Facing Terror: A Memoir
By: Betty B.D.
“We’re not going to make it. He wants us to play bassoon or oboe!” Lavi’s panicked face rushed by me as he shoved the flute/piccolo stand into my hands. My mind exploded into an array of depressing thoughts as I was herded into the room.
I took a shaky breath feeling myself quivering like a set of porcupine needles. I set down the stand and neatly put my flute and piccolo on it almost dropping them as my hands shook. I fumbled with the music, dropping it on to the floor and then hurriedly jamming it onto the regular stand. I glanced up at the table with the judge and had a double-take. Maestro was examining his Blackberry not even glancing up at me. I would just like to point out two things; first of all, when you are auditioning someone, you should pay attention to them, right? And second, a Blackberry?! Who even uses those anymore? You are no one in this day and age unless you have an iPhone (Samsungs are also acceptable).
I shifted my weight from one foot to another, and as several moments passed by, I coughed discreetly hoping he would realize I was there. He nodded at me and set his phone down on the side of the table. In a quiet, monotone, voice, Maestro asked me to play a couple scales.
I went into autopilot mode. I couldn’t feel myself moving as my fingers flew over the keys, playing scales, arpeggios, and an orchestral excerpt. When it came time for me to play my piece, I shakily wiped sweat of my bottom lip and scratched at a bug bite. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and delved into one of Gabriel Faure’s many sonatas. I flew over the thirty-second notes, and glanced up at him for a brief moment; he was staring at his Blackberry. Infuriated, I blasted out my fortes until his voice stopped me.