Music From Standing Waves (24 page)

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s just my opinion,” I said. “If you
can’t take criticism, don’t play in master class.”

The other students began to murmur and
giggle. Clara glared like she was trying to make me catch fire.

John cleared his throat. “This class hasn’t
heard from you in a while, Miss Austin. Perhaps you’d like to show
Clara how you think it should be done.”

I hesitated. I had nothing prepared. My
concerto was under-rehearsed, my Bach a mess. Clara stood with one
hand on her hip. I knew she was testing me. So was John.

I took my violin and climbed up the steps
onto the stage, without a clue what I was going to perform. Clara
shot me a death stare as she stomped past me to her seat.

“Abigail?” said John. “What will you be
playing for us today?”

“It’s called
Stratosphere
,” I blurted.
“By Matt Greenwood.” Clara rolled her eyes.

I brought my violin to my shoulder. Closed my
eyes and imagined myself back in the apartment above the coin
laundry playing the piece for only Matt. I dug into his joy and
flung it out over the audience. Rippling thirds, glassy, whispering
harmonics and magic chord progressions.
Stratosphere
was a
light in the eyes after two hours of Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. I
lowered my bow confidently. I had never played anything better. A
giant, musical up-yours to Clara.

“Well.” John spoke first. “Now I see why your
Bach has been suffering. Miss Byrne? I think you have right of
first reply.”

Clara snorted. “I can hardly comment on
that
, can I.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t even know what that was. It
just sounded like
noise
to me.”

Anger shot through me. Caning my performance
was one thing, but criticising Matt’s music was something else. I
opened my mouth to retaliate.

John leapt in. “Regardless of your views on
the piece, you can’t deny Abigail gave a very passionate and
convincing performance. She managed to convey the powerful emotions
the composer is giving us.”

“Well,” said Clara. “She has a distinct
advantage. After all, I’m not screwing Tchaikovsky, am I?”

The class snickered. Colour rose in my
cheeks.

“Alright,” John said hurriedly. “Thank you,
Clara. I think you’ve made your point. That’s enough for today,
everyone.”

I turned away from the class and drew in my
breath. I waited until the room had begun to empty before returning
to my seat for my bag. John’s voice at my side made me jump.

“You play new music very well, Abby. Why have
I not heard this piece before?”

“Oh, you know…” I shrugged. “It’s nothing
serious. Just a bit of fun.”

“It won’t be taking precedence over your
classical work then?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“So your concerto will be up to standard on
Tuesday?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” said John. “I look forward to hearing
it.”

I clicked my case shut and hurried off the
stage.

“Oh and Abby-”

I paused on the top step.

“It was good to hear you speak your mind
today. I’d like to see this happen more often.”

I had no idea where the rest of the quartet
was, but I was willing to put good money on the fact that they were
not in the same place I was. Perhaps not even the same piece.

I sat on stage at the Dromana Senior Citizens
Ballroom Dancing Society’s annual dinner party, wishing I had gone
to rehearsal the night before. I drifted through a few random B
naturals. Then Roman struck an emphatic B flat and the whole phrase
deteriorated into an ugly mishmash of strings. I scanned my part
frantically for a bar that resembled the triplets Clara had
launched into. Just keep moving your bow, I thought, and no one
will know the difference. Hell, most of them were probably deaf
anyway.

We rushed off stage to polite applause. Roman
and I dissolved into giggles.

“Hmmm,” said Richard.

I smacked Roman’s arm. “What the hell were
you playing? I was following you!”

Roman laughed hysterically. “I was trying to
follow
you
! Then Clara started making up this little
tune…”

Clara glared at him. “That little tune was
the countermelody! Or at least it would have been if Abby had been
playing her part properly!”

“Give me a break, Clar, it was just some old
people’s dinner. It’s not like any of them knew the difference
anyway.”

“I saw a lady up the back having a bit of
smile,” said Richard.

“There you go,” I said. “We brightened her
day.”

Clara didn’t join in Roman’s laughter. “Get a
clue, Abby. You know this is all your fault. If you’d been at the
last two rehearsals you might have had some idea of what was going
on!”

