I wish the voice telling me that this was wrong, bad, very terrible was louder, and the voice weeping finally, always, please was quieter.

I wish.

CHAPTER NINE

Jubilee

I DRAG MY bow across the strings, glancing once at the piles of books around me—Bach’s cello suites right on top—before shutting my eyes with a smile. After a weekend away, tonight I play for myself—no plan, no audition—just me and my instrument and the sounds that we make. The fingers on my left hand press and arch and slide, sending the notes curling and curving through the air until a song takes form.

It’s a cover of a song from one of my favorite bands. I was still working out the notes before I abandoned it to focus on my audition, but after a few days away, “embracing and absorbing life,” I’m just happy to be back.

I’ve been playing cello seriously since the third grade. I don’t think anybody expected me to stick with it, but the first time I made it groan and squeal under the power of my inexperienced fingers, I was hooked. I was creating sound. Other people were making sounds, sure, but it wasn’t this sound; this squeal and shriek were mine and mine alone, and only for that second.

I loved it.

I think that’s my favorite part of music, the impermanence of it. A book or a painting, when it’s finished, it’s done. People admire it, but it’s become its final form—it is what it is. But music is never finished. Every piece changes when you play it; the note has heavier vibrato in this performance or draws out every rallentando in that one. People cover it and change it and sing it with their own voices or, in my case, transcribe it to cello.

Music is different. It’s alive. It’s an action and a reaction all at once.

Somewhere along the line, though, that impermanence, that change, has become a source of pain instead of pride. Playing has become less about the joy of it and more about getting it exactly right: holding the notes for precisely the right amount of time, calculating it for maximum impact. I’ve been chained to this chair practicing my audition repertoire for months, and now, nine weeks out, instead of making it better, apparently my calculations have only made it worse.

But tonight, I don’t know, I feel like playing for the joy of it. If I can figure out how to shove this feeling into my audition, then I should be set. Better than set, even. I sink back into the music with a smile. Maybe this whole pushing-the-boundaries thing worked. I play harder, feeling my acceptance to the summer program get closer with every note. But I know to really do that, I need to be perfect. Consistently.