Nightmare

This story is © copyrighted to Adrienne Wolter in 2003 and onwards. It was written on Friday, November 14th, 2003. Do not take this story.

Although this story does feature a girl who is a cellist and is a part of a chorus, it is not autobiographical. This is a possible sequel to "Concert".

Nightmare

My orchestra teacher had taken a temporary leave–she was going to Florida for five weeks. That meant that not only would we have the last four concerts of 11th grade with a substitute orchestra teacher, but also a lesson every other day with them.
The first lesson with the substitute, Mr. Marchbank, went okay. There was no panic, and I played as well as usual. He nodded and told me I’d be tested on scales and the orchestra music the day after tomorrow. I nodded also and when I’d left the room, I stared at one of my orchestra pieces.
I hadn’t finished learning the song yet.

The next day was an orchestra meet, in the room used for both chorus and orchestra. It was a really nice room; three large steps were covered in chairs and we had room to play on them. The front wall was covered in plaques and awards for both the chorus and orchestra. On the left wall were newspaper articles and photographs of the chorus; on the right were an equal number of such for the orchestra.
Mr. Marchbank came in and looked around at us until we fell quiet and were in our own seats. He mass-tuned us, telling us to play the strings together and listen if ours were different, and then had us play Thunder March straight through. As some of the violinists squeaked on their high notes, he smirked; as the low section went off-beat for a measure, he frowned. As the song finished, he did not congratulate us on our nice appearance, with the bows staying together throughout the piece, nor did he tell us specific parts of the song that he liked or disliked. In fact, he only said four words.
“That needs some work.”
I watched the expectant faces of the nearby violists turn pretty gloomy, and the ‘character’ of the orchestra, Alan, muttered to his standparter about something that was apparently pretty funny. She turned red with her silent giggles, crouched behind her music stand.
“Now, I want you to go to part F, and I want you to play until part G. Pay close attention to the eighth rests and the crescendos.”
We did as he told us, and I thought we played better than the first time, but still he had nothing to say. We played through each song, and each time he didn’t like it. The bell rang and we left extremely quickly. I wasn’t late for lunch for once; usually I stayed behind to talk to my orchestra teacher, who had been teaching me since 6th grade.

During my lesson the next day, he made me play through Thunder March and do four scales, all of which were advanced ones. I did well, in my opinion, for both. He gave me a C on the playing test.
“I deserve more than a C!” I yelled out. My lesson partners looked up from the music they were reviewing to look at Mr. Marchbank in alarm.
“While I am the teacher of your orchestra, I am determined to make all of you better players. To do this, I need to toughen up the laid back attitude you have come to expect in your orchestra teacher. And some of you just aren’t fit to play an instrument.”
Speechless, I stared at him, anger radiating off of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if steam were coming out of my ears.
“You are implying,” I started, taking a sharp breath, “that I am not ‘fit’ to play the cello?”
He put his chin up a little higher, looking arrogant. “Yes, I am.”
My right hand, which was clutching my instrument, was shaking as much as the rest of my body was. I didn’t want to break my cello, so I carefully set it down, then proceeded to wish bad luck upon him in my head. Then I tossed my hands out, and left the room at a quick walk, which turned to a run as I stumbled through hallways lined with classes in session. I got to the office before someone stopped me.

The counselor. “What are you doing out of class?!”
I didn’t respond. She continued talking. “I wanted to ask you about your interim, however. You have been a straight-A student since you came here. Why are you getting grades like these now?”
She handed me my report card, and as I held it, watching it in absolute horror, I watched the very top grade, for geometry, morph from an A- into a D. My Advanced Literature grade dissolved into an F. Spanish, D. Chorus, D. Drivers’ Ed., C-. Orchestra, F.
“I didn’t... I didn’t get these grades....” I looked up at the name on the report card. Mine. This interim was my interim.

Seated in my last period, I stared at the Spanish test that had been placed in front of me. The words swam before my eyes, and I couldn’t understand any of them; the pencil slid around in my sweat-drenched hand, making it impossible to write. I ran out of the classroom, shaking, disbelieving....
And sat up in bed, shaking, face lined in dried-up tears.