Regionals and My Amazing Powers of invisibility

          It's funny how you can sell your soul with just one little circle on a clipboard.  I surveyed the text with suspicion and distrust:

 

Name:           Instrument:         Yes/No (Please Circle)

 

        I hadn't tried out for the All-Regional Band for the last two years.  I firmly maintained that i knew what would happen:  I would try out, make it, then try out for All-State and, of course, have my dreams smashed to pieces with cruel rejection.  I was a mediocre clarinet player, no dismal, but certainly not amazing.

        Suddenly, I felt my hand move against my will.  No!  Hand, what are you doing?  Stop!  I wrestled with my suddenly rebellious minion.  My fingers gripped the pencil and slowly scribbled my name and instrument, clarinet.  Fingers?! You Too?!  Why must you betray me like this?!  I froze as the internal war raged inside my mind.  I started mumbling to myself, hands twitching curiously.  A few other clarinets looked at me apprehensively, wondering whether or not I'd finally lost it.  Finally seizing control, I scrawled a large circle around the "No".  I traced over the circle several times, pressing the pencil down firmly.  Ha! Take that, hands! You think you're all "bad"!  I'm the one in control here!  I gave a tiny sigh of relief as I relaxed.

        But alas! My hand, sensing an opening as I lowered my guard, rapidly began to jot down another line! I could do nothing to stop it!

 

Name: Emily Hagen                Instrument: Harp     Yes/No (Please Circle)

 

        Before I could even react, I had quickly circled "Yes" and passed the clipboard on to the next person.  Not only that, but before I had passed the board my traitorous hand had erased the "No" from the clarinet line and circled "Yes".  I watched as the clipboard was bourn swiftly away.  No! Come back!  I didn't mean it!

        Too late, the deed was done.  Sitting there in shock, I realized I was signed up to try out for Regionals for the first time in my high school career.

        Now, I'm no better a harp player than I am a clarinet player.  In fact, proportionally, I'm worse.  Still, there was nothing I could do about it.  I was committed.  It was like signing my own death certificate.  There was absolutely no way for me to back out without incurring the wrath of my band directors, and believe me, I would rather die a thousand painful deaths.  I now had four months to practice for the audition, or suffer the consequences.

        So, showing my usual superb work ethic, I didn't so much as look at my audition etudes for oh, say...three and a half months.  Of course, that was all well and good for a while.  It was certainly easier than practicing.  But time has a way of catching up with you. (Darn you, Time.  Why do you always have to pick on me?  What did I ever do to you?)

        Five days before the audition I was frantically practicing the harp etudes as often as I could.  I didn't touch the clarinet etudes. Why bother?  I don't consider myself arrogant, but I was certain I would make it.  Without practice, I wouldn't necessarily get a great chair, but hey, I preferred to make it on harp anyway.

        On that fateful Saturday of the auditions, my mother and I loaded the harp in the back of my family's cardboard-box-like pickup truck and headed off to the audition site.  (Loading the harp is an interesting process.  The harp itself rests under a cover, strapped into a trunk that looks more or less like a mitten-shaped coffin that would comfortably contain a family of four.  It's huge. It could crush me if it fell on me.  I mean it, this thing could sink the Titanic.  Thus, getting the darn thing into a truck bed is pretty difficult.  I can most accurately compare it to loading a small whale in a harness, if that whale cost about $19,000 dollars and was on loan from the school district.)

        At the registration table, I filled out my forms, indicating a preference to perform on harp if I was selected on both instruments.  As usual, the authorities had made no accommodations for a gigantic black case to be stored until 6:00 p.m.  Why is that, you ask?  Harpists are invisible of course.  I've never been to a function playing harp where someone set up for me.  We're always ignored.  Wanted felons on the run from the law, take note.  You want to hide from the police?  Become a harp player.  I guarantee you could walk right into police headquarters and they'd never give you a second glance.  Completely undetectable.

        We shoved the harp by the door in the crowded cafeteria, effectively blocking the exit and ignoring such silly things as "Fire Safety"  and "Clear Exit Requirements".  Hey, if the building was on fire, I think the harp should be the first thing out the door anyway.  The other students would just have to wait.  Unless, of course, they had an extra $20 thousand to pay for it.  Then I'd be cool with it.

