Paper Stars

20

Charlotte Hollins
Present
Owen stopped coming to rehearsals. Sullivan hardly noticed. Everybody hardly noticed. Within a few days, a senior from the Curtis Institute had taken his place as second string drummer. I wish I could feel even a hint of satisfaction at Owen's dismissal from the band, but instead I just feel sorry for him. He used to be me, after all.
Sullivan introduces two new pieces to the band, but doesn't give me a copy of either. After class, he pulls me aside and gives me drum charts for a composition titled 'Malaguena.' Attached to the sheet music is a notecard with an audition time and location scrawled across it in messy black pencil.
"A Lincoln Center representative called this morning," Sullivan explains to me. "They have a position open and they think that you're a viable candidate."
Whatever I was going to say next, a sarcastic comment or a joking reply, gets stuck in my throat, so I just stand there gawking at the charts in my hand and trying to figure out how to get my heart beating again. Sullivan rolls his eyes at my reaction, but I don't care. I just got offered a position at Lincoln Center.
"Th-thank you," I finally manage to choke out.
Sullivan taps the sheet music. "Don't fuck it up, Rehab, because Kaufman won't take you back if you do." I expect him to dismiss me rudely or make one final jab, but instead Sullivan shakes my hand and gives me a nod, the first semblance of respect he's ever offered me since I arrived at Kaufman as a candidate and botched my audition. "Good luck, Charlotte."
It's the first time he's ever used my real name, and I'm so stunned that I don't bother to correct him by saying, 'actually, it's Charlie.'

