The Violin Conspiracy(31)

Two other Black students sat together on the other side of the room. As the organizers, the teachers, and the conductor introduced themselves, the Black kids caught his eye.

He gave them a what’s up nod. During their first break, Ray headed toward them. Shawn, from Fayetteville, played trumpet; and Janelle, from Chapel Hill, was a bassoonist. Janelle had played in regionals last year, but this was Shawn’s first time. They decided to have dinner together that night.

It was really great to sit with other Black musicians at dinner. In Charlotte, he was the only Black kid in orchestra—and there were only three other Black kids in his grade. Ray had never befriended any of them—they were more interested in hip-hop. His love of classical music made him an outcast to the group: his violin case alone assured this. Plus it seemed that his classes didn’t align with any of the other Black kids at school, so somehow he’d never gotten close to any of them. It felt awesome to sit with other Black teenagers who, like him, loved classical music.

None of the other students—all of whom were either white or Asian, with a couple Hispanic kids peppering the crowd—spoke to or sat next to the three of them. When Ray got a second glass of lemonade, he overheard a couple boys loudly saying something about “affirmative action” and “meet a quota.” Shawn and Janelle didn’t seem bothered by any of this, though.

Janelle, like Ray, was a senior, and deciding between UNC and NC State. Shawn was only a junior, and was in the middle of college tours with his parents.

“How do you decide where to go?” Ray asked Janelle.

“I think I’m leaning toward State. They have a better biology department.”

“You aren’t doing music?”

“I’ll probably keep playing but I’m not going to major in it.”

“Oh,” he said. He was a little amazed that someone so talented wouldn’t be majoring in music.

“Howzabout you?” Shawn asked.

“Still thinking about college,” Ray said. “Haven’t applied anywhere yet. Might have one option.”

“What do you want to do? Music?”

Ray couldn’t in all honesty imagine majoring in anything except music. He shrugged. “Why do you want to do biology? You sound amazing.”

“Ha! Thanks. It’s just not realistic for me. How many Black bassoonists you see in orchestras? It’s already cutthroat. I’m not gonna fight it. A few years ago, when I auditioned for this group, my teacher was actually one of the judges. One of her other students was auditioning, too. Ashley Hawkins. Blue eyes. Blond. I beat her at band auditions for years. The other kids that auditioned hadn’t been playing that long so I knew I could beat them. When it came down to it, the judges chose Ashley.”

“I don’t get it,” Ray said.

Janelle and Shawn looked at each other, laughed, pointed at the tops of their hands. Then—only then—did Ray remember Uncle Roger, all over again.

“You seriously thinking of doing music?” Shawn asked him, pushing aside the last fries on his plate.

“A career in music would be awesome,” Ray said.

“Good luck with that one,” Janelle said. “Look around. There are only three of us in this entire orchestra. You’d be better off majoring in something that’s going to make you some money. You have to think about your future. This music thing is for the white kids who can afford the instruments and the big-name teachers. We don’t have much of a chance. My parents are really pushing me toward medicine.”

“Mine want me to be a lawyer,” Shawn said.

“Wow. I never thought about it that way. I just like playing. But if I could actually make a career out of it? I don’t know.”

His mother’s voice echoed in his head: When you gonna stop all that shit. When would he? A world without playing his violin seemed to loom raw, gray, and empty.

His expression must have betrayed how he felt, because Janelle said, as if comforting him, “Well, maybe a scout will recruit you.”

“Scout?”

“Yeah, of course. Haven’t you seen them? Some of them have been here all weekend. They’re mostly looking at the seniors. They find out where you’re planning on going, then try to convince you to go to their schools. Funny thing is that a lot of these kids aren’t even planning on studying music.”

In the next morning’s auditions, the judges wouldn’t see the competitors, only hear them. When it was Ray’s turn, he entered the green room adjoining the stage that had been converted to an audition room.

Down the center of the room, blocking the other side from view, an enormous white plastic sheet hung from the ceiling. Three sets of legs were visible below: two sets in trousers, and one set wearing pantyhose and high heels.

In the center of the open space before him, a lone music stand beckoned. On it lay a single sheet of music: the Offenbach solo. Ray swallowed. He knew he could play the notes, but making this solo sound good was a real challenge. Although the Berlin Philharmonic performance was the best one he’d found online, it was still a rougher recording than he wished it had been. Why hadn’t he spent more time studying a better recording?

No time to think about it. No time to second-guess. He lifted PopPop’s fiddle to his jaw, closed his eyes, and dove in.

The solo came from Orpheus in the Underworld—a spikey, brittle moment in the lushness of the rest of the piece, high-soaring phrases leaping like frogs from one high note to the next.