In Harmony(113)

We watched them listen to the melody they’d have to work with—we’d be given a different one, so we couldn’t gain any advantage. Then the two of them hurried off to a practice room and the clock started. The audience milled about and drank free wine. For us, the thirty minutes seemed to drag on forever. For the two musicians, it was no doubt gone in a flash.

Lucita and Cho hurried back in. Lucita looked vaguely unsettled, but Cho looked downright terrified. They took their seats on the stage, glanced at one another and started to play.

At first, I couldn’t see what they were worried about. They’d come up with an inventive, elaborate piece that wound around the melody, approaching it from a few different angles. But then the harp separated from the violin for a solo and, as it handed back to the violin, I could see Cho panic as he came in too early. His own solo didn’t match—it was note-perfect, but the style didn’t gel with Lucita’s at all.

I knew exactly what had happened, because we’d done the same thing in our early trials. They’d worked out the first part together and then, running out of time, agreed to compose separate solos, with no idea of what the other one would do. We’d found out the hard way that that didn’t work.

When they joined again for the rest of the piece, they were both shaken and clumsy. Lucita would make a mistake and Cho would amplify it, and that in turn would make Lucita more nervous. They were both incredibly skilled, but there was no trust.

When they finished, we applauded harder than anyone else because I knew exactly what they’d just gone through. When Harman announced their grade—a D—they took it well, but I felt my stomach sink through the floor. Lucita and Cho were two of the best in the department and if they couldn’t pull it off, what chance did we have? After the D Connor got for the essay Ruth “helped” him with, he needed a B to graduate.

We took our places on stage. I closed my eyes as the melody we’d have to work with came over the speakers. It was simple and almost featureless—frustratingly so, like a minimalist house with a white couch on a white rug in a white room. It gave us no help with tone or style and part of me swore that it was a tougher piece than Lucita and Cho had been given…although deep down, I knew it was probably no worse.

We stood, and I saw Harman look at the clock on the wall. I half expected him to say, game-show-host style, “And your time starts…now!” But he just nodded to us and smiled—after all, the recital was done. This was just a friendly challenge—a bit of fun. And for him and everyone else—even me—that was true. For Connor—a band clenched tight around my heart—for Connor, this was make or break time.

The same sophomore who’d showed us onto the stage led us up to a practice room—the same one we’d used for our very first rehearsal. I wished we were allowed to do it on Connor’s roof, or even in my apartment. The tiny space only added to my rising panic.

“Do you have any idea what to do?” I asked as soon as the door was closed. “I have no idea what to do.”

“Karen,” Connor said firmly. “Chill. You’ve graduated.”

“But you haven’t.” My breathing was getting faster now. They’d given us a room with a clock, of course, a ticking clock and with every tick it seemed to be speeding up, eating away our precious time and all the oxygen in the room. “It’s all on this—it’s totally unfair, that melody is ridiculous and if we screw this up you’re not going to graduate and I don’t even know where to start and we only have twenty-eight minutes left and—”

“Karen.” His warm palms settled gently on my shoulders.

I stopped.

“We can do this. But I can’t do it without you. I need you with me. Take a deep breath.”

He was right. Connor was great at turning ideas into music, but in our improvisation practice we’d found that the initial spark of inspiration, the angle we took, usually came from me. I took a long, shuddering breath and managed to suck in some air.

“Now help me,” he said. “What comes to mind when you hear the melody?”

“Nothing!” I looked at the clock. Twenty-seven minutes left.

“Close your eyes. Stop looking at the clock. Come on, Karen. There has to be something.”

I sighed and shook my head. “It’s just neutral. Soulless. Mechanical.”

“Mechanical?”

I considered. “Like machines in a factory. Industrial.” Without opening my eyes, I grabbed my bow and tried something. It sounded awful, but the glow of the idea held back the freezing fear. “Not that. More like….” I tried again, and this time inspiration came—a short, jerky riff, repeated over and over. “There. Like that.”