She was looking through the walls to the piano on the other side of that door. The piano she had only been allowed to dust, but never to touch. The black wooden door creaked open. The coordinator stepped out from the performance waiting room, calling the last name on the morning list in a flat, somewhat reluctant tone. Monica Harris.
Monica stood up. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor filled the unusual silence. A few contestants exchanged glances. Preston let out a soft whistle. And Jordan, still sitting at the end of the hallway, simply nodded slightly, saying nothing as if sending a message.
It's your turn now. She walked through the door, light but decisive. Inside was a smaller auditorium than the main one with a light colored wooden stage and three spotlights casting golden beams onto the Steinway Model D piano. On the judging podium, three judges sat behind a long table covered with a green velvet cloth. In the middle was Dean Celeste Hanover, a silver hair pinned up, a flawless cream blazer without a wrinkle, and a pair of thin rimmed glasses.
That gleamed with every small movement from the contestants. Monica stopped at the center of the stage, standing straight. No smile, no bow for politeness, just her presence, whole and silent, like a long pause in a piece of music. Dean Hanover pushed her glasses up with her fingertip, her voice even and steady. Miss Harris, I see here you've chosen to perform an original composition.
No sheet music? No. And you are without any academic background. I learned from life. A slight shift passed through the two judges beside her.
A middle-aged man with curly brown hair, his eyes skeptical. The other, a younger woman, focused on taking notes without looking up. Hanover tilted her head. Her gaze was no longer exploratory, but more like assessing an unfamiliar ingredient placed into the kitchen of a Michelin star restaurant. Then, with a smile that was both velvet and edged with steel, she spoke, "I think that old upright piano in the corner of the room might suit your unique style better."
The room seemed to pause for a beat. The upright, the mahogany piano, tucked away in the corner, hadn't been used in any competition for years. It was old, the keys yellowing, some notes no longer in tune, the pedals loose. Everyone understood the implication. You're not worthy of the main piano.
Monica stood still. She understood this arrangement well. She had been invited to sit at the table too many times in life, but never with the right to touch the microphone. Listed on the roster, but never truly a contender. Called to the stage, but always as the one introducing, never the main character.