Page 68 of Exchanged

“How are you feeling?” Dad asks as I step into the kitchen. He, Aunt Liz, Emma, and Garrett are all gathered around the island, watching me intently.

“Fine.”

Aunt Liz bustles forward and begins fiddling with my bow tie. I feel stupid, getting dressed up in my performance clothes only to walk upstairs and play my oboe in front of my laptop.

I look over her shoulder at the rest of them. “Promise you’ll stay down here and won’t listen in.”

They nod in unison.

“For real. You’ll only make me more nervous.”

Dad’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Is it usual for an audition to take two hours?”

“Yeah,” I lie, and guilt tugs at my stomach. “There’s a lot of waiting around, and I have to play a few different pieces. Plus, since I’m applying to be a composition major, they’ll have a few interview questions.”

He pulls me into a long hug. “Whatever happens, I am so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

And then, of course, everyone else wants to hug me, too. Emma’s is quick and light, Aunt Liz’s is teary. Garrett holds on to me a second longer than I would have expected, considering we’re in front of my family, who may or may not have any idea of what’s going on between us.

Well, Aunt Liz obviously does.

And Emma’s been eyeing the two of us knowingly for a week.

So everyone except Dad.

“You’re incredible,” Garrett breathes in my ear. “There’s no way they won’t be able to see that.”

I nod, pull back, and make my way up the two flights of stairs to my room. I set my music stand up near my desk and do one final microphone check. I play a few warm-up scales, run the first lines of my audition music, and try not to think of the outsize impact the next few hours will have on my future.

Opening my laptop, I click the link that Burton-Clark emailed to me weeks ago to access the video call. A panel of professors appears on my screen, each in their own office, at their own laptop. A middle-aged man with cold eyes and a disinterested expression sits in the top left of my screen, an older woman with hair twisted into a severe bun sits in the top right, a younger woman with dark curly hair is in the bottom left, and my own nervous face blinks at me from the bottom right.

“Good afternoon,” says the older woman with the bun.

“Hi, I’m Enzo—”

“You can begin with scales,” interrupts the cold-eyed man.

I’m shaken by his impatience, like he wants to get this over with. I pick up my oboe, and they take turns calling out different scales. I play each one. I make a minor mistake on my articulation during the D-flat major scale because I’m so focused on the stupid number of flats that I have to catch.

When I finish, the young woman grants me a smile.

“You may begin your lyrical selection,” the man says.

I do. The lyrical part of the audition showcases a player’s ability to perform emotive, expressive music. My tone quality isn’t as good as I’d like because I’m feeling breathy from nerves, but when I end on a clear, sustained high note, the older woman nods approvingly.

“Technical selection, please,” the man says. The other two are jotting notes, but he sits with his arms folded across his chest.

This second piece is all rapid-fire sixteenth notes, meant to show quick fingerings and precise articulations. I do better at this one because it takes every ounce of focus I possess.

“Very nice,” the younger woman says when I finish. “You have beautiful tone.”

“Thanks,” I say. “That’s nice to hear since my sister tells me I sound like a dying loon.”

I probably didn’t need to share that.

“You have a sister?” she asks kindly.