She looked at me like I was nuts. “Obviously.”
“He’s just doing that to try and seem tough. He’s like those red pandas that jump up on their hind legs when they’re scared.” They’re so darn cute.
Devlin stayed late last week to help Barry work through a particularly tricky transition without prompting. Devlin put all the chairs away after practice so Erin’s mom didn’t have to when she polished the rehearsal space floor. Nobody else noticed these things?
Her jaw dropped. “Red panda? No. More like grizzly bear. And I don’t think it’s an act. Man’s got some anger issues he needs to work through.”
I shrugged.
“Are you going to decline today?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he forgot he asked. Want to stay here and hold my hand while I talk to him?” I joked, but a little part of me wouldn’t have minded if she did.
“I think you’ll regret missing this opportunity if you don’t help him. You are amazing. You hold back at auditions.” As she spoke her dark eyebrows moved up and down behind her glasses.
I frowned. “No, I don’t.”
“You do. You’re better than you let on. Lord knows why. But this could really jumpstart your career.”
An icy dread shot through me. “Yeah,” was all I could mumble.
“Shit. There he is.” She waved goodbye and tossed her gum in a small trash can as she ran to her seat. “Good luck,” she half-whispered, half-yelled.
I completed my own mad dash back to my chair. Devlin stomped up to the podium, still in his biker boots. The scent of cold air and leather followed him as he passed.
We were all in our seats, tuned and ready before he lifted the baton. “Let’s go. Where we left off last week.” He tapped the stand.
There was a flurry of turning pages, and just like that, we were off. The Devil was his typical unrelenting self as we practiced Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture for the summer performance in July. He didn’t acknowledge me. Not me personally. Nothing more than “Cellos, wake up!”
I wanted to jump up and scream, “Hey, remember how you rode your motorcycle to my ever-loving house asking for my help? Because I sure do!” But instead, as always, I sat quietly, awaited instructions, and studied him in brief glances.
At first, the mask and hat were a continued source of gossip and rumors spread of what could be hidden underneath. Disfigurement? Criminal past? But as time went on, he acted like they were invisible, and it became part of his persona. Like we were the crazy ones for noticing it. Reverse emperor’s new clothes. He never brought them up. A poor trombonist casually joked about his mask, and had subsequently gotten the nastiest glare of a lifetime. Nobody had mentioned them since. To be honest, I got used to seeing them, just like anything else. It was a part of him. If anything, they made the intensity in his glare all the more unnerving and highlighted the ferocity of his movements.
At the first break, he stripped out of his leather coat. How had he even worn it this long with the lights on him and his dynamic motions? He deftly unbuttoned the cuffs of his white button-up dress shirt and rolled them up to the elbows, one at a time. The white material stuck to his damp skin. His forearms were unreal. Probably from gripping the handles of his motorcycle. A shudder ran through me.
He was the conductor, so my watching him would go unnoticed. Nobody would see how I memorized the way his forearms flexed as he gripped the baton and his other hand moved with practiced ease as it waved the brass to come in.
I shot my gaze across the practice space to Erin. Her lips were pursed around her reed and her cheeks were dimpled with exertion, but she managed a quick nod with wide eyes as though to say, “I saw it too, girl, and yes I need a towel for all this drool,” or something along those lines.
I smiled and pow, pow, bang! There went the timpani signifying the climax of the piece. Emotion filled my chest. It was thrilling music, perfect for the Fourth of July outdoor concert just a few short months away. It was a safe bet as a crowd pleaser, and no doubt why he’d chosen it for the SOOK’s first public show with him as conductor.
My heart, the ol’ softy, swelled with the ringing bells as the patriotic piece built to the famous climactic ending. ‘Merica, yeah! Tchaikovsky did not write this for America, but let’s be honest—it was ours now. With fireworks exploding in the background, this was about as American as Chevy trucks.
The music built until we all worked up a sweat; even the gentle flutists were pink with exertion. I swayed in my seat, my heart rate clambering along with the tempo. Barry, the second-chair cellist in front of me, had a Florida-shaped sweat stain on his back.
Devlin bent forward, arms out wide, fingers beckoning. “Hold!” he screamed over the note. “Hold it! Don’t dim. Strings come on! Louder!”
Grins split as sweat dripped down our faces. Arms shook with ferocity as we struggled to maintain the note. The brass section had to be close to passing out at this point.
He pinched off the note abruptly and we all stopped, bows lifted and mouths opened. The air held that last note as our ears adjusted to the sounds of heavy breaths and a few relieved huffs of laughter. He lowered his arms. We smiled around the room at each other, feeling that thrill of a job well-done. There was something absolutely magical about a room full of different instruments forming one perfect composite of sound. I pressed down the goosebumps on my arm.
We waited with bated breath as Devlin gripped the podium, head down and shoulders heaving.
“We need so much more practice,” he growled, his head still down.
I shot a glance to Erin again as she slumped back, spreading out her Converse clad feet. She was obviously preparing herself for the lecture we all knew was headed our way. It hadn’t taken long to learn the new conductor’s habits.
“Just not enough.” He linked his fingers on top of his black baseball cap, his arms framing his head like he couldn’t handle it. And I was definitely not noticing how his biceps bulged at the action, pulling the fabric to capacity, because his temper was appalling and juvenile and I would never support that. But also, daaayum.
“The violas were late coming in. The cellos lacked gusto. Don’t get me started on the brass section. And for the love of God, who dropped their bow?”
I hunched, hiding as much as I could behind the neck of my cello. So much for thinking maybe he’d go a little soft on me now that he was asking for my help. My cheeks burned with humiliation. His critique of the cellos wasn’t all on me, but it felt that way.
The only good thing about this rant was that it signified a break. A violinist started to loosen her bow and Devlin shot her a glare.
“Did I say we were done?” he asked in a scary calm tone.
Color drained from her face. It wasn’t her fault. His lectures, typically at the end of rehearsal, were like Pavlov’s bell. If ever I felt a lecture coming on, I got an overwhelming urge to pack something up. He seemed more wound-up than normal, even for him, and that was saying something.
He brought his face forward and lowered his voice. “I have an announcement.” Nobody moved or spoke. Eyes flicked to gauge the reactions of the other players. “The SOOK will be re-auditioning for chair selections.” Nobody spoke while we waited for more information. That couldn’t have been right. “For each section,” he added on.