Author's note: This was actually an assignment for my English class a few
months ago, but I decided to edit and post it here. Most of the details
are true, but some are slightly exaggerated to make the story more
exciting. I also changed specific names to protect privacy. I'd really
appreciate reviews on this!
"Are you ready to do this?"
As I hauled my book bag into the backseat of the family car, I looked up at my mother who was giving me a reassuring smile. Nodding glumly, I fastened my seatbelt with the air of a prisoner being strapped into an electric chair.
Auditions were never fun, but this one in particular had high stakes. As the principal eighth grade flutist in a town known for its musical excellence, I felt a certain obligation to make the prestigious County Band. I wanted it not only for myself, but also for the entire music department that wished to continue this tradition.
The car pulled out of the school parking lot, and I looked through the window, lost in thought. Last year as a seventh grader, I was the last flute player who made the cut for the band. What if I wasn't so lucky this time? I shook my head vigorously, causing some of my blond hair to escape from its ponytail. Don't think that way, I thought to myself. Determined to keep more negative questions and thoughts from creeping into my head, I decided to look through my bag to see if I forgot anything. However, this was unnecessary; I had already checked a dozen times the night before.
Although my mom made a few wrong turns on the way to the audition site, the car ride didn't seem to last long enough. Before I knew it, I was standing outside in the cool autumn air, clutching my flute case with a trembling hand. Adjusting the heavy backpack slung over my shoulder, I slowly made my way to the school gym. This is where I would wait with hundreds of other musicians until my moment of truth had come.
When I entered the spacious room, I was greeted with a buzz of noise: the fumbling of cases, the rustling of sheet music, excited chatter, and musicians of various instruments practicing scales and excerpts from the audition piece. I settled down on a bench and opened my notebook for school, although I knew from experience that it would be nearly impossible to get any work done. A few minutes passed, and I watched more people enter the gym. I was beginning to sweat.
Through the din, I though I heard someone shout the name of my town. Looking up, I saw my band teacher, who was waving his arm and trying to locate his students. Slightly relieved to see a familiar face, I approached the small herd of people surrounding him.
Mr. Edwards wished us all good luck before distributing forms with our name, audition number, and classroom. He stopped when he walked in front of me, two papers in his outstretched his hand. "You're going to be in for a long night," he said, handing them to me with a slight smile.
I looked down at my piccolo sheet, which read A-6. That's not so bad, I thought. Then, with a pang, I saw my number for flute: B-46. I headed back to my place on the bench, slightly disgruntled.
The wait seemed to last an eternity. Every time someone announced which instruments and numbers were to report to their rooms, I held my breath, only to release it again when yet another group of musicians left the gym. This ordeal repeated itself over the next two hours. Finally, all piccolo players were instructed to head to their audition. I could hardly believe my ears; the moment had come at last! A rush of excitement and dread filled my exhausted body, and I felt myself rise and walk towards the door.
The narrow hallway was almost as crowded and noisy as the gym had been. I made my way down the corridor, periodically checking my sheet for the room number. When I next looked up, I saw a group of girls with piccolos in their hands clustered around a door, trying to get a better view of something inside.
"Is there someone in there already?" I asked although I was pretty sure what the answer would be. One of the girls turned around and nodded. About a minute later, the door burst open and another girl appeared, closely followed by a formidable-looking woman.
"Who has number two?" she demanded. A shy girl raised her hand and, without saying a word, she entered the room. Expecting to sit through an additional three try-outs, I settled down against the wall and began to practice my music silently. However, my concentration was broken when the woman appeared in the doorway once more. "No number three?" I heard her say. There was an awkward silence. "What about four or five?" A few more seconds of silence followed before she asked for number six.
I stood up with a jolt. "Six?" I asked, bewildered, "That's my number!" I hastily gathered my things and walked through the door. The room was completely empty except for a few chairs at its far end, where three judges sat with their backs to a lone music stand. I shivered as I approached the stand and placed my notebook on top of it.
"I would like you to play a B flat scale, followed by an F scale, followed by an E flat scale," the woman said with a note of impatience in her voice. I obliged. Next, she requested that I take out my music. I opened my folder, but to my surprise and horror, it wasn't there.
Panicking, I said in a small voice, "I must have dropped it on my way here. May I please see if it's outside?" After her curt nod, I quickly ran to my last position in the hallway.
"This contestant is not prepared with her music!" I heard the woman bellow to the judges.
I looked around for a few seconds but could not locate it. I reentered the room feeling much tenser. Just when I thought all hope was lost, an idea dawned upon me. I picked up my notebook and found what I had been looking for. My music had been sitting there all along. With a sigh of relief, I lifted up my piccolo and began to play.
I walked out of the room feeling discouraged. Would that incident affect my score? Knowing it was getting late, I headed towards the flute audition room to see what number had been called last. I was unhappy to discover that my number had already passed. After explaining the reason for my delay, the nicer woman in charge of this room told me it would be best if I went next. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I entered the room and completed my audition.
"So, how do think you did last night?" Mr. Edwards asked me in band the next day.
"Pretty badly," I replied, slightly surprised to see that he was smiling.
