Page 8 of Solo

Fast forward nearly six years and I’m standing on the conductor’s podium—for real this time—in front of the Shepherd University Wind Ensemble. Unfortunately, they’re not making me feel especially welcome. In fact, they’re snickering, and it’s starting to piss me off. I pretend not to notice as I stand and flip through my score for the “First Suite” by Gustav Holst that we’re working on.

I suppose I should have expected this after that debacle in Markham’s class this morning. Half of the students who were there are playing in this ensemble. And the ones who weren’t there have obviously heard about what went down. They don’t even bother to hide their pointing and whispers.

I take a furtive glance over at Russell, who’s sitting to the side of the stage, observing. He gives a slight smile and an even slighter nod. They serve as a reminder that, while I do have to take shit from Drew Markham, I do not have to take it from the Shepherd University Wind Ensemble.

Feeling my confidence level rise, I pull off my sneakers and toss them to the floor—something that looks weird but somehow seems to center me. Then, I take a deep breath and find the spot in the score where I want to start.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” I say, trying my best to sound pleasant. “Let’s work the final movement of the Holst Suite, please. Tyler?” My gaze travels to the section leader for the saxophones. “I really need you to hit the melody a little harder in the opening line. You guys are the main attraction there.”

“Harder?” he echoes, trying to sound innocent. “You want it haaaarder?” He draws out the word like a moan. A sex moan.

What a little shit! I survey him for a beat before responding.

“Tyler,” I begin with a sympathetic tone and smile, “I know you’re used to things being…softer than you’d like, but, just this once, it would be great if you could man up and hit that section Good. And. Hard. Are you…up to it?”

Until this instant, I had no idea that someone could blush and blanch at the same time. And yet here’s Tyler doing it right in front of my delighted eyes. There are catcalls and taunts from the rest of the band, and the poor guy looks as if he’d like to slide right out of his seat and melt into the floor.

“Okay, okay!” I call out over the din, trying to put him out of his misery and out of my mind so we can get back on track. “We don’t have a lot of time, so let’s start this last section. Ready?”

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. It’s as if I’m invisible. Really? Why do they have to make everything so hard? I take another deep breath.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this…

“Ready?”

This time there’s considerably more edge to my voice, though not one of the musicians so much as glances my way.

“Screw this,” I mutter under my breath as I raise my arms, baton in my right hand. I start to count down, pretending I have their undivided attention.

“One, two, one, two, one, two…ready…AND!” I start to conduct at the same time I start to sing the melody that the saxophones should be playing. I throw a cue to the trumpets, who aren’t playing. They grin stupidly and look at me as if I’m nuts. But I keep going, my silver bracelet jangling with every downbeat.

“Flutes! This is you coming up!” I yell as if I’m trying to be heard over the band. This time, they’re glancing at one another, clearly unsure of what to do. The first flute shrugs and raises her instrument with the others following suit and, when I cue them, they come in.

Well I’ll be damned…

The oboes and bassoons are right behind them. By the time we’re a minute into the score, they’ve all started to play for real and I can stop my singing.

This is where the fun begins. I close my eyes and let the music take over my entire body. Conducting isn’t just about waving a stick around and counting beats. Reading a score is like being an air traffic controller. I can see every flight coming in, going out, circling, taxiing, and parking at the gate. While each musician can only see his or her own “flight plan,” it’s up to me to see to it that everyone arrives at the correct destination safely. And on time.

I’m cuing sections with my left hand, beating time with my right. When my body folds in on itself and I grow smaller in stature, they instinctively play softer without me having to utter a word. When the lush part comes in and the melody drags like the drone of a bagpipe, I allow my arms to lead in long, broad strokes, as if I’m painting a canvas that’s twenty feet tall. They respond in kind, with wide swaths of lush, vibrant sound.

Finally, when the jig returns, I start to dance. Dance! An actual little jig lifts my body up and down on the podium. This is how it feels to have the music take over every cell. When I open my eyes, I see my flutes and bassoons, horns and oboes, saxes, and brass. They’re playing lighter and brighter. I see heads bopping and toes tapping as if they’re enjoying themselves.

As I bring them to the spiraling conclusion and drop my baton, I’m breathing hard and smiling big. They stare at me, dumbfounded.

“Yes! Now that’s how you play that piece!” I holler with a triumphant hop on the podium. I’m beaming as my eyes roam across the risers, meeting the gazes of every musician there. “Except for that shitty opening, you gave me, that is.” I chuckle, and they join me. It’s the first time they’re laughing with me instead of at me and it feels good.

“Really,” I say a little softer now as I lean over my podium toward them, inviting them into an intimate conversation. “You guys sound amazing and we’re going to kick ass on this when we play it at the spring concert.” I pause for a long moment, look down at the podium and then back up at them. “My job—my only job—is to help you sound as good as possible so we can remind people that this is one of the top music programs in the country. I am here for you. Please keep that in mind,” I beseech them, getting my point across as several of my musicians look away from my gaze guiltily.

I let my face relax into a lighter expression. “Now get out of here! I’ll see you for our next rehearsal in a couple of days,” I say and they scatter to put their instruments away.

I’m making a note in my score when someone clearing his throat. I look up and see Russ standing there.

“Well played, Kate,” he says now that we’re alone on stage.

“I’ll be damned,” I say quietly but excitedly. “I might just get them to respect me yet.”

“You might just,” he agrees with a grin. “Seriously, you handled that very nicely.”