Page 19 of The Alternate Captain
“We will give you a few moments to set up before we get started.” I notice the name plates sitting in front of each assessor and skim over them, trying to commit them to memory. “When you’re ready, come and sit here and we’ll get the interview underway.” Dr Robertson, the woman who called me through, points at a chair practically sat under a spotlight.
I set my scores out on the music stand, lay my cello on its side, and make my way over to the chair.
Everyone is staring at me.
Staring.
Eyes burning into my soul.
“Why don’t you start by telling us a bit about yourself? Why would you like to study here?”
A trick question, of course. I know from asking around that they literally just want your name and how long you’ve been playing for. They aren’t even interested in where you’re from or what your qualifications are. They know all that.
I take a moment before replying.
“I’m Kelly. I’ve played the cello for eleven years, switching from the violin at age seven.”
Blank faces stare back at me. But I really have nothing to lose. I either get in, or I don’t. If I do, happy days, dream come true, yippee. If I don’t, Plan B. Which is still a viable plan—staying in the university and studying music there, except the course doesn’t carry the same amount of prestige.
I clear my throat before continuing.
“I am interested in studying here because of the college’s distinguished reputation as a world-leading institution inmusic education. The talent that has emerged from here has influenced my journey as a musician, and I am eager to immerse myself in this inspiring environment.
“The college is all about nurturing artistic excellence and inspiring creativity and innovation, which is exciting. The chance to be instructed by highly esteemed faculty members, who excel both as performers and educators, is an incredibly appealing prospect for me. Their expertise and mentorship will undoubtedly shape my musical progress.”
How I manage to drone on for a few more minutes, is anyone’s guess. I talk about the varying range of programs and resources, how I want to make myself a better soloist and group musician, blah blah blah. I’m pretty sure I even mention the state-of-the-art facilities. Standard jargon that I’ve been half-coached to say by my music teacher and the course director, Patrick.
And I don’t stop there.
“Beyond academics, I am impressed by the sense of community and camaraderie that encompasses the college.” I pause, shifting in my seat before continuing. “The opportunity to collaborate with musicians from different countries, exchange ideas, and push the boundaries of artistic expression is appealing. Ultimately, my goal is not only to become a proficient musician, but to contribute meaningfully to the world of music.”
What am I even saying? I hope and pray that I’ll never have to hear that played back because it was pure and utter cringe. But, moving on. I smile to signal that my speech has ended. All four of the assessors nod approvingly and take a few moments to scribble in their notebooks, which is when the panic creeps back.
Did I say enough? Did I say too much? Is my accent too strong? Did they even understand what I was saying? My palms sweat.
“Kelly? Would you mind telling us about which composers and pieces hold importance to you?”
I have an answer lined up:‘Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo Capriccioso holds a significant appeal to me. It demonstrates an intense showcase of the cello’s technical prowess.’
That’s what I should have said. I had rehearsed this answer repeatedly. But, of course, I say something completely off-plan.
“Dvorák’s Cello Concerto in B minor is great.”
I experience a wave of despair. I can’t believe I just said that. Describing Dvorák’s cello concerto as ‘great’ is blasphemy. If I could, I would slump down in my chair, but years and years of sitting with a straight back has waived any chance of me slouching. I still have lingering memories of my first cello teacher sitting behind me with a sharp pencil pointed at my lower back. Any slouch, even just a minor amount, would result in a sharp poke. It only took a few weeks to condition me.
Assessor number two looks at me with raised brows, so I dig deep to redeem myself.
“Shostakovich shows a high emotional integrity with his concertos.”
Shit. Another crap answer, which doesn’t help in the slightest. But I have a feeling that was my last chance.
“Let’s move on, shall we?”
And that was that.
Tom meets me backin my dorm room a few hours later. He’s let himself in and is sitting on the end of my bed, flicking through a magazine, which he tosses aside as soon as I flop down on my bed.
“Do I need to ask?”
