Paper Stars

16

Charlotte Hollins
Present
The next day at rehearsal, Sullivan calls me over as everybody is setting up their instruments. When I approach the conductor's podium, he reaches into his folder and hands me a pair of sleek black fingerless gloves.
"Um—" I stutter, not sure what to say.
"I don't tolerate musicians who refuse to take care of themselves," Sullivan says nonchalantly, easily filling in the awkward space of silence. "And besides that, you got blood all over my drum kit yesterday. The gloves are nonnegotiable." He gives me a wave of dismissal and I go back to my seat.
Owen doesn't acknowledge me or the gloves as I sit down beside him. He's too busy leaning forward and scribbling notes in a red pencil all over his Blue in the Air sheet music.
After a few minutes, Sullivan pulls out his sheet music and raises his hand into the conductor position. Immediately, the room falls to silence and everybody scrambles into position.
Except Owen, who is still fervently writing all over his sheet music in red pencil.
And Sullivan notices.
At first, he just stares at him for a few seconds. Then his hand lowers from position and he crosses his arms, a dangerous look melting onto his features; the look of a shark approaching its prey. The tension in the room thickens as the seconds painstakingly go by. Realization slowly dawns on Owen as he recognizes the unnatural silence, and he cautiously looks up from his sheet music.
Sullivan raises his brows at him. "Did you need an invitation? Am I taking up your precious time?"
Owen sets down his pencil tentatively, as if he's afraid Sullivan might strike if he moves too fast. "No."
"Then why the fuck aren't you holding your drumsticks?"
Owen fumbles with his bag and quickly retrieves his drumsticks. Dark red begins to flush his cheeks.
Sullivan sighs in exasperation and looks up at the ceiling. "Dear God, I'm the conductor of a professional jazz band and I still have to work with imbeciles." He runs his hand through his dark hair and looks around the room. "All right, Blue in the Air, from the top." He raises his hand to position and counts off.
Owen starts off weakly, rushing the intro and then lagging in an attempt to straighten out the tempo. Sullivan makes a swiping motion in the air and the music halts.
Sullivan looks at Owen and leans forward on his music stand. "Tell me what the tempo marking on your page says."
Owen swallows and looks down. "188 per quarter note."
"Oh good. I thought yours said something different because of your horrendous playing." Sullivan turns his sheet music. "Measure 8, everybody." He counts off.
Owen's fingers are white from his grip and his eyes are focused on his sheet music, but the tempo mistake has made him nervous. There's a slight tremor in his elbows and some of his beats are a second too fast or slow. Sloppy, amateur mistakes made from a Juilliard student who can't stand the pressure of his overbearing teacher giving him a death glare as he plays.
At measure 32, Sullivan stops the music again. He approaches Owen and looks at his sheet music. "What's with all the red markings?" he asks as he flips through the sheets.
"They're notes," Owen answers carefully.
Sullivan huffs and tosses the sheets back down. "Well they're not doing you shit. Measure 32, just drums."
He counts off and Owen starts playing, head bent down in concentration. His sticks fumble and he skips two beats as he tries to regain speed.
Sullivan makes a swipe in the air and Owen stops playing. There's a stretch of silence as Sullivan rubs his chin, looking back and forth between Owen, the drum kit, and me. His head nods slightly as he makes his decision.
"Rehab, on the drums."
"Wait, wait!" Owen protests. "I can play it better this time, I promise—"
"And I promise that I won't hesitate to kick you out of this band if you don't get off that stool right now." Sullivan crosses his arms and stares at Owen, silently daring him to challenge his authority. Owen finally gives in, snatching his music off of the stand and sending me a glare as he takes my seat. I sit down at the drum kit and put up my music for Blue in the Air.
Sullivan gives me a look and then goes back to the conductor's podium. "From the top, everybody. Measure 1."
The gloves I got from Sullivan soothe my chafed skin and allow me to play more fluently than restricting my movement, like I initially thought they would. I stay at the drum kit for the rest of rehearsal, balancing approving glances from Sullivan with the looks of contempt from Owen. He hasn't heard me play since that dreaded audition day, when my muscles were weak and I was out of practice. My skill has increased since then, a dreaded surprise for him because now the position of first string drummer is officially up for grabs, and I am a viable candidate.
At 9:15, Sullivan dismisses us. I grab my bag and my music before starting towards the exit, feeling Owen closely on my heel. "Good job on the drums, Rehab," Sullivan calls out just before I exit.
Out in the hallway, I feel a hand on my shoulder roughly spin me around. Owen is angry.
"What the hell was that?" he demands. "You-you're a mediocre player, at best! How could you have—" He tears his hand angrily through his hair. "You've been getting private practice on the side, haven't you? From who? From Sullivan?"
I shrug and sling my bag over my shoulder. "Sorry, sweetheart," I say, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the recognition on his face. The same words he said to me in a condescending manner at the audition one month ago. "Not everybody can be talented."