Had I been so obvious? My love for the instrument never diminished over time, even if the person playing it had.
“You’re so good. You should be first chair,” I said.
“Thank you. I know. Stop deflecting.” She poked my shoulder teasingly.
“I just worry about—”
“Is it because he’s so big and scary? I wouldn’t want to be alone with him.” She shuddered theatrically.
“You think he’s scary?”
She looked at me like I was nuts. “Obviously.”
“He’s just doing that to try and seem tough. He’s like those red pandas that jump up on their hind legs when they’re scared.” They’re so darn cute.
Devlin stayed late last week to help Barry work through a particularly tricky transition without prompting. Devlin put all the chairs away after practice so Erin’s mom didn’t have to when she polished the rehearsal space floor. Nobody else noticed these things?
Her jaw dropped. “Red panda? No. More like grizzly bear. And I don’t think it’s an act. Man’s got some anger issues he needs to work through.”
I shrugged.
“Are you going to decline today?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he forgot he asked. Want to stay here and hold my hand while I talk to him?” I joked, but a little part of me wouldn’t have minded if she did.
“I think you’ll regret missing this opportunity if you don’t help him. Youareamazing. You hold back at auditions.” As she spoke her dark eyebrows moved up and down behind her glasses.
I frowned. “No, I don’t.”
“You do. You’re better than you let on. Lord knows why. But this could really jumpstart your career.”
An icy dread shot through me. “Yeah,” was all I could mumble.
“Shit. There he is.” She waved goodbye and tossed her gum in a small trash can as she ran to her seat. “Good luck,” she half-whispered, half-yelled.
I completed my own mad dash back to my chair. Devlin stomped up to the podium, still in his biker boots. The scent of cold air and leather followed him as he passed.
We were all in our seats, tuned and ready before he lifted the baton. “Let’s go. Where we left off last week.” He tapped the stand.
There was a flurry of turning pages, and just like that, we were off. The Devil was his typical unrelenting self as we practiced Tchaikovsky’s1812 Overturefor the summer performance in July. He didn’t acknowledge me. Not me personally. Nothing more than “Cellos, wake up!”
I wanted to jump up and scream, “Hey, remember how you rode your motorcycle to my ever-loving house asking for my help? Because I sure do!” But instead, as always, I sat quietly, awaited instructions, and studied him in brief glances.
At first, the mask and hat were a continued source of gossip and rumors spread of what could be hidden underneath. Disfigurement? Criminal past? But as time went on, he acted like they were invisible, and it became part of his persona. Like we were the crazy ones for noticing it. Reverse emperor’s new clothes. He never brought them up. A poor trombonist casually joked about his mask, and had subsequently gotten the nastiest glare of a lifetime. Nobody had mentioned them since. To be honest, I got used to seeing them, just like anything else. It was a part of him. If anything, they made the intensity in his glare all the more unnerving and highlighted the ferocity of his movements.
At the first break, he stripped out of his leather coat. How had he even worn it this long with the lights on him and his dynamic motions? He deftly unbuttoned the cuffs of his white button-up dress shirt and rolled them up to the elbows, one at a time. The white material stuck to his damp skin. His forearms were unreal. Probably from gripping the handles of his motorcycle. A shudder ran through me.
He was the conductor, so my watching him would go unnoticed. Nobody would see how I memorized the way his forearms flexed as he gripped the baton and his other hand moved with practiced ease as it waved the brass to come in.
I shot my gaze across the practice space to Erin. Her lips were pursed around her reed and her cheeks were dimpled with exertion, but she managed a quick nod with wide eyes as though to say, “I saw it too, girl, and yes I need a towel for all this drool,” or something along those lines.
I smiled andpow, pow, bang! There went the timpani signifying the climax of the piece. Emotion filled my chest. It was thrilling music, perfect for the Fourth of July outdoor concert just a few short months away. It was a safe bet as a crowd pleaser, and no doubt why he’d chosen it for the SOOK’s first public show with him as conductor.
My heart, the ol’ softy, swelled with the ringing bells as the patriotic piece built to the famous climactic ending. ‘Merica, yeah! Tchaikovsky did not write this for America, but let’s be honest—it was ours now. With fireworks exploding in the background, this was about as American as Chevy trucks.
The music built until we all worked up a sweat; even the gentle flutists were pink with exertion. I swayed in my seat, my heart rate clambering along with the tempo. Barry, the second-chair cellist in front of me, had a Florida-shaped sweat stain on his back.
Devlin bent forward, arms out wide, fingers beckoning. “Hold!” he screamed over the note. “Hold it! Don’t dim. Strings come on! Louder!”
