Paper Stars

21

Charlotte Hollins

Before---2 years ago

Manhattan School of Music, Freshman Year

The summer before college flashes by like the swift taps of a drum beat. Every morning I jog around the East Hills suburbs, headphones on and music blaring, until my legs ache and my lungs burn. The afternoons are spent in my basement, furiously practicing intricate drum exercises and rhythms in preparation for the oncoming year. It's been driving Emma crazy - she's begun to practice her cello at friends' houses, leaving me alone for long hours with my drums and my raging thoughts. Despite my attempts to drown them out with vicious exercise and focus, the dark thoughts are dormant and encased in the back of my mind, vibrating with the anxiety that never seems to leave my body.

Flet's EP remains unopened, hidden beneath my bed amongst piles of paper stars, forgotten just like him. I threw it there as soon as I got home that night, and haven't looked at it since. My phone filled up with texts from him; Aunt Joan says that he came by the day he was supposed to leave, but I was out jogging. I stopped receiving texts from him about halfway through the summer; I suppose he got weary of trying when I wouldn't even respond.

September arrives, and I pack up my things and move to my dorm in Manhattan. Aunt Joan and Uncle Kenny throw me a little going away party, even though I'll be able to visit weekly and Manhattan is only a drive away.

When I show up at my dorm, I'm immediately greeted by a girl with short blond hair and a constellation of freckles speckling her pale skin. She introduces herself as Andrea Kennedy, a classical flute major and my roommate for the year. Her side of the room is already decorated; light blue sheets on her mattress with matching pillows and bedspread, posters of familiar and unfamiliar classical artists on the wall, photographs of high school memories showcasing friendships and good times. And opposite, my side of the room. Pale, bleak walls and a stripped mattress.

Auditions are held for the first week of September - 1,000 freshman filtered through bands and ensembles of various prestige. First string jazz and classical are the envied bunch. The lines for those auditions extend hallways and hallways down from the doors, filled with jittery 18 and 19 year olds desperate for the chance to prove themselves. They check over their sheets and scratch and circle things with red pencil; they flex their fingers and practice intricate riffs on their instruments; they tap their feet and take deep breaths, eyes closed and cheeks flushed, praying for a flawless performance.

I'm a victim of the anxiety as well - my fingers are trembling and I keep bending and unbending the corner of my sheets, Muse Rapture from Philly Joe Jones. By the time I'm up at the front of the line, the corner has torn off the paper completely.

I enter the audition room, my drumsticks clutched in one hand and my sheets in the other. The room is a fair size, empty but for a table where three people sit, and an area where percussion instruments are set up. The only person I recognize at the table is Curtis Belmont, the conductor of the first string jazz ensemble and a professional trumpet player, featured in the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and the Chicago Symphony. He's been on the cover of many notable music magazines.

"Hello," I say as I approach the front of the room. "I'm Charlie." Belmont glances up from his clipboard and offers me a grim smile.

"What'll you be playing for us, Charlie?" the woman on his left asks.

"Philly Joe Jones, Muse Rapture, from measure 15 to measure 45." My voice cracks in a bit of nervousness. I take a seat at the drum set and adjust the stool, then set up my charts on the music stand. I practiced this song all summer long, and have it memorized by heart. And yet, when I start playing, I immediately notice the tremor in my hands, the awkward grip of my fingers on the sticks. The tempo is too fast and I'm off beat, off measure, off everything. I'd played it perfectly the day before, when it didn't matter - but suddenly now, when everything matters, I screw it up. Of course I do. It's what I'm good at.