        I performed my clarinet audition at 10:10, breezed through a clarinet ensemble performance at 3:00, then killed time until, finally, it was 6:00.  My mother and I awkwardly pushed and pulled the immense trunk to the audition room.

        As expected, I completely bombed the whole thing.  Ah, well.  I was rather unfazed, because I had an advantage that students on other instruments did not have.

        Have I failed to mention that they had to accept me by default?

        Yeah, harp players are pretty rare, at least in high schools.  I had checked the list, and only four people had auditioned, myself included.  Written very clearly in our audition packet were these words, and I quote:  "All regions should select and name four harpist, two fro band and two for orchestra, even if there are not parts."  As long as I hadn't proved myself completely incapable, I was guaranteed acceptance, even if they didn't have a part for me.  I had watched people sweat all day and thought, Heh. Suckers.  

        As we drove home, however, I became less sure.  What if I wasn't even capable?  the audition had certainly been bad.  What if my judge didn't even think I was worth considering?  What if, God, I was so bad that she had though, "There's been a terrible mistake.  She's awful.  It's a stretch even calling her a musician, let along a harpist."  I could picture my judge laughing evilly as she marked big red X's all over my critique sheet.  Heartless Witch.  I glowered out the window all the way home, plotting evil things to do to her.

        I needn't have worried.  Hours later, on the band website, I saw my name under the "Accepted" list.  I was off to Regionals.

 

        "Harp, huh? Cool."

        "Look at the case!  It's huge!"

        I tapped my foot impatiently as the crowd of Dobson High students meandered slowly past, occasionally stopping to make an obvious and stupid remark about the giant case I was hanging on, such as "Wow, it's big", or "That's a harp".  Very good, Sherlock, it's a harp.  You get a gold star.

        When the river of kids had finally trickled past, I heaved my body weight against the case and it lurched slowly up the path to the auditorium.  I stopped at the door and waited for the crowd of kids to disperse so that I could ask Mr.  Beard, my director, where to go.  When the students had finally cleared out, I shoved the harp through the doorway.  I looked for Mr. Beard.  He was nowhere in sight.  The lobby of band kids had vanished, gone to wherever we were rehearsing.  Where I needed to be.

        What did I tell you?  Completely and utterly invisible.

        Sighing, I got directions and turned around, lugging the trunk halfway across the campus to the band room.  No one jumped up to help as I struggled across the room, making sure to cast a dirty look at Mr. Beard, which he of course didn't see.

        I quickly set up next to the clarinets, which was fine by me; my friends would be close by.  A man scurried over and asked if I had a nametag.  I told him that I didn't.  He promised he would get me one, and jogged off.  I kicked off my sandals, put on my harp shoes, and began to warm up.  My notes were lost in the cacophony of the other students' warm-up notes, but I knew that I was, in fact, making sounds.  It was good enough for me.

        A man stepped up to the podium and waved for silence.  He introduced our director and the rehearsal began.

        What?  Wait, no, I don't even have a nametag yet!  The director started to go through warm-up chorales with the band.  No!  I'm here!  Acknowledge me!  As the winds played, I glared longingly at my friend Crystal's nametag that hung over her stand:

        

Crystal Dunlap

Dobson

Clarinet 2-4

 

        Scowling, I grabbed a spare piece of paper from my folder and began fashioning a nametag for myself.  I traced around big bubble letters trying to make it as big as possible:

 

 

Emily Hagen

Dobson

Harp

 

        After a moment's consideration, I added a big number 1 after the word "harp".  Hah.  Now I was first chair.  Ok, so there were no other harps in the band, but...still.

        The warm-ups ended, and we started on the first piece, El Camino Real.  Yes!  I only played for one section of this one piece, but at least we were playing that one first. Right?

        Excited at first, I sat up straight on my bench, eager and ready to play when we reached measure 138.  But, no, they stopped and went over the first part again.  Well, that's all right, I reasoned.  They have to get there eventually.  I maintained my enthusiasm.

