Solo and Ensemble, Part I: Piano Edition

It was cold, but not too cold. The snow had yet to fall, and I was impatient for the blank beauty to give the earth a clean, sinless slate. The roads weren't bad, but we left a little late, the fault being mine. We pulled up by the office door, and stepped out to breathe in the fresh ice. A few steps south and the the key fit perfectly into the door. My old elementary school looked so alone, without the collared shirts tucked into the khaki pants of a hundred middle school students that frequent the building. The hum of the copy machine broke the silence, and I was able to speak. "We need to make a copy of each of the pieces, because I'm not sure which original the judge wants."

The copies finished, our exit was brisk and prepared. The car was once again turned on, and off we went.

The ride there was spent erasing comments on the Schubert impromptu a friend was playing, and numbering the measures, from 1 to 274. Upon arrival, I, once again, breathed in ice as I strolled into the unknown high school, waiting patiently for my turn to practice. I saw my best friend, and after a lengthy conversation with her and her mom, I was able to enter the warm-up room and play my piece. My math teacher was in that room. Her daughter had a viola solo just after my piano, so she was warming up as well. My piece, Hungarian, by Edward MacDowell, was a pain in the left arm. I, of course, stupidly forgot my ace bandage, so my warming up with a performance of it was idiotic on my part. After letting it hang limply from my shoulder for about ten minutes, the pain still resided in my forearm, but there was nothing I could do. I entered the performance room a little hesitantly. I was not nervous, but did not want to embarrass myself in front of the judge. Musically, I wasn't worried. Socially, I was. I sat down and did as the room director said. I played a few scales, completely butchering the E minor, but the E major and C major went perfectly.

The piano was ridiculously out of tune. It was a black upright with chipping paint. The pedal was so loose, I had to move my foot at least a foot to get it to do anything. It was a piece of junk. Completely worthless. But it was what I had with which to impress the judge. After being announced, I began the piece, a slight pain still residing in my left arm. It grew as the trills and sixteenth notes stressed the muscligamentendons. Finishing, I was disappointed. I missed mroe notes than I was used to, the tone quality of my piece was horrible, and my entrances and exits were not quite perfect.

The judge smiled.

Her comments made me nervous. Was she avoiding saying anything bad, because she was a nice person? Is she hiding my faults? Did I really do well?

After wandering around with Gaylyn, I calmed down, and was able to stop back at the room and pick up my score. The room director stepped outside with my music in hand. She turned to face the list of participants, then stepped towards me. "Congratulations," she offered with a smile, and handed me a blue slip, indicating my number I rating. My nervousness turned to giddyness, and my shock into glee. I had impressed someone. Someone important. For one tiny second, with my best friend sharing in my joy, life was flawless.