Blood, Sweat, and Schradieck

Chapter Eleven - Will

One week. Seven days. One-hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes.

No matter which way Will thinks about it, it's not enough time. Not nearly enough. He could use another three months and still not be prepared.

The door of his practice room bursts open, banging against the wall and startling Will. He jumps, his heart pounding almost painfully, and turns around to glare at whoever has scared him. 

Halt is leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed. He raises an eyebrow at Will.

"What?" Will demands. "I'm practicing!"

"For a seventh hour straight?" Halt asks. "Every time I've walked past here since breakfast, you've been in here."

"So?" Will says. "I'm practicing!"

"I hadn't noticed," Halt says dryly. "And what, pray tell, in your program needs this much focus after having known the pieces for more than two months?"

Will sighs. "Islamey."

Halt doesn't say anything, but he shuts the door and sinks into the chair in the corner. "Specifically, what in Islamey?"

"The right-hand runs toward the end."

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're blurry again. I can't get the clarity I want," Will explains.

"Show me," Halt says.

Halt watches closely as Will demonstrates the runs, first in slow motion and then at performance tempo. 

"The problem is, they're fine at slower tempos, but I can't make the transition into a faster tempo and keep the clarity and articulation," Will says.

Halt ponders this for a moment. "Try it again, but concentrate on keeping your wrist loose. Let your fingers hang between each chord as you're making the transition to each chord."

Will tries again, focusing on keeping his wrist joint loose and supple. The tone is ringier at the slow tempo he chooses, and when he speeds it up, it's more clear. It's still a little messy, but Will knows how to fix that.

He sighs in relief. "Thanks, Halt!" he says. "You have no idea how much that was bothering me!"

"I'm happy you're satisfied," Halt says, "because now I'm kicking you out of your practice room."

Will's mouth drops open at the unfairness of it all. "What? Why?"

"Because," Halt says, "you've been in here all day. It's not healthy. You need to get outside, walk around, get some exercise. Rest your mind and body. Otherwise you're going to end up injuring yourself, and you don't want that to happen right before the competition."

Will sighs and begins to pack up his music.

"And besides, you didn't even eat lunch."

Will doesn't even stop to wonder how Halt even knows that. He's stopped asking that ages ago, and accepted that Halt has a strange sixth sense when it comes to his students. 

"I'm not hungry," Will defends himself.

Halt raises his eyebrow as Will's stomach chooses that exact moment to betray him, emitting a loud, long, deep rumble. 

"Okay, so maybe I am a little hungry," Will admits grumpily.

"Go get some food and water," Halt directs him. He holds the practice room door open for Will to go out into the hallway. Will locks the room, and Halt holds his hand out.