly enough to fade away, and audience members would have either leaned in or tuned out. Her piece was shorter, but flashy in every second. No audience member ever lost faith in the performance; the pianist never lost faith in her fingers. To the boy, she is just another performer with the poise, polish and professionalism that he will never reach for. She is just another girl, flamboyant and faultless, anonymous because that’s a fancy word for him to be able to use, and anonymous because she is the kind of girl that he will never reach for. The boy, still backstage, ducks behind the curtain again. She exits stage right, and the piano follows her offstage, wheeled away by adults who could be at home, reading a book or watching a show. But they are here instead, having possibly spent more money than they’re making on looking nice while moving instruments. Someone whispers behind him, and a chair pushes its way past, held by another adult. The boy finds it odd that he’s trusted to play a show but not to set up his chair, and frowns because he’ll have to adjust it anyway before he sits down. The audience has just finished clapping. The boy has just finished praying all goes well.
It is 7:59 and fifteen seconds — he knows this because tapping his foot thrice a second and counting the repetitions is the only thing keeping him from wilting. He is on to blinking now, if he keeps tapping his foot the habit will follow him onstage, and that would be unprofessional. Not that he’s a professional, but the shows and books that the audience members are missing out on certainly are. Fifteen seconds later. He peeks out of the curtains, just enough to see and not be seen, and sees the girl. The pianist. She is smiling with her family, and he wonders if they know that piece was easy for her. He wonders if his family will sit and smile with him after his part, but really if he will have the energy to sit and smile with them. 20 seconds left, and the man who’d moved the chair (the chairman, in the boy’s mind) stands offstage, arms crossed. The boy thinks he’d feel rather tired of moving equipment all night for people younger than him. Five seconds. He smiles, then frowns. He looks at the audience, at everyone waiting, and genuinely smiles again. He strides out, making a mental note to ignore timestamps on recordings he’ll see later. He can’t stand being a second off. One foot in front of the other, turning his head to see everyone. And he cannot ignore how his shoes feel too tight. He is used to playing cello with a hoodie on, and often without shoes. His suit doesn’t bend enough, and the chair is too hard. It is also too far to the left, but he doesn’t want to make the chairman feel bad. He’s forgotten to bow, and other performance technicalities. He remembers his cello, though. The endpin slides out, searching for the floor. He clutches his bow, putting his left hand into first position, shifting to third.
It’s twenty seconds past eight when his bow hits the string, when horsehair finds its purpose against the metal alloy. His piece is a flurry of triplets, of syncopation and grace notes, it is the kind of piece that will draw confusion on bystanders’ faces when hummed in a store by members of the audience for the next week. He blinks once. He smiles once, as he puts the hardest part behind him. And he stands, once he’s finished. It is 8:06 and twenty seconds, he knows this because he has ingrained the six-minute piece into his hands, and he smiles again. Not for the audience or the family or the girl, the chairman or the cardboard cutouts. It is of relief, of being allowed to just relive it. He exits stage right, followed by a chairman and his chair, the audience’s applause and the thought that he may never stop smiling.