Paper Stars

18

Charlotte Hollins
Present
I've always hated band competitions.
It's not just the itchy white button up shirt, or the stiff black pants, though I don't like the uniform either. It's more the idea of hundreds of eyes watching; most of them are your competitors who just want you to mess up, and the leftover ones are your judges, who also want you to mess up since there's nothing they love more than judging people for their mistakes.
The competition is taking place at the Willsberg Music Hall in northern Brooklyn. I arrive and go to rehearsal room B13, where the rest of the band is already waiting. Sullivan acknowledges my arrival with a pissed look in my direction, probably for my slight tardiness. I ignore him and sit down in the second string chair beside Owen, who is hastily writing notes on his music again. He looks more stressed than usual. His shirt is wrinkled like it was pulled out of the bottom of a dirty laundry basket, and the black beneath his eyes are proof of many late nights. I adjust the black gloves on my hands and try to suppress the surprising amount of guilt I'm starting to feel.
Sullivan steps up to the practice podium and the room falls silent. He smiles wryly and points a thumb to the door. "You all have opportunities out on that stage today. We're going against 8 other bands, but the representatives in the crowd don't care if you're from Juilliard or Kaufman. They care if you're talented. If you play well today, tomorrow you could be on the big stage of Lincoln Center." I don't know if I imagine it, but for a split second I think he glances at me when he says that.
The piano player, Bertie, plays a C. The rest of the band repeats the note, adjusting their instruments and their breathing until the sound is pitch perfect. Owen taps his drum sticks restlessly against his thigh, his eyes still focused on the music. It hurts to watch him, knowing that I used to be like that, staying up until the early hours of the morning practicing the same measure over and over again until it was perfect.
"Hey Owen," I say.
He jumps slightly, startled, and then looks at me. "Huh?"
I nod towards the music. "Don't stress about it. You'll do fine."
"No, no I keep messing up this one—this damn note right here—" He points a shaking finger to one of the measures in Blue in the Air. "I can never get it right and if I mess up, Sullivan will notice—"
"Sullivan will also notice if you have a mental breakdown on the stage."
Owen pauses for a second, and then slowly sets down his music, rubbing his hands over his face like he's trying to wipe the fatigue away. "You're right. You're definitely right, I just..." He takes in a deep breath. "I need it to be perfect."
Perfect. I almost shudder at the sound of the word. Perfection is impossible to attain. That's why it destroys so many people.
We wait in the rehearsal room for another half hour. Sullivan runs over a difficult section of the music with the woodwinds. The brass tune their instruments again. Owen sits with his head in his hands and his foot tapping against the linoleum floor.
Eventually, one of the workers opens the door and says, "We're ready for you."
We filter out of the room in a single file line, following Sullivan as he leads us through a maze of stairwells and hallways until we arrive at the concert hall. We wait backstage while one of the other competing bands finishes up their second song. I recognize it as Birdland, a popular jazz tune. I remember playing it at the Manhattan School of Music, practicing and sweating over it for hours.
"Rehab," Sullivan calls, beckoning me to the front of the group. I approach him and he takes my arm, leading me forward until we're so close to the stage that we can see the audience.
"Do you see them?" he asks. I nod. "There are three representatives from Lincoln Center sitting in there right now. Your performance today could land you as their first string drummer in a heartbeat."
"Wait, I'm performing tonight?"
I'd thought that I was just turning pages for Owen.
"You're performing Blue in the Air and Setting Sun," Sullivan tells me. "Mr. Mama's Boy can't get that 32nd note riff into tempo, and I don't plan on losing this competition because of his incompetence."
I think bac
k to when Owen was stressing over the one measure, tearing out his hair over the note that he couldn't make work. "And you haven't told him yet?" I ask slowly.
Sullivan sighs. "I suppose that would be a good idea, wouldn't it?"
He doesn't hear my answer because of the audience's applause. Sullivan hands me a pair of sticks, since I neglected to bring my own, and then goes to the back to talk to Owen. The guilt I felt before has been magnified a thousand times now. Yes, Owen is a jerk to me most of the time, but nobody deserves to have their dream viciously torn into shreds, especially when they're mere seconds from achieving it.
The band walks out onto the stage and settles into their seats. I rest into the drummer's seat and ease my grip on my drumsticks. The stage lights are bright and hot, fading the audience into a sea of black. The only people I can see are the judges, sitting at a table in the first row with their pens poised and their hungry eyes ready. In the corner of the stage by the entrance, Sullivan stands by Owen, who is frantically shaking his head and mouthing the word 'no.' Sullivan leans in closer and whispers something in his ear, something that makes Owen's skin go ghost white. He slinks off to the second string drummers seat beside me and doesn't even cast me a glance. The guilt feels like a hundred pounds weighing on my chest.
Sullivan walks onto the stage, bitterness gone and now all smiles. The crowd applauds and he bows, before stepping on to the podium and raising his hand. Everybody snaps to position, fingers ready, backs straight, breath held. I prepare my stick over the center drum and wait for the count off.
1
2
3
4
Setting Sun starts rapidly, a whirlwind of notes that flies off the page, through the air and into the audience's ears. I hardly glance at my sheet music. I've practiced this song so many times that I know it backwards, upwards, downwards, any other -wards you can think of. My hands move practically by themselves, having already memorized where to go. Every time Sullivan glances my direction, my stomach gets warm and I feel like I'm finally doing something right.
And then I see Owen out of the corner of my eye, unceremoniously turning pages and keeping his eyes directed at the floor. His fingers tap along to the music. He knows this song as well as I do.
Blue in the Air starts. I dip my head and try to concentrate on the music, not on Sullivan or Owen or the judges in the audience. Sure, Owen might've practiced this song a billion times. Sure, his hands might've bled and he might've went days without sleep in an attempt to perfect this piece. Sure, Sullivan presented his failure to him in a pretty shitty way. But just because Owen cracked under the pressure doesn't mean that I should feel guilty for being the one to take his place. I've been through hell and back twice. I've busted my back trying to get where I am now, and I sure as hell am not giving up now. I deserve this opportunity just as much as he does.
Blue in the Air finishes with a dramatic flourish that gains massive applause. Sullivan looks over at me and raises his brows in approval, joining in with the clapping. The band exits the stage and Sullivan quickly pulls me aside. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owen disappear into the bathroom.
"You did well," Sullivan says, taking my attention off of Owen. "Good job, but there's some things you need to brush up on if you're going to make it at Lincoln Center."
My mouth falls open. "At?"
He scoffs. "Well there's no way you're walking away from that performance without a callback, at least." He gives me instructions on beginning private practices in the morning, but I can hardly hear him over the excitement in my ears. After years of blood and sweat and tears, it's finally happening. It's finally falling into place.

The uneasy sense in my gut is still resident, oblivious to the good news, and I still can't help but feel like I'm missing something.