The Violin Conspiracy(32)

He pressed his jaw against the chin rest, tried to make the solo lilting and effervescent, imagining beetles scaling trees, birds lifting off one branch and alighting on another, higher branch, looking out at the view, and then leaping even higher.

One minute later it was over.

After dinner, the conductor, in a quick monotone, read out the results of the auditions, starting with the second violins. This was Ray’s first blind audition—for the first time he’d be placed according to how well he played the music. No one had an unfair advantage. The conductor didn’t call Ray’s name. Had he made first violin?

“First violins. Your seating is as follows. Jenny Carlson. Congratulations. You’re the concertmistress.” A tiny red-headed girl two seats over from Ray would be playing the Offenbach solo. She screamed and hugged her stand partner.

In the commotion, Ray didn’t hear the next names ring out. The judge hadn’t called him. Had he not even placed at all? Was he last chair? His anxiety rose. The students were shifting to their assigned seats. Ray raised his hand. “Sir, I think I missed my name being called. Ray McMillian.”

“Rayquan McMillian. Yep, there you are. Third chair.”

He was third chair, first violin. His legs moved on their own. The associate concertmaster position. If the concertmistress and her stand partner, the number two violinist, left for any reason—if either got sick or broke a string, or just decided to go home—Ray would be playing the solo. The responsibility of leading the orchestra would fall to him. He didn’t think there was any chance of this happening, but still.

Ray had to pass Mark Jennings, three chairs back, to get to his new seat, so he heard Mark mumble to one of his buddies, “What the fuck is going on? How the hell did that nigger beat me?”

“You need to open your mouth when you speak,” Ray told him. “Someone could mistake what you say for something, oh I don’t know, racist?”

“Fuck you, Ray Ray.”

Ray grinned and took his seat as the associate concertmaster.



* * *



—

By Sunday morning, they were ready. He understood now the joy of playing with a full orchestra, how the other players lifted him up, how his own notes blended and soared and twisted with the rest. Every time the conductor raised his baton, new joy blossomed in his chest. Each note felt special, a gift.

At the end of the performance, they went into the dressing rooms to pack up their instruments. His stand partner whispered, eyes wide, “You were incredible. I’ve never seen somebody so into the music before. It was really cool to watch. I think I learned a lot just sitting next to you.”

“Um, thanks,” he said. “You too.” But he couldn’t remember even noticing her during the performance.

Back down the narrow hallway, from dressing room to main auditorium, he and the other students headed out. The audience had come onstage. Most kids now held huge bouquets that their parents, glowing with pride, must have given them.

Mixed in with the adults were men and women wearing blazers with university insignia on their left lapels: Duke Blue Devils, Appalachian State Mountaineers, and others he didn’t recognize. Scouts, here to recruit students for their colleges.

Ray paused, waiting to be acknowledged. Would they all come running to him, the associate concertmaster? Appalachian State passed him by. So did Duke. UNC looked at him vacantly and then headed toward a blond girl who’d sat a few seats behind him. It was as if he were a human-shaped block of wood or a potted plant: something to be bypassed on their way to someone else. Unaccosted, he made it to the front of the stage and was about to head down to the audience level, and then on to the waiting buses outside, when he heard his name.

He turned, almost knocking over a cello case. It was Shawn. “Oh, hey, man,” Ray said. “I was looking for you. You sounded great today.”

“Likewise,” Shawn said, “although I couldn’t really hear you over all twelve million violins. We should keep in touch. Let me know what school you end up going to.” They exchanged emails.

“Great meeting you. Maybe we can catch up once school is out. If you see Janelle, tell her I said bye and that it was nice meeting her.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Shawn said, looking behind Ray at someone. “Take care, man.”

“Ray?”

He turned. Dr. Stevens, wearing a Markham University blazer, smiled from ear to ear.

“Dr. Stevens, hi!”

“Hello. I hope I’m not being too out of line when I first say congratulations on a terrific performance, and an even bigger congratulations on your associate concertmaster seat. That’s quite an accomplishment in itself—let alone for a first-time orchestra member.”

“Thank you. I just did my best.”

“I know you did. That’s why I am hoping you’ll accept the university’s offer. I’m authorized to offer you a full music scholarship to study with me.”

The world seemed to slow for a moment, the auditorium lights contracting around her.

“The scholarship would cover full tuition, and room and board, but you’d have to pay for your own books and miscellaneous materials. February is a little late to apply, so we’d have to get you in the system right away. I’m authorized to waive your application fees if you apply before Thursday. Housing assignments don’t begin until the summer, so you’re okay on that front. How does that sound? What do you think?”