Her with music. She thought about Dean Celeste Hanover, the judge of the competition, who would likely see her nonformal training as a joke among hundreds of contestants with credentials from Vienna to Giuliard. And she thought about herself, Monica Harris of today, who could stand in front of a national evaluation committee to defend an $80 million project without batting an eye, but had never dared to stand. Before a piano to tell her own story. By dawn, Monica still hadn't slept.
On the bedside table, the application form remained open. Not filled out, not signed. But one thing was certain. She hadn't put it away. And for someone like Monica, who was used to making decisions coldly and decisively, keeping a door slightly a jar was a sign of a storm.
On the horizon. The next morning, Monica walked through the iron gates of Stratford Conservatory at precisely 8:12, 48 minutes ahead of the final deadline to submit. The wildcard application. The air was crisp, and the morning mist still clung to the marble steps leading into the main hall. She wore a kneelength gray coat, sleeves rolled back to reveal the frayed cuffs of an old sweater, and carried a worn brown leather bag with a frayed strap.
No performance attire, no instrument, no business cards. The application was handwritten, the script slightly slanted, direct, and neat, just like the person who wrote it. In the music qualification section, Monica left it blank. In the piece to be performed section, she wrote four simple words as bare and raw as a challenge. Original untitled composition.
As soon as she stepped into the waiting area where the other contestants were sitting, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't loud, but there was an obvious change. The glances, the raised eyebrows, the conversations interrupted midway. A female student in a deep blue velvet dress leaned over to her friend, whispering just loud enough to be heard. Must be someone's mom dropping off a forgotten item.
Monica walked toward the registration desk where Meredith Clark, the Witmore program coordinator, was checking the printed list. A woman in her 40s with high bun black hair, silver rimmed glasses, and a name tag crookedly attached to her vest. Meredith looked up, her gaze polite but cautious. "Hello, how can I assist you?" "I'm here to submit the wild card application," Monica replied, placing the paper on the glossy wood desk.
Meredith paused briefly. Her eyes scanned Monica from head to toe, then lingered on the CEO part of her self-introduction. "You're a freelance artist?" Monica smiled, not bothering to adjust her tone or lower her voice. I'm a CEO, and I used to play music back when I still knew how to dream.
A quiet laugh came from the seats behind her. Then a male voice rose, unmasked. Oh, she probably plays Beethoven on an Excel spreadsheet, right? A few people chuckled. Another voice followed, low but sharp.