"Well, not according to this," he said, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand. My eyes widened as I realized what it was: the results of last night's auditions. I scanned the chart, amazed to find my name listed first for piccolo and second for flute. My spirits soared; I had made the band after all.
"Are you ready to do this?"
As I hauled my book bag into the backseat of the family car, I looked up at my mother who was giving me a reassuring smile. Nodding glumly, I fastened my seatbelt with the air of a prisoner being strapped into an electric chair.
Auditions were never fun, but this one in particular had high stakes. As the principal eighth grade flutist in a town known for its musical excellence, I felt a certain obligation to make the prestigious County Band. I wanted it not only for myself, but also for the entire music department that wished to continue this tradition.
The car pulled out of the school parking lot, and I looked through the window, lost in thought. Last year as a seventh grader, I was the last flute player who made the cut for the band. What if I wasn't so lucky this time? I shook my head vigorously, causing some of my blond hair to escape from its ponytail. Don't think that way, I thought to myself. Determined to keep more negative questions and thoughts from creeping into my head, I decided to look through my bag to see if I forgot anything. However, this was unnecessary; I had already checked a dozen times the night before.
Although my mom made a few wrong turns on the way to the audition site, the car ride didn't seem to last long enough. Before I knew it, I was standing outside in the cool autumn air, clutching my flute case with a trembling hand. Adjusting the heavy backpack slung over my shoulder, I slowly made my way to the school gym. This is where I would wait with hundreds of other musicians until my moment of truth had come.
When I entered the spacious room, I was greeted with a buzz of noise: the fumbling of cases, the rustling of sheet music, excited chatter, and musicians of various instruments practicing scales and excerpts from the audition piece. I settled down on a bench and opened my notebook for school, although I knew from experience that it would be nearly impossible to get any work done. A few minutes passed, and I watched more people enter the gym. I was beginning to sweat.
Through the din, I though I heard someone shout the name of my town. Looking up, I saw my band teacher, who was waving his arm and trying to locate his students. Slightly relieved to see a familiar face, I approached the small herd of people surrounding him.
Mr. Edwards wished us all good luck before distributing forms with our name, audition number, and classroom. He stopped when he walked in front of me, two papers in his outstretched his hand. "You're going to be in for a long night," he said, handing them to me with a slight smile.
I looked down at my piccolo sheet, which read A-6. That's not so bad, I thought. Then, with a pang, I saw my number for flute: B-46. I headed back to my place on the bench, slightly disgruntled.
The wait seemed to last an eternity. Every time someone announced which instruments and numbers were to report to their rooms, I held my breath, only to release it again when yet another group of musicians left the gym. This ordeal repeated itself over the next two hours. Finally, all piccolo players were instructed to head to their audition. I could hardly believe my ears; the moment had come at last! A rush of excitement and dread filled my exhausted body, and I felt myself rise and walk towards the door.
The narrow hallway was almost as crowded and noisy as the gym had been. I made my way down the corridor, periodically checking my sheet for the room number. When I next looked up, I saw a group of girls with piccolos in their hands clustered around a door, trying to get a better view of something inside.
"Is there someone in there already?" I asked although I was pretty sure what the answer would be. One of the girls turned around and nodded. About a minute later, the door burst open and another girl appeared, closely followed by a formidable-looking woman.
"Who has number two?" she demanded. A shy girl raised her hand and, without saying a word, she entered the room. Expecting to sit through an additional three try-outs, I settled down against the wall and began to practice my music silently. However, my concentration was broken when the woman appeared in the doorway once more. "No number three?" I heard her say. There was an awkward silence. "What about four or five?" A few more seconds of silence followed before she asked for number six.
I stood up with a jolt. "Six?" I asked, bewildered, "That's my number!" I hastily gathered my things and walked through the door. The room was completely empty except for a few chairs at its far end, where three judges sat with their backs to a lone music stand. I shivered as I approached the stand and placed my notebook on top of it.
"I would like you to play a B flat scale, followed by an F scale, followed by an E flat scale," the woman said with a note of impatience in her voice. I obliged. Next, she requested that I take out my music. I opened my folder, but to my surprise and horror, it wasn't there.
Panicking, I said in a small voice, "I must have dropped it on my way here. May I please see if it's outside?" After her curt nod, I quickly ran to my last position in the hallway.
"This contestant is not prepared with her music!" I heard the woman bellow to the judges.
I looked around for a few seconds but could not locate it. I reentered the room feeling much tenser. Just when I thought all hope was lost, an idea dawned upon me. I picked up my notebook and found what I had been looking for. My music had been sitting there all along. With a sigh of relief, I lifted up my piccolo and began to play.
I walked out of the room feeling discouraged. Would that incident affect my score? Knowing it was getting late, I headed towards the flute audition room to see what number had been called last. I was unhappy to discover that my number had already passed. After explaining the reason for my delay, the nicer woman in charge of this room told me it would be best if I went next. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I entered the room and completed my audition.
"So, how do think you did last night?" Mr. Edwards asked me in band the next day.
"Pretty badly," I replied, slightly surprised to see that he was smiling.
"Well, not according to this," he said, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand. My eyes widened as I realized what it was: the results of last night's auditions. I scanned the chart, amazed to find my name listed first for piccolo and second for flute. My spirits soared; I had made the band after all.