Fugue Of Fear

Fugue of Fear

The barren room I stood in smelled of dust combined with something else. It was a familiar scent; my nose detected it only on certain occasions when classrooms were empty and I awaited my judgment within them. Perhaps that other aroma was fear. My hands were already beginning to shake as I idly fingered the buttons on my instrument. The room was nearly empty except for the desks and the other saxophone player that occupied the small space. He was practicing his solo, and just the sound of the horn made my insides squirm. A young pale man who seemed like a statue sat at the teacher’s desk, staring off into space. The blindingly white walls were sickeningly dull and the empty desks added to the blandness of the room. Practicing anymore wouldn’t be any help, and I would only get more nervous. Why did I put myself through this twice every year?! As if once weren’t enough!

I tried taking deep breaths and wiped my sweaty palms on my thighs. I tried to clear my mind. Scott, my instructor, had told me that getting nervous was something I still needed to get over, and thinking about it made my knees go weak. Thinking about nervousness surely wouldn’t cure it.

“You ready?” My pianist turned toward me, softly smiling the way she always did. Her thin framed glasses seemed to glow in the light around her short graying hair. Mrs. Wright was never nervous. How I envied her! Of course, she was not the one being judged; I was. Perhaps that was what years of performing did to you. It could melt away the nervousness and fear that had plagued me all morning.

“I’m nervous,” I admitted, looking down at my instrument, ashamed. “You’d think I’d get over it, but I never seem to.”

“Here, have some water,” my mother suggested, handing me a bottle.

“Thank you.” I took a swig, but it only made my stomach churn harder. I decided not to drink any more. Not only did it make my stomach more uncomfortable, but with all of the nervousness and stress I was under, I was afraid I’d wet my pants when I saw the judge.

I glanced down at the desk I stood before. My music was strewn across the dull surface, and suddenly all of the notes and markings looked like a foreign language to me. My hands became clammy again, and I wanted nothing more than to disappear from the room permanently.

“Maybe a walk around the building will help,” my mother offered, standing up. My little sister eagerly ran to her side.

I looked down at my saxophone. Staying in this room was certainly not doing me any good, and anything would be better than dwelling in such a quiet, confining place. I unhooked my instrument from my neck strap and gingerly set it down on the table in front of me. “I guess I’ll come along. I can’t stand it in here.”

“I’ll stay here and watch your instrument,” my father volunteered, stretching in his chair.

“I’ll be right here,” Mrs. Wright smiled calmly once again. “Don’t worry so much about it.”

“It will all be over soon anyway,” my father chimed in.

“I suppose.” I wasn’t quite sure what to say.

My feet felt like two large cinderblocks as I followed my mother and sister into the hallway. Other musicians flooded the hallway, and after squeezing between tubas and flutes, violins and trumpets, we had made our way to the restroom.

I didn’t know it then, but this room was to be my sanctuary in the moments to come. Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I fixed my hair, giving myself something to do.

“Why do I do this?” I suddenly wondered aloud, “Why do I put myself through this year after year?”

“It’s good for you,” my mother answered. “And you’ve worked so hard.”

“I don’t feel like it right now,” I said gloomily, kicking at the floor. “I’m not ready. I can’t do this. I don’t want to be here!”

“It will all be over soon,” my mother pointed out. “Then you don’t have to worry about this anymore.”

“I know, I know.” I pushed open the door to the bathroom. “Let’s just get this over with.”

It wasn’t long after we returned to the classroom that the man at the front desk approached us with a list.

“Elizabeth?”

My heart was pounding so loudly I wondered if he could hear it. I tried to keep my voice level. “Yes?”

“You’re up next. Are you ready to go to the performance room?”

Don’t get nervous, don’t get nervous. Now is the worst possible time. I’ll ruin it now if I worry. Deep breaths, nice and slowly. Don’t panic. It’s alright. Just pretend that you’re practicing with Mrs. Wright and everything will be fine.

But my heart refused to believe my mind, and before I knew what was happening, I was standing nervously in the empty classroom facing an old man with a grim face. Alas, he was my judge, and my entire body was shaking. His hard gaze seemed to bore right into me, and he seemed to thrive and gain energy by feeding off of my fear. He began scribbling something on the paper in front of him then looked up at me with cold eyes. His voice was not amused, for he had been doing the same thing all day.

“Are you ready to play?”

Now, I knew this was a rhetorical question, for what would I do if I wasn’t ready? I hesitantly tightened the grip on my saxophone and nodded my head. My internal strategy had turned to one similar for ripping off a bandage- quick and painless.

And right then, my source of pain was the sight reading portion of the evaluation. Looking at music and being able to play it well the first time through was never one of my strong points, and it didn’t seem to be so now. I stumbled through the lines of music and wouldn’t meet the judicator’s gaze.

He was scribbling something down on the paper once again. Harsh, scraping movements of his hand told me that I hadn’t performed this section well. At least I had finished the hardest part first. It couldn’t possibly get any worse. But it could. And of course, it did.

The old man nudged his glasses with his finger up the bridge of his nose. He leaned in toward my direction and looked at me solemnly. “Play an E Minor scale.”

My heart stopped. I had spent hours upon hours learning and memorizing every scale that I could possibly think of, however, my mind was drawing a blank. Looking over at the shrewd old man, I knew that there was no time to waste. I picked a note and took a deep breath.

All I had to do was survive this. Just play up the scale and back down. Surely it wasn’t that hard. I continued to play in the key I selected, which luckily was the correct one. My fingers moved mechanically over the keys, and I didn’t pause to take any breaths at all, for fear of slowing down and losing my place.

The music stopped, and I was more surprised than anyone else in the room. The judge had stood up from his seat and walked over toward me. Something inside of me went cold and I fought the ever-growing urge to vomit. His face was uncomfortably close to mine when his eyes pierced into my heart and his gruff voice commanded, “Play a C- sharp. You missed the C- sharp on that scale.”

I panicked. My mind had become blank once again. What was a scale? I frantically pressed down every button on my instrument and blew hard.

“Good.”

I had played the correct note! I was so lucky I wanted to cry. My lips were shaking as I swallowed back my fear unsuccessfully. My insides were to the bursting point as I stared back at the old man.

“Are you ready to play your prepared piece?”

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, and nodded.