“I’ve had Standing Waves gigs the last two
nights,” I said. “You guys told me it was okay! It’s not like I
just chose not to come!”

“You may as well have,” snorted Clara. “You
sounded like shit.”

I glared at her. “Excuse me?”

Roman took my arm. “Hey,” he said gently.
“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start? I’m not starting anything!
She’s the one-”

Clara shook her head. “You’re pathetic. You
and your playing.”

I lurched at her wildly and felt Roman grab
my waist.

“Leave it,” he said. “She’s just trying to
wind you up.”

“Well what do you expect?” shot Clara. “She
made us look like complete idiots!” She turned her flashing eyes
back to me. “You’re not in that little hick town of yours any more,
you know. You keep wasting your time on that Standing Waves crap
and you won’t be able to score bottom desk in a high school
orchestra.”

I pushed past her and packed up my violin in
silence. I marched out of the hall. Clara’s voice was just loud
enough for me to hear.

“What an exit. Little diva...”

I skulked to my lesson with a grand total of
one hour’s concerto practice for the week.

John was waiting in the doorway. “Have you
warmed up?”

“A little bit,” I lied.

He picked up my scores and sat the Dvorak on
the music stand. I launched into the opening theme. My hand tangled
on the fingerboard and the bow dived awkwardly over the strings. I
couldn’t even remember how the melody was supposed to sound.

John interrupted sharply. “Stop.”

I stared into the carpet, glad he had brought
my performance to an end. Rummaging through his bag for a pencil,
he stood at my side, turning the music back to the start.

“Slowly,” he said. “From the beginning.”

I drew in my breath and sat my violin back on
my shoulder. John pointed patronisingly to the wrong notes with his
pencil.

“F sharp,” he prompted. “Back to bar
ten.”

I repeated the passage, again falling to F
natural.

John circled the note roughly. “Slower.”

I played the section without fault, before
striking F natural on the repeat.

“No!” John hurled his pencil across the room.
It bounced wildly off the wall.

“I’m sorry,” I squeaked.

“Tell me Miss Austin, have you practised at
all this week?”

I swallowed hard, glad he didn’t wait for my
response.

“This is the Conservatorium of Music,” he
said. “Not kindergarten. You cannot come to a lesson without
putting in sufficient time and effort! It is a waste of my time and
yours.” He marched across the room; arms folded. “I don’t know why
you stopped taking this seriously, Abigail. I just hope you can
pull yourself into shape before you completely undo all the work
you’ve done towards this competition. I thought it was important to
you.”

“It is,” I stuttered.

“Well it doesn’t seem that way to me.” John
snapped my books closed and held them out to me. “I will see you in
one week, provided you find time in your busy schedule to remember
why it is you are actually here.”

Tears of humiliation pricked my eyes and I
hurriedly blinked them away.

Matt was waiting in the foyer, his legs
dangling over the arm of a couch. I raced past him into the
street.

“Hey!” he called. “Abby!” He chased me out
the door and grabbed my hand. Tears spilled down my cheeks.

“What happened?”

I wiped my eyes with my palm. “John kicked me
out of my lesson,” I sobbed. “I played so badly he wouldn’t even
listen to me.”

“So you had a bad lesson,” said Matt. “Who
cares?”

“I do!”

“Why?”

“Why?” I repeated. “I moved to the other end
of the country to do this! It’s the only thing I ever wanted!”

“Calm down,” said Matt. “You’re making a
scene.”

“So what? I’ve ruined everything!”

“Geez. Have you got PMS or something?”

I pushed Matt away and raced towards the
tram-stop. He ran after me and grabbed my swinging bag.

“Let go!” I cried. “I don’t want to talk to
you!”

Jess bounced into the lounge room giggling.
“There are possums in the tree out the front! They were so cute,
like frolicking and stuff, then one tried to claw the other one’s
eyes out!”

I didn’t look up from my music. Jess glanced
over my shoulder.