        But as the first half hour passed, I gradually slumped over, progressively becoming more and more uninterested.  But, here!  Measure 129!  I positioned my fingers on the strings eagerly.  Here we go, I'm going to play, I'm going to play, I'm going to FINALLY PLAY!!!

        At measure 137, the director cut off the band.

        "OK, time for a quick break."

        I gaped at him in disbelief.

 

        When we returned, I finally got to play my 59 measures of glory.  Finally content, I sat and waited as the band pulled out a different piece to work on.  My feeling of well-being was short-lived as the time dragged by.  I found myself wishing for things.  I wish I had a book.  I wish I had m iPod.  I wish I had...a noose.  A gun.  A heavy blunt object, for God's sake, just let it end!  I was going to die of boredom, I was certain.

        I nearly cried with happiness when they released us for a lunch break.

        When we returned, I was stuffed full of bread and a tasty gallon of iced tea.  The sun danced lightly on my eyelids, making them heavy.  As everyone took their seats, I didn't even bother sitting on my bench.  We werent' going to play El Camino.  Why bother?  I sat down and leaned against the harp case I'd stowed against the wall.

        The opening of this piece was loud and bouncy, yet I still couldn't manage to keep awake.  I would doze off, then jerk into wakefullness. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer.  I drifted off into a shallow sleep. 

        The clarinets peered over at me curiously.  I learned later that I was quite the topic for conversation.  They nudged each other, smirking and whispering.

        "Look at the harp girl."

        The girl next to  Crystal leaned over and asked, "Is she asleep?"

        Crystal studied me a moment.  My mouth was slightly agape.  A little bit of drool trickled out.

        "Yes.  Yes she is."

        25 minutes later, I jerked awake.  Who, Wha-?  Was I asleep?  I checked my watch.  I guess I was.  I realized I was thisty and began to eye my leftover iced tea longingly.  It would be rude to sit here swigging tea like a pig while the director was trying to conduct a rehearsal.  But...the iced tea was so good…

        The girl next to Crystal tried to catch a glimpse of me again.

        "What's she doing now?"

        "Drinking." Crystal shook her head.

        "What?!"

        "Oh yeah, didn't you know?  Harpists love to drink.  Why do you think they play for so many weddings?"

 

        The next day, I came prepared.  I was armed with a bag full of books, a gameboy, an iPod, and a notebook with a pencil.  Boredom, beware.

        I played measure 138 and the rest of the section, then retired to my book until lunch.  I learned that I wasn't required to attend any other rehearsal that day.  There was nothing to do until 4:00.

        Was I regretting my decision to try this out yet?  Not yet. I was tired of being unnoticed, but I kept telling myself, I am having...FUN.  My eye would twitch a little bit when I thought about it.

        As if my invisibility weren't enough, before the performance I found out that my name had been accidentally been omitted from the program.

        Well, that's just great, I thought.  Why don't you just take my name off the participant shirt too, while you're at it?!?

        No worries.  They had managed to do that, too.

        At this point, I don't even care.  Nope.   I'm just going to get up on that stage, play 59 measures, then get the heck out of there.

        The performance started.  I sat uselessly for the first song, then played my measure 138 bit in El Camino before retreating backstage.  The band finished its last two songs in glory, prompting a standing ovation from the crowd.

        Backstage, I heard the applause and made a decision.  No way was I going to be invisible for this, too.  As the audience thundered, I quickly stepped onstage next to my harp, smiling sweetly.  Yes, that's right.  I'm not invisible.  Acknowledge me.

        Later, as my father helped me pull the harp back to the truck, I asked him apprehensively if he could even hear my notes above the band in the one section I had actually played.  Please say that you heard me.  Please assure me that I was there.

        Making a pained face, my father apologized.  "I'm sorry Em, I listened for it, but...I couldn't honestly hear the harp."

        I've said it before, I'll say it again.

        Completely invisible.

Reviews

[Crystal Lynn]

Putting words in my mouth, huh? You give me too much credit. I'm never THAT witty. Mr.Beard. Oh God. No one else will get that but AMAZING. Aaand seriously, that rant contest. Do it.