Paper Stars

12

Charlotte Hollins
Present
I've never felt so blatantly rejected in my life.
I take a cab back to East Hills because I don't feel like waiting around for Aunt Joan all day. When I get home, the first thing I do is go down to the basement and run over the charts for Setting Sun. I play until my brow is wet with sweat and my wrists ache. That dirty little fucker. I played the charts near perfectly. Admittedly, there were a few mistakes here and there, but nothing major enough for Sullivan to halt me in the middle of my playing and dismiss me so rudely. It must've been because I'm from Manhattan, instead of some prestigious snob school like Juilliard or the Curtis Institute. Or maybe it was because I'm a dropout with a recent drug addiction. Can't have me walking out on the Kaufman stage smoking pot in public, can we?
Dickhead.
When Aunt Joan comes home, I pretend to be asleep in my room so that I don't have to talk about the audition. I lay on my bed in the darkness, my earbuds in playing The Kooks. I remember when Flet and I were 13 we would do covers of them all the time, with him playing his guitar and singing, and me drumming. A pang of nostalgia hits me in the chest and for a split second I can't breathe.
I quickly change the artist to Cage the Elephant.
I guess I fall asleep listening to my music, because when I jolt awake (you know that thing where you think you're falling and you snap awake? Don't ask me why, none of it makes sense) I see Emma sleeping in her bed across the room. My phone is ringing, a shattering sound at 6 am and so loud I'm surprised that it doesn't wake Emma.
I click ACCEPT and hold the phone to my ear. "Hullo?" I mutter, my speech slurred with drowsiness.
"Report to the rehearsal room at 9:30," a voice lilted with a British accent says. Sullivan.
I sit up, suddenly wide awake. "Wait, what? I got in?"
"9:30," Sullivan repeats. "Don't be late." He hangs up abruptly.
"Who the hell is calling at 6 in the morning?" Emma complains, and then rolls over. I guess the ringing woke her up after all.

***

"Oh, fuck no."
Much to my dismay, the Asian Juilliard snob –Owen—is already waiting in the rehearsal room when I get there. He turns around when he hears my oh-so-polite greeting, and his facial expression immediately twists.
"You're joking," he says, standing up from his seat. "How the hell did you get picked?"
"How the hell did you get picked?" I shoot back.
He crosses his arms and stands up straighter, a power move to make me feel small even though I'm only a few inches shorter than him. "I heard you play, you sounded like a train wreck. Come on, who's dick did you suck to be here?"
I mimic his body language. I can power play too. "Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing."
Owen shrugs and smiles, revealing very white and very expensive teeth. "Well, some of us don't have to bribe our way to the top."
"Right," I size him up, taking in the leather handbag and sports coat. Expensive indeed. "Some of us just pay people off with daddy's money."
"Oh good, you two are getting along." Sullivan barely gives us a glance as he enters the room, his eyes focused on his phone screen. He pockets his phone when he approaches us, and hands us both a folder. My stomach sinks when I see the number 2 on the cover of mine.
Owen sends me a smug look. I glare at him. Sullivan catches the exchange, but he clearly doesn't care.
"Mama's boy, you're first string. Rehab, you're second." He points to the folders. "Blue in the Air is the piece the band has been playing for the past week. Rehearsal is at 6:00 tonight. You've got until then to learn it. There are drum sets in the room next door. Now shoo, I have shit to get done."
Owen takes the dismissal swiftly and leaves. I quickly follow him, not wanting him to get the best drum set after he already got the best position.
"Rehab!" Sullivan calls, beckoning me back. I glance back at Owen, who has already disappeared through the doors, and then approach Sullivan. His arms are crossed and he's leaning back against the stage.
"Yeah?" I ask, clutching my folder to my chest like I think he'll take it away from me. He seems like just the kind of ass that would do that, so I'm not taking any chances.
Sullivan looks me up and down with a disapproving expression. I'm wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt that says 'GO TEAM!', topped off with a pair of ratty sneakers. I guess I could have picked out my clothes with a little more care this morning instead of just throwing on the first thing I saw.
"Why do you think you're here?" Sullivan asks slowly, as if I'm too stupid to understand English if he talks too fast.
I try to keep my attitude under control. "Because you told me to be here."
"Right. I told you to be here, but understand this:" He takes a step closer and points a finger at me. "I do not want you here. You are only here because I was outvoted by my colleagues."
"And you don't want me here because I'm a druggie dropout, is that it?" The words fall out without my permission. "You're being awfully judgmental for someone who didn't even let me finish playing the damn song."
So much for keeping my attitude under control.
Sullivan's eyebrow raises at the comment and he gives a huff of a laugh. "The reason I cut you off in your song was because you were sloppy. It was like watching an infant fumble with their food and get it smeared all over their face, it was an utter disaster. You've been out of practice for how long? 2 months?"
"3," I correct.
"3 months. You shouldn't even be here, you should be in a practice room at Manhattan getting instructed for your ridiculous technique. But no, you are here, and the only reason I am holding out on you is because Professor Belmont gave you an incredible review, God knows why. This is the only chance I am giving you, but if you screw up even once you are out. I have thousands of other more promising candidates begging for your spot. Understood?"
Oh spare me the lecture.
I bite my tongue to hold back the retort and muster a stiff nod. Sullivan dismisses me and as I'm walking out the doors he calls out, "And for Christ's sake, stop dressing like you're homeless!"