***

Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny were ecstatic to hear the news about Lincoln Center. The audition is in a week, so I spend the next six mornings and nights practicing fervently in the basement. Emma gets annoyed with me whenever she comes home from school and finds me in the basement, because then she has to haul her cello upstairs to practice. As hard as I'm practicing, I can ensure that Emma is practicing much harder. She's playing at the Contessa Art Gallery with a few selected members of her orchestra this Friday, something I plan to go to and something she plans to play well at. Whenever I take a ten minute break in my drumming to cool off and rub salve on my hands, I can hear Emma's mellow tune resonating from upstairs in our bedroom. Her music is smooth and fluid, until she makes an indecipherable mistake and stops playing to mark up her music. Then she plays that measure ten times in a row, until it satisfies her. She has more focus with her music than I do, more precision. I have no doubt that she'll ace her concert at Contessa, as well as her audition with Juilliard in a few weeks.
Emma skips school on Friday to practice her piece. I stay in our room and let her have the basement; my drum charts for Malaguena are laid out across my bed and I tap out the rhythms on imaginary drums. My audition is tomorrow morning at 11:00, Lincoln Center. Do I feel prepared? Yeah, sure. Could I still definitely screw up? Yup. But I figure that it's best to lay low on practicing the day before. Today is Emma's day.
At 7, we leave for Manhattan. Emma insists on taking separate cars, probably because she doesn't want to be in the same vehicle as me, so I ride with Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny. We drop our cars off at a parking garage on the outskirts of the city and take a cab to inner Manhattan, where we're dropped off at the Contessa Art Gallery. It's a massive brick building with a bubbling fountain, a concrete angel with one hand in the air and water pouring from the vase held in their arm, in the front. Lights glow from the manicured lawns to illuminate the structure. The three sets of front doors are propped open for the thick groups of people passing through. I don't know how many people I expected to be here tonight, but I definitely didn't expect this many. I see Emma way in the front passing through the doors, her folder clung to her chest and her cello case strapped to her back. I think of calling out to her, but by the time her name has reached my lips she's already disappeared. I dig my hands deeper into the pockets of my jacket and walk silently beside Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny. Because of the large group of people, it takes a while to even reach the front doors. As we get closer, I catch a whiff of smoke in the air. The source is a boy with dark shaggy hair standing ten feet from the entrance, leaning against the brick wall of the building with a joint between his fingers. His eyes are dazed, and he takes another drag on the joint, blowing circles of smoke out of his mouth.
My breath hitches and I look away. This is Emma's night, I remind myself. None of this is about you.
Once we finally get through the doors, we have to pay an entrance fee of $10. Uncle Kenny pays for me, even though I ask him not to. It's a sucky feeling to be 19 years old and not be able to pay for a measly $10 fee.
The inside of the art gallery is well-lit and orderly, aside from the mobs of people who have yet to disperse. There's some kind of twisted sculpture in the center of the first room, and the walls have framed paintings and pastel drawings. There are small price tags by the paintings that have already been sold, selling for numbers higher than Aunt Joan's and Uncle Kenny's yearly salaries combined.
Emma doesn't play until 9:00, so I spend the two extra hours wandering around the gallery and trying to make sense of the paintings and sculptures. Some of the artists stand by their creations and explain their inspirations to the people passing by. I don't understand a word that they're saying. Music is my native language, not art.
9:00 arrives, and I meet up with Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny by the twisted sculpture in the first room. Emma and three other orchestra members are seated in chairs directly in front of the sculpture. She's dressed in black slacks and a white blouse. The gallery lights drench her hair and her skin in a golden glow. She plays the A string on her cello and the other three play the A string on their instruments—a violin, two violas, and another cello--, adjusting until they're all tuned. People begin to gather at the sound of the music. Emma takes a breath and whispers the count off. At the beat of 3, the four of them dive into the music. I recognize the song; a Clementi sonatina, though I'm not sure which one. I've only ever heard Emma's part, muffled through the basement ceiling and practiced over and over until I had nearly every note memorized. But here, the song sounds completely different. Emma's part intertwines with the three other parts to create a thick, rich sound that resonates through the entire art gallery. Emma's eyes are closed and her foot taps consistently to the beat like a stubborn metronome. The bow moves fluidly and Emma's fingers jump and slide up and down the strings. I can feel the vibrations of the instruments thrumming against my feet from the floor.
The group of onlookers grows, and a few of them pull out their cell phones to video the performance, despite the gallery's strict no media policy. The growing number of eyes doesn't seem to bother Emma, or the other players. We might as well be invisible to them. The only time Emma's eyes flicker open is during the second movement of the sonatina, when she's playing a flurry of notes, her fingers an indecipherable blur and her bow moving impossibly fast. Her eyelids shutter and she looks straight at me for a split second before her eyes close again and the section is over. I feel uncomfortable standing there after that, so I take a step back to the second row of people. I know she doesn't want me to be here.
The music intensifies as the crescendo grows and grows until the music halts with a firm, single slash of notes. The onlookers clap and Emma and the other musicians stand and bow, before resting their instruments on a stand so they can take a quick break. One of the musicians stays behind to look after the instruments and Emma darts off into the crowd, disappearing before I can say a word. I follow after her and search for her golden blond curls in the crowd, to no avail. I circle through the gallery at least three times before I find Emma standing at a refreshments table that has been placed in a corner, far away from all of the art. She's holding a small disposable cup of water and is smiling, talking to a boy her age who pokes her shoulder and makes her laugh. As I get closer, I recognize the boy as the shaggy-haired one who was standing outside taking a hit as we were entering the building. The only thing I observed about him before was the joint in his hand, but now I can recognize the East Hills logo on his sweatshirt. He's a classmate of Emma's.
At that moment, the boy takes Emma's hand and looks at the ends of her fingers, probably at her calluses from playing a stringed instrument. He makes a remark and Emma tilts her head back and laughs. Alarm bells start going off in my head, and I quicken my pace and approach them. The boy sees me and immediately drops Emma's hand.
The laughter clears from Emma's face and is replaced with the hard exterior she always has around me. "Why aren't you with Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny?" she asks flatly, taking a sip of water. The boy shifts awkwardly and swishes his head to get his shaggy hair out of his eyes. There's only a remnant of dazedness from the high in his eyes. He must've smoked just enough before to get him through the night.
I nod towards the boy, ignoring Emma's question. "Introduce me to your friend, Emma."
Emma's eyes flash with suppressed anger, but she speaks calmly. "Allen, this is my sister Charlie. Charlie, this is my friend Allen."
Allen extends his hand to me for a shake. "Nice to meet you, Charlie." His voice is rough and raspy, a smoker's voice. The skin beneath his nose is red and raw, though he tries to disguise it with wisps of facial hair. Emma might see a supposedly nice boy named Allen, but all I see is Lizzy Stevenson.
I cross my arms and Allen drops his hand back to his side. "What instrument do you play, Allen? I didn't see you with the rest of the musicians."
Allen shrugs. "I don't really play music, I just listen to it." He throws a smile in Emma's direction and my pulse grows loud in my ears.
I take Emma's arm and offer Allen a cold smile. "Well I think it's time you'd better be going, Allen, this is a very busy night for Emma and she can't afford any distractions."
"Charlie!" Emma exclaims, wrenching her arm out of my grip.
Allen shakes his head and takes a step back, avoiding Emma's eyes but staring straight into mine. "Nah, it's all right. I had to get going anyway. You played real good, Emma," he says, before he turns and walks into the crowd.
"Wait, Allen!" Emma calls out and takes three steps in his direction, but he's already gone. Emma spins around, staring daggers at me. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
"Did you invite him here?" I ask.
Emma huffs angrily. Her hands are fists at her sides. "I invited him because he's my friend, not that you'd know what that word means. You didn't have to throw him out of here like some stray dog."
I point a finger in the general direction where Allen exited. "He is a drug addict, Emma!"
She snorts in mock laughter. "Yeah, well, so are you. Who's the real danger to me, you or Allen?"
That stings. I swallow, trying to displace the lump in my throat. "I'm just trying to protect you," I say. He'll ruin you, can't you see that?
"Protect me from what?!" Emma snaps. The volume of her voice turns several heads, but she doesn't notice. She takes a step closer to me, enunciating every word she speaks. "From getting money stolen out of my purse so that he can buy drugs? From getting my heart broken again and again because every time he makes me a promise, he turns around and breaks it in my face?" Every word lands a stinging blow to my chest. Tears are forming in the corners of her blue eyes. She's not talking about Allen anymore. "From watching my aunt and uncle cry at night because they don't know what to do, or how to help you? From Aunt Joan having to pick up a second job to pay for your rehab bills?" Emma shakes her head and a tear escapes her eye. "Allen is trying to quit, Charlie. Allen actually gives two shits about his family, about me. So I don't need any of your goddamn protection, because Allen isn't you!"
She takes a step back, tears brimming and biting her lip. I want to say something, but there's nothing I could say. My mind is blank and my tongue is tied and my little sister hates me. Emma says something to me, but her words are a blur. Everything is a blur. I see her leave out of the corner of my vision, and I stumble in the opposite direction, pushing through the groups of people in search for an exit. It's too warm and closed in here, and the only thing on my mind at the moment is fresh air. I manage to find an exit in the back and push open the door, gulping in the cold, sweet air. I step outside and the door clicks shut behind me. The fresh air clears my head and slows my breathing enough for a comprehensible thought to pass through my consciousness.
Allen isn't you.
I don't know what makes it do it, but as soon as the thought enters my head, it controls my entire body. It makes me get my phone out of my bag and scroll through my contacts until I find him. It makes me click on his number without hesitation, and it makes me not hang up when I hold the phone to my ear and listen to the dial tones.
He picks up on the fifth tone. "Charlie?"
Just hearing the sound of his voice brings the lump back to my throat. My voice sounds choked when I speak. "Flet, I really need to talk to you."