The Eccedentesiast

Chapter Eighteen

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Chapter Eighteen
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It was Wednesday, and it was Connor's time to shine. He would be on stage in no less than five minutes to perform a piece that he wrote. A piece that he hoped would clench the hearts of many and baffle the ability to reflect.

"It's going to be fine," Connor told himself. His hands raked through his luminous hair and his foot bounced with the rhythm of his heart.

Emma and the guys went to his side after finding the door that led backstage.

"You're going to do great," Emma reassured, patting his shoulder with a smile.

Connor sent back a nervous smile and sat back in his seat. "What if it's not good enough? I've been working on this for two years." He fidgeted.

Connor played piano since he was a kid. And this was an opportunity he couldn't miss. It was the annual talent show at his high school and he was so excited to join, but so beat up about the fact that the possibility of failure was on the table. Along with the minutiae of many plausible scenarios.

"You're on in three minutes." A woman came into the room and took him by the arm. "You have to get ready."

Connor followed reluctantly and was dragged behind the curtains where the piano was. It was beautiful, but at first glance, it seemed to mock his lack of self-esteem.

"Sit and look over your notes before we open those curtains in . . ." the woman checked her wristwatch, ". . . thirty seconds."

Connor ones his mouth to say something, anything when she walked away at a speedy pace.

He looked down at the black and white keys and whispered to himself, "Is this happening?"

It could have been the nerves, maybe the whispers in his head of all his brain cells taking seats as they waited for it all to go down, but his hands shook, he teared up and shuddered.

He's never played his music to anyone before. Not even his best friends. He wanted it to be perfect before the human ears got an opportunity to judge.

He didn't have much time to go over the papers before the red curtains started opening. The spotlight was stopped on him and the audience waited silently and patiently for him to begin.

Connor gulped, he felt beads of sweat upon his forehead and a bit claustrophobic in this large auditorium. Despite the silence, he could hear everyone's thoughts and feel the laser-like stares that burned him like an eraser being stabbed with the sharpest of pencils.

I can't do it, he thought, imagining himself standing up and running down the steps and through the emergency exit that leads to the student parking lot. He imagined everybody booing him. He imagined the disappointment on his best friends' faces, and his heart sank like it had somewhere to sink in the first place.

His mind was washed away from these scenarios when someone in the audience coughed. He looked down at them from his seat and noticed his best friends urging him to play. He felt at ease at that moment. His best friends were there for him, just as they've always been. And so, he began to play.

As he pressed down on keys, his delicate fingers seemed to ache. He shut his eyes like drapes and used his fingers like magic. It was slow, elegant, and his fingers moved like gazelles.