Page 90 of Safety Net
"I don't think you should submit this," Nola finally said. "In fact, I'd strongly suggest you don't."
"Okay..." My stomach lurched at the confirmation of failure. I was surprised I didn't start to cry on sight. But if there was one thing social anxiety was good for, it was saving face. Crying would lead to more shame. I tucked my emotions up in a tiny box that would eventually burst open at the seams.
"The set design isn't strong," she continued. "It pulls from the music."
"The sets are still…being worked on."
"And the lyrics need edits. Your peers, the ones submitting against you, won't have full productions—I'll give you that. But they're work is tighter because they don't have to worry about multiple issues that come with working with a cast of inexperienced singers."
"Yeah, I thought of that but…" I shook my head, trying to block out shame, if only for a second, so that I could explain my vision. "I think this would be a perfect representation of who I am and what I hope to be capable of one day. A project like this demonstrates an interest in collaboration and an ability to develop a voice. Since Ophelia did a similar project while she was here, I used that as inspiration."
"Maybe," Nola agreed. "But do you really think your voice is strong enough? In its current state? You're not Ophelia."
"I…I know that." My throat tightened. Her words settled on top of my skin, a hot branding that would scar me for heaven knew how long.
"Celeste, I think you're a very talented musician," she said, voice softening as she noticed the sag of my shoulders and sensed my overall utter devastation. "And you will be a talented composer and songwriter. But I also feel I'd be doing you a disservice if I didn't warn you that your voice isn't particularly strong or intriguing. There's fear in how you write music. That can be overcome. But because you haven't had the right amount of experience yet, do you really want to risk wasting a chance like this? You could submit something safer and get to the next round in a heartbeat. You'd get the feedback you need to start tackling some of your fears."
My jaw tightened, but I nodded, trying to swallow every bit of thick feedback. This was what being an artist was, right? If I couldn't handle this, I surely wouldn't hack it in the professional world.
"I'm speaking from experience," Nola continued. "So, please, trust me. A rejection at this stage of your growth could do more harm than good. Play it safe. Submit a simple composition. Something from last semester. Your final piece was gorgeous."
I nodded, too numb to speak but lucid enough to smile. It was a good smile, I think. All soft and grateful. I could taste the bile rising in my throat.
"Does that sound like a plan?" she asked.
It took two deep breaths for me to get out, "If you think this is for the best. Then, yes…I can pull something from my old projects and submit."
Nola's expression brightened. "Perfect. I'm so glad we're on the same page."
I want to sink into the folds of my chair, drown in the leather. All that work for this. To be back at square one.
It took twenty minutes. The overwhelm, disappointment, and embarrassment consumed me for twenty minutes. I made it to my car, let out a river of tears, struggled to breathe, drank half a hot bottle of water, and pulled up last year's composition notes on my phone.
I found one of my old pieces, ready to tweak a few things, attach it to the rest of my application, and be done with it, when I realized I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it. I'd rather not submit if I wasn't able to submit something I was truly in love with.
My embarrassment and shame morphed into something hotter. A type of annoyance I've never felt before. I replayed all the feedback Nola given, trying to pick out what was valid and what was wrong.
I pull out my laptop, balancing it on my car's console as I reviewed the musical's video before I called Naomi.
"I need you to tell me if I'm going off the deep end," I said.
"You got it," she said in a heartbeat.
"Nola doesn't think the musical is good enough to submit," I said.
I waited for my throat to constrict with emotion, but it was unresponsive. I'd cycled through the stages of grief at three times speed, arriving at acceptance sooner than I'd ever anticipated.
"Celeste," Naomi said, voice quiet with empathy. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's…" I was going to say fine, but it's not fine. It doesn't feel fine. I didn't feel fine. "I'm scared because…I think I'm going to ignore her."
"What?"
I switched the phone to the opposite ear, feeling excited about my small act of rebellion. "I've studied, implemented my professors' and peers' notes, and completed projects catered to everyone's preferences. I've molded my music into what Mendell's program has told me it has to be. When I lean into my voice, they say it doesn't fit, and that's fine. Fine for them. I've guided myself back onto their path. I've followed it quietly. Just like I always do, but this time I want…I really want…"
I didn't know why I wanted to cry again when I finally started to feel like I could breathe. I'm finally brave enough to accept that whatever I said or did or felt didn’t have to be the right thing. My decision to do this musical didn't have to be right or good. All it had to be was my vision. My voice. "I really want to be like Lincoln."
"Lincoln?" Naomi asked, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
