You Asked for Perfect(6)

“Yep,” I say.

I’m relieved to hear she’ll be busy this weekend. Maybe she really is easing back on schoolwork.

The main double doors whoosh open. Dr. Whitmore strides in, and we all straighten in our seats. She looks like a conductor. Black slacks. White blouse. Hair swept up into an orderly bun. She clears her throat and takes the podium. The room drops into taut silence.

I’m pretty sure she hates us, and the feeling is mutual. She doesn’t care about anything except making sure we come first in state every year, and she gets away with her harsh methods because the school loves the prestige of those awards.

Last week, a cellist forgot his sheet music. Dr. Whitmore lectured him for five minutes, ironically chiding him for wasting everyone’s time. She didn’t stop until she brought him to tears. It’s why most of us have multiple copies of our sheet music, extras tucked away in our lockers and cars.

But being prepared isn’t enough. We have to be perfect. She doesn’t care if our blistered fingers burst and bleed—if she isn’t happy with a movement, a meter, or even a note, she’ll keep at us, often making us play past the bell, with the one word that terrifies us all: “Again.”

A lot of students quit. Tapping out freshman year. Giving in to a concerned parent sophomore year. Saying screw it, this isn’t worth it junior year. But many others remain. Because the truth is, we also want the prestige. First in state looks damn good on a college application. We’re masochists, and Dr. Whitmore knows it.

Pari pulls out the Mozart sheet music. Her nails are coated in chipped orange polish. But then Dr. Whitmore says, “I’ve prepared something new for us.”

She’s met with silence. Usually, we get our sheet music over the summer. The runs are so difficult we need plenty of time to practice for fall competition.

“I’ve decided the Mozart, while darling, isn’t difficult enough to truly showcase our talents, so we’ll be learning Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. It requires a full orchestra, so some members of the band will be joining our rehearsals later in the semester. Violin section, you’re up first. Line up outside my office for the music.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. When the hell am I supposed to make time to learn a new piece? God, I hope there’s not a difficult solo.

I stand and follow the section to Dr. Whitmore’s office. Masochists.

“Can you believe she’s changing the music?” Pari whispers to me. “No one has time for this. Why does every teacher think their class is the most important? I swear I’d drop orchestra if I didn’t love playing violin so much. Though, she’s doing good work to change that.”

Yes, she should drop orchestra. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about a better player sitting next to me.

“Yeah, this is rough,” I say.

I step up to the desk. Dr. Whitmore focuses in on me. She holds the sheet music just out of my grasp. “Ariel, there is quite a complex solo here.” Damn it. “I know you’re more than capable of playing up to the challenge. And if you’re not, well…”

She lets the sentence hang, then passes the music to me. “Go over the solo now. Third movement,” she says. “We’ll spend the rest of class doing a run-through.”

I walk back to my seat in a daze, staring at the pages. The notes swim before my eyes, but when I get to the solo, they stand in daunting clarity. This is some next-level shit. Doesn’t she know we’re a high school orchestra and not the Atlanta Symphony?

Pari glances at me as she sits down. “Did you hear she’s going to make us run through this today?” I ask.

She sighs. “Yeah, this is going to be hell. I am not jealous of that solo. Good luck, buddy.”

I give her a forced smile, then turn back to studying the notes. Ten minutes later, everyone settles back into their seats, pencils scratching on the sheet music, fingers running down the necks of instruments. I’m trying to understand the convoluted start of the solo, but even the first few measures refuse to make sense.

Dr. Whitmore takes the stand. “I’m not a monster,” she says. Cue a hundred pairs of rolling eyes. “But we are going to run through the piece today. This is a wonderful opportunity for sight-reading practice. We struggled through that portion of the competition last year, and I know we can do better. I don’t expect it to be perfect.” She gives a sickeningly sweet smile that says otherwise. “And we’ll take it at a slow tempo. If we get lost, we’ll stop and go again. All right, everyone?”

Like we could say no.

The baton lifts. We set our instruments. The baton drops.

The room bursts with sound. Lyrical yet jagged. Light, high notes. Lilting melodies ending in harsh full stops. The piece is full, beautiful even with our fumbling. My fingers scramble down my violin. At least we’re a mess together. Dr. Whitmore jerks the baton up and down roughly, like she can corral us into playing better if she whips it through the air with enough force. I’m counting the time I have left until my solo begins. A few pages. Then lines.

My fingers sweat, almost slipping on the metal strings.

Only measures left. Ten. Five. My bow slips, but my thumb repositions its grip in time to keep it from falling.

Two measures.

My heart pounds.

The room goes quiet and—

My first note is out of tune. My eyes blur as I try to focus on the page. Dr. Whitmore’s stare pierces me. I’m supposed to meet her gaze while playing, acknowledge her and her baton, but there’s no chance of that with music this new. My fingers fumble like I’m last chair. They squeak out notes one by one, off tempo and out of tune.