In Harmony(111)

Next to her was the person I’d been thinking about for four years, though I’d only glimpsed him three times. The scout from the New York Phil. Tall and almost gaunt looking, he had a tendency not to blink. He’d unnerved me even when I’d watched each year from the audience, but standing six feet from him on stage was absolutely terrifying. This was the man I’d needed to impress ever since I was a kid. To him, I was just one student among hundreds, barely a blip on his radar, but to me he was the final gatekeeper on a journey I’d begun when I was six years old. My destiny ended with him, either in an ascent to the clouds or in a plunge off a cliff.

There was one more person sitting behind the desk, someone I’d almost forgotten about. A fragile-looking woman with pale skin and straight brown hair, twirling a pencil around and around her fingers. She seemed a lot more interested in Connor than in me, and I realized she must be this year’s scout from the record label.

I cleared my throat, immediately horrified at how loud the sound was in the silent hall. I’d pleaded with Connor to do this part, but he’d convinced me that I needed to keep building on the success of my presentation, or I’d slip straight back into being scared.

Just play the part. Use the napkin.

Wait: there is no napkin.

I don’t need a napkin.

“Karen Montfort and Connor Locke,” I said, and I liked it even more, saying it myself. “We’ll be playing an original composition for cello and electric guitar.”

Harman glanced at Geisler and I saw the twitch of his eyebrows. He didn’t actually say “This should be interesting,” but I could tell he was thinking it and a hot stab of anger flashed down my spine. How dare he?!

We sat down. Every squeak of the chair, every bump of a foot echoed around the huge room. The smell of fresh floor polish hit my nostrils and I felt sick, panic closing in around me. I was going to run off stage and throw up, I was going to run and hide, I was going to—

And then Connor brushed my hand with his, and when I glanced up at him he was giving me a steady, tender gaze that said you can do this.

I glanced at the audience and immediately wished I hadn’t. I didn’t normally get nervous when performing, only speaking, but this was anything but a normal performance. There were so many faces, so many strangers…and then, on the front row, I saw them. Natasha and Darrell. Clarissa and Neil. Jasmine. Dan. Paul, Erika and Greg from the quartet.

I didn’t know if my father was out there somewhere. But my real family was.

I started to play.

I’d composed the first section when I barely knew Connor, in those awkward first rehearsals when I thought I hated him. The guitar didn’t even come in until one third of the way through and, for a while, as the cello’s velvet tones filled the room, it was just like performing solo. I could have been back in my safe little world, before any of it started.

And then Connor’s guitar joined me, and my whole perception of the way the cello sounded shifted. When its smoothness combined with the guitar’s rough, brutal tones, it became something new…something better. Suddenly, it didn’t sound right without the guitar. Every time the guitar broke off, the cello wasn’t solo. It was alone.

We moved into the second section, the one Connor had written when we’d first started, sad but with a thread of hope running through it. I hadn’t had any idea, back then, of what he’d been thinking about when he composed it. Now I had a pretty good idea—his own life, his lack of a future, the dyslexia…the only thing I didn’t understand was what the thread of hope represented.

Back then, we hadn’t made any attempt to change how our instruments sounded. We were combining what we knew, trying to join two things that didn’t quite fit. The cello was just a little too timid, too flighty, edgy and nervous as it climbed through the notes, chased by the guitar. The guitar was too confident, too loud, drowning out protest, chasing that slender thread of happiness but always breaking off at the last moment—

Just as we played the final note, it hit me. A sharp, arcing current that started in my brain and slammed straight into my heart.

The thread of hope was me.

I turned to look at him, open-mouthed, and he seemed to know what I was thinking. He gave me a slow nod.

Someone in the audience started clapping, even though it was only the end of the first pair of sections, and then stopped when they realized they were the only one. I looked round in time to catch Jasmine red-faced, being poked in the ribs by Clarissa and Natasha.

I risked a look at the judges. Harman was dour-faced, while Geisler looked uncertain. Parks was leaning forward as if interested. I didn’t have time to check the scouts because we were launching into the next section.