Page 115 of Rush: Deluxe Edition

I squeezed her hand in gratitude. The lobby of the Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center was teeming with hopefuls, mostly violinists, though I saw some bigger instrument cases of violas and even a few basses. The setting should have thrown me: it’s where Keith and his Spring Strings auditioned—my last audition until today. But Keith and his lies and betrayal felt far away now and couldn’t touch me.

“How’s the violin?” Melanie asked. “Ben promised it wouldn’t suck.”

“It doesn’t. But it’s strange,” I said. “All week, I’ve felt like I’ve been practicing on stolen property.”

“Speaking of which, no word from the cops about your Eastman?”

“It’s gone. But then I never expected to get it back.”

We stopped talking as a young man in a tight sweater, plaid pants, and glasses stepped into the lobby. “Gregory Carter?”

A violin hopeful got up and followed the young man backstage.

“Carter. You gotta be close, Conroy,” Melanie said. She eyed me up and down. “You look good. Really good. Like you’ve aged a decade.”

I smirked. “Is that a compliment?”

“Not aged in your face, in your eyes. You look wiser, my friend.”

“I don’t feel wiser.” I looked down at my hands. “I miss him. I miss him a lot, Mel.”

She pursed her lips. “Still in Connecticut?”

“I don’t know. I guess. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing…”

“He wants you to have this,” Melanie said softly, “because he knows it’s the best thing for you.”

I blinked back tears. “I know. And it is. But he’s the best thing too, though he doesn’t realize it. Not yet.”

“Give him time.”

I shifted in my seat and glanced around. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when they call my name. I don’t know what will happen when I play. I might kill it, or I might melt into a blubbering mess. And even if I do nail it, who’s to say it’s enough to win a seat? This place is packed with talent. One or more is bound to be better than me. Certainly better prepared.”

Melanie heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’m going to miss you when you’re in Europe.”

I stifled a laugh. “Oh, stop. You won’t have a chance to miss me since I’ll be moving in with you and Sasha after I blow this and become homeless.”

The slender man in the plaid pants returned. “Charlotte Conroy?”

“Oh shit.” I rose to my feet, my borrowed violin in hand.

“Break a leg,” Melanie said and gave me a thumb’s up.

I nodded and followed the man backstage.

For Noah. For Chris. For me.

A screen was set up on the stage, shielding me from the seats in the audience, but I’d been to enough auditions to imagine it clearly: a panel of directors—maybe three, maybe more—sitting in the middle rows with a table set up for them. They’d have already reviewed my audition submission, which listed the three pieces I was prepared to play: Sibelius, Mendelssohn, or Mozart.

The young man led me to a chair behind the screen.

“You don’t have to sit,” he said in a thick German accent, indicating the chair. He smiled kindly. “Up to you.”

I wasn’t permitted to speak; the panel couldn’t know anything more than my name, to prevent bias, so I nodded and heaved a breath. I sat in the chair and took out my borrowed violin. It was a middle-of-the-road model. Fine for students or semi-serious musicians. A quality instrument but not a classic. I wondered if it was enough. I wondered if what I was about to do was enough.

“Charlotte Conroy,” said an older woman’s voice from the theatre. Sabina Gessler, the director of the Vienna Touring Orchestra, maybe.

“The cadenza of the Mozart, please.”

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