College Audition Emily Eckart – Novel Excerpt
At first, when I heard the crackly voice over the PA calling my name, I thought I might be hallucinating. Over the last thirty days, I'd flown to Boston, to Cincinnati, to New York; I'd explained to dubious airport officials that a French horn was a musical instrument and that no, my conical wooden mute was not for cheerleading. I was starting to hear my audition pieces in car alarms and the inflections of people's voices. The day before the ten-minute audition that would determine the rest of my life, I wanted to go straight home from school, listen to a few Beethoven symphonies, and eat a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Instead, I was called to the principal's office. The stares and giggles of my classmates alerted me that the scratchy PA voice was real. “Iris Clark,” it repeated, “please report to the principal's office. Iris Clark. Please report now.” I sighed and shuffled toward the office, jealous of everyone else bolting for sunny freedom beyond the school's doors. Even a few minutes' delay felt like a terrible imposition after a full day of imprisonment. Mrs. LaFolle was waiting for me. She was wearing a navy blazer and a sheer ivory blouse with a tie at the neck. Her brittle smile looked like it might crack and drop off her face. “Hello, Iris,” she said, folding her hands primly on her desk. “What is it?” I dreaded what she would say. Although I'd done nothing wrong, she had hated me ever since I missed the National Honor Society induction for a Youth Philharmonic rehearsal. “Well, Iris.” She shuffled some papers and pretended to study them. “It appears that you've missed nine days of school so far. Tomorrow will be your tenth absence.” “Yeah, I'm auditioning for music schools. My mom called. Didn't you get her message?” Mrs. LaFolle looked at me over her glasses. “If any student has ten unexcused absences, that student automatically gets five points docked from their average in each class.” I inched forward to the sharp edge of my chair, clenching my fists in my lap. “But this is for college. My mom called. How is that unexcused?” “If it's an optional activity,” Mrs. LaFolle said, “it's not excused.” “Auditions are not optional. Not for schools like Juilliard and Eastman.” “It's simply my duty to inform you of the consequences,”
Mrs. LaFolle said serenely. It was clear from her tone that she didn't know what Juilliard was, nor did she care to learn. I felt like an empty glass that had been filled with hot lava. If I sat in that office for one more second, molten rage would come spilling out my eyeballs. “If you dock my grades for this,” I said, standing up and heading for the door, “My parents are going to sue.” I drove home faster than I should have, blasting the angry part of Beethoven’s Fifth as loud as my speakers would go. My car hurtled down the curves of the narrow road, past the organic dairy farm and the golf course, past the driveways and mailboxes and chemically-enhanced lawns. I hated this little town, hated it, hated it. I wanted desperately to leave. I couldn’t stand its provincial inhabitants, its five churches, its tiny library that never had the books I wanted. Its bland adults were flattened mediocrities: helicopter moms, doughy dads, teachers who'd gone to Norton High and come right back to reign over students asleep at sticky desks. I vowed never to succumb. I would never be downtrodden and pale. I would always be like Beethoven, steeped in art, shaking my fist at the thundering sky. It was outrageous and unfair that Mrs. LaFolle should occupy any sliver of my mind. But I thought of her disdainful face as I vomited my lunch in the music building bathroom, just one hour before my audition. As I retched, I held back my own hair, trying not to splatter my audition blouse. Once my stomach was empty, I stared at the toilet in dismay. I felt sorry for the delicious lunch I'd eaten a little while ago. Mom had taken me to a cafe with blue gingham tablecloths and the menu written on chalkboard. The seared sirloin steak, mashed potatoes, and brownie should have been the perfect thing to eat before the taxing task of playing the horn. Now their service had been rendered vain. I stood up, feeling cold. There was a damp patch on my back where I'd been sweating. My throat ached and my teeth were coated in sour residue. I felt weak and shaky. I didn't know how I'd lift my horn in this state, especially not to perform difficult music in front of strangers. I checked my phone. There were still thirty minutes before the audition—just enough time to wolf a granola bar and brush my teeth. It would be rushed, but that was better than playing on an empty stomach. I exited the bathroom stall and spotted Juliet Jaeger, my exbest friend, standing at the sink. I'd hoped to get through audi-
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