Fireworks

32

I take a deep breath, wiping my palms on my skirt. They aren't clammy, but they are extremely cold, and I'd play terribly with stiff fingers. I never play well with cold fingers.

The smooth poly-cotton blend of the skirt's material offers minimal heat retention, but the friction I create at least makes me feel something. When that stops working and just becomes painful, I sandwich them between my thighs and the chair I'm sitting on.

Backstage is probably the worst place for me to be right now. There are a few coordinators and two or three tech crew members, but otherwise, I'm the only one back here.

I can vaguely hear the sound of mingling and polite laughter out beyond the stage. The curtains were drawn, but I could hear everything. I wondered if all three scholarship judges were seated yet. I was programmed to start in 15 minutes. I'm supposed to be leaving to warm up in a back room in two minutes. After ten minutes of warm up I'll be brought back to this chair to wait while they announce my name and credentials such as my name, age, reason for performance, and brief overview of the repertoire I'd prepared.

I haven't seen my mom since the pool thing yesterday. I could hear her voice outside, though, and knew she was here. She had invited some clients, so they'd probably been talking for a while. I'm not sure if my father was here yet, but we still had time. Even if I couldn't hear him, I wouldn't be surprised. For some reason, the crowd sounds extra large on a Monday evening in June. Normally these time slots were barren.

"Miss Jason, I can accompany you to the warm-up room."

The coordinator with a George Stines lanyard and one of those small event leader walkie-talkies takes me down a back hallway of the building, where I can hear more people in the lobby. We enter what looks like an empty classroom. There's an upright piano, one that you could probably find in any choir room across the country. There's some sheet music on the stand, but I ignore it as I take a seat at the slightly lopsided wooden bench and thank the coordinator, who leaves me to warm up.

I allow myself to play through the start of each piece twice before stopping and running through E-flat major scale, since that was the key of the first piece I'll be playing. One of Chopin's Nocturnes.

After that, I roll my wrists and neck once more before spazzing out a couple of chords and then standing, forcing myself to walk away from the upright. What I really wanted to do was play through my pieces over and over again until they were perfect, but I know if I did that now I would absolutely mess myself up.

If I make a mistake in the warm-up room, it throws off my performance game.

Right on cue, there's a quick double knock at the door and a young girl's head pops in. She smiles and says, "Five minutes to curtain. It'd be best for you to come backstage now."

I follow her at a brisk walk down the hall, my heels clicking. The lobby is silent now, no doubt everyone was seated inside. At this point, the lights would be dimmed and everyone would be silently murmuring to their seat partners if talking at all. I wondered how many people were out there.

Colton had once come to one of my recitals with bright vermillion blue hair. I had taken one look into the crowd and my eyes had immediately snagged on him, sitting pleasant-faced next to our enraged parents. I hadn't been able to control my smile, and it had made me so delightfully perplexed that I missed a C-sharp in the second measure of my music. I couldn't even be mad at him for distracting me, though, since apparently, the hair had not been his doing. Jeremiah had supposedly done it while he was sleeping the night before. My mother was livid.

Now, though, I knew there would be no vermillion-haired Colton in the crowd to make me smile.

Don't think about that now.

There are judges in the crowd.

Judges that could determine where I go to college, how much I pay for college... I had worked for this. I was confident in myself. I practiced hours upon hours. It doesn't matter if my mom doesn't believe whether I did or not. I know the truth, and the truth was that I was well prepared, as well prepared as I could be.

Now, I just had to prove it.

Backstage is as dark as night. The only mode of light comes from the small control panel that a tech member stands at, multicolor buttons and beams that did things to enhance my performance. The stage was dark, and beyond the curtain, I could hear a dull collective voice of a crowd.

I stand behind the back curtain slot at stage right, where I'd enter from. I could vaguely make out the shape of the grand piano in the middle of the floor. My hands weren't trembling, but I felt very, very uncomfortable suddenly, in my tight pencil skirt and silk blouse. My hair felt too tight in its elegant bun, my heels too pointy. I was supposed to look refined, professional. Now I just feel alien and unsure.

My nervousness does not ease when the crowd suddenly falls silent. The house lights must have dimmed.

Then the curtain was being drawn, and a dull stage light illuminated the black floor and piano. An amicable-looking man steps out on the stage from stage left and smiles.

"Good evening, and welcome to George Stine Hall. Today, we have the delight of hosting three-time All-State Honor Pianist, Ms. Hadlee Jason. Ms. Jason has placed first for all three consecutive years she has qualified in her age division for State level competitions and has received Division 1 Superior ratings in Solo and Ensemble State competitions a conclusive 12 times. She has performed with ASO Ensembles since the age of 10, and has appeared as a guest soloist at New England Conservatory of Music twice. Ms. Jason is here tonight as an installment of her Youth Arts of Arizona Scholarship application, and will be performing Chopin's Nocturne Op.2, No.9, Haydn's Sonata in D, Piano Concerto by Schumann, and finally Debussy's Arabesque No.1."

I try my hardest to tune out the slightly jovial man and instead focus. This is it, this is what I've been waiting for.

Don't blow it.

There's polite applause while he exits the stage and I enter. I walk with perfect posture, my chin held slightly high and towards the left so I can scan the crowd. I hope to spot where the judges are sitting.

The applause continues, and I manage not only to spot my mother in the crowd, but also my father. They're sitting on opposite ends of the hall, but that doesn't surprise me. The seats are uncharacteristically busy, packed with bodies. Not quite sold out, but probably twenty tickets away from it. As I make my trek across the stage, still halfheartedly searching for the three individuals sitting a chair's width apart, surely holding clipboards or voice recorders of some kind, I nearly trip and fall on my face when I notice who's in the crowd. My eyes skim past them first, but widen in horror and return to them when I realize who it is.

There in the very front row, are Isa, Gabe, Hoffman, and Arlo.