Page 109 of Unrecognizable Player

“Maybe they’ve gone straight into surgery on his shoulder?”

Surgery. Holy crap, that’s serious.

“You think so?”

She shrugs. “Mischa said if it’s the same as last time, he’ll probably need it.”

“Does that mean that he won’t be able to play anymore?”

“I don’t know. You should ask him.”

“I can’t.” I sigh. “I can’t go there. His dad hates me.”

Alice squeezes my elbow. “Buthedoesn’t hate you.”

The rest of the orchestra are filing past us and when we don’t come in right away, Professor Lisette comes out to collect us.

She’s fluttering around like she does when she’s nervous, and all that anxious energy isn’t helping me forget my own.

This is the biggest audience I will ever play to. Unless I go on to play in a real life philharmonic orchestra or something, this is the ceiling.

I’ve tried to pretend I’m performing at the restaurant before I go out on stage, but it doesn’t work. Everything is too different. The stakes, the atmosphere, the people. Even the smells. If they made the auditorium smell like tzatziki that might help. But I’d still have to wear this stuffy suit. Still have to look at theridiculously high ceilings and rows upon rows of well-dressed people with acutely trained ears.

I let myself drift away during rehearsals, but the sweaty palms and pounding heart starts earlier than usual. We’re not even on the bus yet and my shirt is soaked with sweat.

Alice takes her seat next to me at the back of the bus and squeezes my hand.

“You’ll be great,” she says. “Once this is over with, no more big performances.”

I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak, but not even the thought of no more performances makes me feel better. What then? Have I wasted all my parents’ hard-earned money by coming here? Were all these years of theory and practice and performances for nothing?

I think about asking Baba for a job at the restaurant. I don’t have anything to bring to the business like Maria, but I could bus tables or learn how to be a cook. Baba’s disappointment would be so devastating. He has such high hopes for me. Such belief. I’m dreading the day when I let him down. When I shatter every hope he ever had for me. Not only the famous musician one, but the wife and kids one too.

The bus journey seems to take less than a second.

We stop the bus on the street outside the Lincoln Centre fountains and everyone’s eyes get wide as they push their noses against the windows. This is what I’m supposed to want. This is supposed to fill my heart with joy as a musician. A big, grand auditorium where every seat will be filled. Even if a lot of the butts on those seats belong to family members of the orchestra.

The grand arches and stained glass windows. The fountains bubbling in the courtyard. The lights in the staircase, welcoming you in fifty different languages. This is supposed to feel like home. But it looks like a gilded cage to me.

My heart pounds as I collect my violin case and follow Professor Lisette and the others up the stairs and into the grand foyer.

Ignore it. It’ll pass. It always does. It’ll be over soon. One step at a time. One breath at a time.

The grandness of the foyer doesn’t make me feel any better. The big chandelier dangling from the ceiling and the double curved staircase carpeted in plush red.

When I glance at Alice, she’s staring at everything in awe and wander, as she should be. He mouth open and her eyes wide.

She looks at me and I force a smile, not wanting to be the reason she doesn’t get to enjoy this moment.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She says.

“Mm hmm.”

My lips feel numb. My heart is beating so loudly now it starts to drown everything else out. I feel like I’m going to pass out, but I remind myself that I’ve felt this way before, and I never do.It’s just a feeling, I remind myself,it’ll pass like all the others.

The hubbub of finding our rehearsal room and unpacking our instruments distracts me enough for my breathing to even out, though I’m still sweating profusely through my shirt.

While we’re far from the stage and the main entrance area and bundled into smaller rooms that smell of wood polish and synthetic strings, I can fool myself that there is no performance. That this is just another rehearsal like the million rehearsals I’ve sailed through over the years.

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