“Oh we’re back to good old Dvorak now are we?
What happened to all that Standing Waves stuff?”

“It was a waste of time,” I snapped, bowing
religiously through the triplets. “I completely lost sight of
everything I came to the Con for.”

I was furious with myself. I’d become a
half-arsed, amateur muso. The one who forgot her scores. Missed the
repeats. Forgot to play the G flats. I was throwing away the
opportunity of a lifetime.

Jess raised her eyebrows and sat on the
bench, swinging her legs. “Wow, someone’s cracked it. What
happened? And please don’t tell me this is all because of that
little hissy-fit you had with Clara.”

I sighed. “John kicked me out of my
lesson.”

“Ouch. Come and see the possums!”

“Would you get over the stupid possums?”

Jess chewed a strand of hair. “So what does
Matt think about the new you?”

I twisted my stand so I faced the wall. “I
don’t care.”

Matt took me to dinner for our six-month
anniversary.

“Sorry for being a dick about your lesson,”
he told me over the phone. “Are we still cool?”

He met me outside my music history lecture
and we walked wordlessly towards Lygon Street. The street lamps
flickered on. Matt slid his hand into mine and traced his finger
over my knuckles.

“Are you feeling better about your concerto
now?”

“I guess. Apart from the fact that I’m trying
to make up for six months of missed violin practice.”

Matt dropped my hand. “Six months? Are you
blaming me?”

I closed my eyes. “No. I just meant…” I
trailed out and slid my arm under his thick woollen coat. We walked
in silence.

“I need to quit Standing Waves,” I said
finally.

Matt stopped walking. “Why?”

People elbowed their way past us.

“I’m trying to do too much,” I said. “I need
more time to practise.”

“So quit that stupid quartet! I need you in
Standing Waves.”

“I can’t quit the quartet,” I said. “They’re
more serious than you.”

“What?” Matt dug his hands into his pockets.
He marched off suddenly through the crowded street and I had to
weave through outdoor tables to keep up with him.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I-”

“I haven’t booked anywhere,” Matt
interrupted.

I forced a smile. “Anywhere is fine. You
choose.”

“How about pasta?”

“Sure.” After working four nights that week
at the restaurant, the thought of pasta made my stomach churn, but
I didn’t want to disrupt the peace and say so.

I followed Matt into a crowded restaurant and
let him order our drinks.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, looking across the
table at him. “I know I’ve let you down. I just need to do what I
came here to do. I can’t lose sight of that.”

Matt nodded. “Okay,” he said defeatedly. His
voice lost its brassiness. “I just don’t want to lose you
altogether.”

I took the beer bottle out of his hand and
covered his fingers with mine. “You’re not going to lose me.”

“Come back to my place,” said Matt after
dinner. He kissed me lightly on the side of my lips.

I shot him an apologetic glance. “I can’t.
I’m sorry. I have to go home and work on the concerto.”

He dropped my hands and sighed. “I thought
this was supposed to be a special occasion.”

“It is,” I said. “It’s been nice.”

He shook his head and strode down the street.
I grabbed his arm and pulled him towards me.

“Please don’t be angry.”

“Why should I be angry? My girlfriend would
rather spend the night with her violin than with me.”

“It’s not like that.” I tried not to let my
voice rise. “You know how important you are to me. I love you,
Matt.”

He dug his hands into his pockets. “Not half
as much as you love that damn violin.”

“It’ll only be like this til the
competition’s over. Then I’ll make it up to you. Everything will go
back to normal, I promise.”

“Yeah,” said Matt. “Until next time you’ve
got something to practise for.”

“You’re a musician. I thought you would
understand. You know how much I want to be a performer.”

Matt sighed and dropped his voice. “Yeah
sure.” He pushed against my shoulder to direct me down the street.
“Do what you have to do, Abby.” He rattled his keys over his
finger. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

I was ten minutes early for the next quartet
rehearsal. I had practised so much my part had featured in my
dream. I opened the door of the rehearsal room and Clara barged out
in front of me.

“Oh, Abby. Didn’t you get my message?”

“What message?”