Page 3 of Unrecognizable Player

Kelsier38: So are we cool?

RedRum237: Yes, of course we’re cool.

Kelsier38: Promise you won’t let talking to me get in the way of you finding a real life boyfriend.

RedRum237: I promise

Kelsier38: Good, because if I ever think I’m getting in the way of that, I’ll step away. Do the first non-selfish thing I’ve done when it comes to you

RedRum237: Don’t say that, you’re not selfish

Kelsier38: You always see the good in people horror boy. It’s a pretty quality, just don’t ever let anyone treat you like shit.

RedRum237: Okay, I won’t. Promise

ONE YEAR LATER…

1

STEFANOS

My heart’s pounding in my ears, hands sweating on the neck of my violin. Hoping no one sees, I wipe my hands down the side of my pants. What if I can’t hold the bow steady? What if the bow comes flying out of my hand and hits someone in the audience right in the eye? What if I sit down and my chair makes a farting noise and everyone laughs? And what if… no, I can’t let myself think about that possibility.

When it’s time to go out into the main library to join the orchestra for the performance, my fingers and lips are tingling and my hands threatening to turn into anxious claws. Blood rushes through my ears along with the sound of the audience applauding our entrance. It takes a few beats for my eyes to adjust to the light as I glance out into the crowd to see if I can find my parents, or Dorian, but I don’t see anyone I recognize.

Baba told me they probably wouldn’t be able to make it tonight, and part of me is relieved they didn’t. But Dorian should be here somewhere. He promised, so he’ll be here. Right?

My shoes squeak on the hardwood floor as I find my place in the string section. My hands shaking as I try to adjust the sheet music in front of me. For a second, it all goes blurry.

Violins start the piece, so I can’t fuck it up. Even if it does feel like there is a very real possibility I might die any second of a heart attack, I cannot fuck up in front of all these people.

Professor Lisette counts us in and I take up my position with the bow. There’s a mad last-ditch attempt from my body to flee. A split second’s vision of me dropping my instrument and running for the doors. But something keeps me rooted in place, and it’s like someone else is taking control of my body as my bow makes contact with the strings and a sound comes out.

I’ve researched stage fright. Read biographies by famous musicians. And they all say the second you start to play the music, it goes away. But that’s a lie. It doesn’t go away. It persists, like a bee buzzing in your ear canal. A prickly heat spreading all the way up your skin.

There are times during the performance that I disappear into the music. But I only have to glance into the audience at the people in their fancy clothes to be pulled right back to where I am.

I try to focus on my instrument. The glide of the smooth wood under my fingers. The familiar sensation of its body pressed against my neck. I watch Professor Lisette conducting from the head of the orchestra. Tap into Alice’s trumpet every time it makes an appearance, and allow these things to ground me enough to make it to the end.

By the timethe performance is over, I’m drenched in sweat. I wait during the applause, because I have to. But as soon as I’m past the curtains, out of sight, I rush to put my violin in its case, nausea rocking my guts. Dimly, I’m aware of the others congratulating each other or moaning over minor mistakes, but I don’t pause to talk to anyone before speed-walking to thebathroom. I heave over the toilet bowl, hating this. But at least it’s over now.

Alice is waiting for me outside the men’s bathroom, and despite pretending she hasn’t noticed I look like I just took a shower in my clothes, I see the worry on her face.

“Have you seen Dorian?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Do you want to come back to my place? We’ll eat copious amounts of raw cookie dough and watch 90s rom-coms.”

The thought of eating raw cookie dough almost has me running back into the bathroom. But I’m tempted by the movie part. Before I met Dorian, that was mine and Alice’s Friday and Saturday, (and sometimes Sunday), nights. Cookie dough, Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia (obviously) and a 90s movie. Not 80s, not 00s, but the sweet-spot of rom-coms, the 1990s. Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in the infancy of the internet age. Drew Barrymore in… well, anything. Cameron Diaz, Jennifer Anniston, Julia Roberts…

But I have a boyfriend now. Single movie nights with my best friend have to take a back seat.

“I can’t,” I say, straightening my jacket. “I’ve gotta look for Dorian, I’m sure he’ll be here somewhere. Raincheck?”

“Sure.” She smiles, but I can tell she’s disappointed.

After saying goodbye, I rush back to the faux-auditorium. The audience has mostly dispersed, making it clear that Dorian isn’t here. Still, I keep up the hope that he’s gotten lost amidst the rows of books until I’ve scoured the entire ground floor of the library and come up short. Maybe he forgot? Maybe he went home to take a nap so he was fresh and didn’t wake up?

I try calling him, but his phone keeps going straight to voicemail. I don’t bother leaving a message, because I know he never listens to them.

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