AN: I couldn't sleep and I've been feeling musician-angsty lately. Therapy fic. Is the ending too unrealistic? I might fix it, but it was nice to rant.
Peace be with you,
PP
Stile Agitato
Agitato.
"I hate it here," I ranted to the empty walls before me. My dress is ugly—I have no chance to redeem myself today. Tears dripped down my face, splashing onto the keys of the grand piano that was never kept in tune and then onto the grubby carpet of the practice room. I had shut myself away from the laughter and frivolity of the other students. Too many words wanted to come out of my mouth—I wanted to scream at them, to blame them for making my life a living hell. I hate my peers. My classmates who sneered whenever they peeked at my returned tests and saw the marks on them—A, -A, +A. Like they could do better if they tried—ulgh.
It was the final day of finals week, the day of the aria competition at my illustrious institution that counted for half of my grade for my beloved voice lessons. Unlike my peers, who were either cramming for other texts or rejoicing, I had shut myself away in this practice room—a glorified closet with a piano and what were claimed to be soundproof walls. I loved this practice room, placed a little away from the others so that no one need hear my mistakes.
I needed to stop crying—I could feel the tension radiating from my throat, my beloved instrument. I was abusing it, not on purpose, but that didn't change the fact that I was too tense to sing. Instead this made me cry harder.
Mesto.
This was the last straw—Sophomore year was harder than being a wee little Freshman. As a Freshman, you were oblivious to all of the slurs against you and thought that it was your age and your fresh-from-high-school lack of social skills that made you unpopular. You just wanted to sing.
Sophomore year was different: you knew when you weren't wanted. So you shut yourself in a practice room and worked and practiced and bettered yourself. You didn't want to be like the others—you never were like the others—you wanted to be better. And that's what did you in. One day, you made the mistake of losing your cool and lashing out at someone when they were complaining about how much they hated music, even though they also were a music major.
Rolling your eyes with a little distain you said coldly: "I don't hate music."
The witch turns to you and says "Because you're a freak, that's why."
Smorzando.
You lose faith in the goodness of human-kind. You don't know why, but those words stick with you, like a stain on your choir-dress that you can't get rid of. You try not to hear them, but they echo, filling the practice room. Then you sing to drown them out.
But soon, singing becomes automatic—you simply go through the motions. Good tone, beautiful technique, but where has the passion gone? One day your voice professor asks you. You simply stare at her, blank.
Passion? You know what it is, but you don't know why it abandoned you.
You get up to sing and you choke. You see their eyes, staring, judging. Your teacher expresses her disappointment. You see their triumph. It eats your insides. You hate them.
Come Prima.
Now for the final test: the aria competition. Everyone watches. I had my dress all laid out for today; my roommate spilled her beer on it. The sheet music for my pianist mysteriously vanished. For the first time in my life, I don't want to sing.
This would be the part where my fairy godmother comes, but I don't need her. I managed to scrape up enough cash to run out and buy a different dress. I re-copied my music. My hair even looks decent today.
There's a rap at the door of the practice room. I whirl around, wiping my eyes, but smudging my make-up. I see Maria at the door—she's never been that friendly, but not that hostile either. Freshman, warbly mezzo-soprano.
"You're up next—they're looking for you in the wings of the concert hall," she says simply. "What's wrong?" She asks upon seeing my tears. Her brow wrinkles, bringing out the concern in her warm brown eyes.
"I don't want to go out there," I sniff. Suddenly, I find myself spilling out all of my problems—the dress, my peers, my passionless music. Maria listens patiently.
"Take a deep breath—you'll sing lovely," she sweetly once I'm finished. "Wait—" Maria pulls a tissue from her purse and wipes away the smudges of my eyeliner. "There, that's better."
We leave the practice room and rush down the hall to where my pianist is waiting in the wings. I hand him my music and give him quick notes about tempo changes. I take a moment to scan the words that are engraved in my head. I've sung this aria too many times, but the cadenza at the end is so much fun.
Fun. I don't have any now. How did singing get to be such a chore? I walk out onto the stage—the audience claps politely. The introductions begins, trills glittering on the white and black keys--Mozart was playing when he wrote this aria. I hear it with fresh, liberated ears. It's fun.
I sing.
Vivace. Brilliante. Trionfante.
My high a flat is held for too long, suspended out of time. It's not that high of a note, except if you've been sobbing all morning. They've all heard me sing, they know that my high notes are there and that I am one of the few that can carry them off, but for a moment there is silence, a subtle shift of disbelief in the audience. Five, ten, twelve seconds, then I release my note. It is over and I have overcome.
There is little applause. I rush off of the stage, head held high. I have carried through the brilliance of Mozart's "Bester Jungling." My professor is there in the wings, she beams. I thank her, then my pianist, and then find Maria.
"You were wonderful!" Maria gushes, "Your singing is always beautiful."
"Really?" I say, thinking of the class when I choked. "No, wait." I'm messing this up—Maria is a sweetheart. "Never mind what I said," I spit out. "Thank you," I choke out over the massive lump in my throat.
"You're welcome," Maria replies, confused. "What did I do?"
"You were there when I needed a friend," I said, thinking of all the times I had seen Maria around campus. I should have taken her under my wing when she had arrived, a freshman just as scared as I had been. Instead of drilling myself into my music, I should also have been reaching out to the few in the same boat as I: those shunned by the sorority girls and overlooked by the rest of the music department.
"Maybe," I grinned, "next year we should do a duet."
"Really? I'd like that."