Fireworks

33

Isa's grinning widely, clapping with all her might, wearing a dark dress and flawless makeup. Hoffman is brooding in his chair, looking for the life of him more like a security guard than anything else in all black jeans and a dark tee-shirt. Gabe is sitting next to him in a suit, and has noticed my horror, a smirk on his face while he fans himself with a program, legs crossed. Arlo looks extremely dapper in a handsome blazer, the whorls of his tattoo just peeking out of the sleeve. It's the nicest I've seen him dress. His face is eager, clearly anticipating something. His eyes snap to mine when he realizes I've noticed him, but I look away in terror.

My observation took possibly half a second, but in that half-second, my whole demeanor has changed. I was prepared to be relaxed.

I take a deep, shaking breath, and settle myself on the cushioned piano bench. The applause dies down, and I once again breathe deeply, but not audibly. I let my hands rest in my lap as I bring my full posture into check, and then elegantly raise them as I had practiced a thousand times, letting them rest right above the keys for the nocturne.

It doesn't matter who's in the crowd aside from the judges.

There is me, the judges, and the music I've spent hours perfecting.

This is the thing about classical music. With jazz, people improv and anticipate unpredictable sounds. There are no mistakes in jazz. In contemporary music, experimentation and embellishment are encouraged.

But with classical piano music, I can be in control. There is a level of perfection someone can reach. Play every note, rhythm, articulation, phrase, and dynamic right. There will always be something to improve, but the music is dense and complex with emotion to convey. I hone that, control it.

That is what I'm supposed to be showing tonight.

I let my mind go blank aside from the music, and begin the first piece.

The tone quality of the instrument and the acoustics of the room are magnificent, and the sound of my own playing is almost foreign to my ears. Things are put into such a different perspective when performing.

The nocturne is a slow start, and one I would typically not begin with, but it's the most well-known out of the repertoire, so I figured I should start with familiarity.

I finish the first song. Applause. I don't look into the crowd when I nod once graciously. I complete the Sonata. Applause. I avoid looking into the depths of the mass in front of me. The Concerto flies by in all of its 11-minute glory. More applause. More stare avoiding.

When it's time for the Arabesque, I can't help but feel slightly sorrowful.

Months of practicing these pieces are now spent up and used. This is the peak of my performance level of these exact songs in this exact order. I probably won't be playing them for a while.

And the Arabesque... I've listened to it so many times in my car, while I read in my room, practiced it to no end. It was the first song my Mother ever forced me to play, and hopefully the last. It was the first song Arlo had ever heard me play, even if he wasn't in the same room as me. It had always been my favorite out of the bunch for tonight.

My breath comes shallower as I play it this time.

When I'm on stage I black out, things kind of just happen the way my body is used to it happening, the muscle memory from hours of practice usually leads to my mind not controlling my movements, but familiarity. That's what happened for the other two songs.

For the Arabesque, I'm aware of every note I play, every millimeter I press down on the pedal.

The sloping, looping notes swirl around me, and the burn of hundreds of eyes bore into me. I know that at least one person out there is utterly unmoved by my small show, and wishes for their money back so they can attend a better, more lively concert. I just hope one of those people isn't one of the judges.