I clutch at the oboe case in my hand. When I complained to her about the applications and not getting anywhere, she reminded me that it’s not even been a full week and I need to chill, then offered to help me with my auditions.
I never asked what she meant by “help.”
“There’s a busking platform in the tube station here that has great lighting.”
“Okay?”
“And I’m going to get a video of you performing at it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
My brain screams a red alert. I have a few audition pieces that I can whip out at any point, but that’s for a real audition. Not for an impromptu show while people are running to catch their train. I feel my heartbeat punch through my body.
“I can’t do this.”
“You can,” Sophie says. “Most of us at Knightsbridge have done it. It gets easier after the first time.”
“There’s going to be another time?!”
Sophie laughs. She explains the full plan: I need a video portfolio that includes more than just my stuffy award performances. A social media presence that shows my personality, she explains, and then she goes into detail about all the benefits of being active and building a following. And it sounds like a whole lot of things I’d rather not do.
But in the end, I want a job. Even if that means performing a solo in front of hundreds of people. And don’t get me wrong—I like performances. I like playing my oboe for people.
Except, I like playing for people who (1) have volunteered to hear one of the shrillest instruments on this planet and (2) are sitting down and paying attention. In the tube, people are neither.
“I wish Megan were here,” I say, mostly to myself.
Sophie veers off the sidewalk, taking us through the grass. “Who?”
“My best friend. From home, that is. She’s really good at pushing me out of my shell.”
“Want to give her a ring?” she asks. “I’m sure you could use a positive pep talk right about now.”
I laugh at the idea. It’s almost a scoff.
“It wouldn’t be positive,” I say. “She can be pretty aggressive about it, actually.”
Sophie stops to lean against a tree, and I feel an enormous relief knowing this pit stop could delay us for a few more minutes. I take in a breath.
She puts out her fists in a fighting pose. “What, need me to give you a couple punches? Whip you into shape?”
I roll my eyes.
She gives me a smile. “Just trying to be a supportive friend here.”
“Well, she’s never hit me,” I say. “But she’s … I guess she’s been pretty rough, verbally.”
She stares into the trees for a bit, and I feel a calmness surround her. I can already tell Sophie’s a lively person, excitable at times and cautious at others, but she seems to know how to choose her words. I envy that in her, right now.
“But when it comes to my anxiety, it’s like I can’t do anything.” I start to sweat, and I realize it’s a cold one—my body starts to shiver in the eighty-degree heat. “I don’t want to be like this, you know?”
Before we go into the station, she pulls me to the side and looks right at me. “Oh, Marty. Don’t say that. And don’t beat yourself up about it. So you need a push sometimes? Tell you what: I’ll push you out of your comfort zone, but I won’t be a bully about it. How’s that?”
I don’t know if Megan’s a bully, or if she’s necessary in my life, or what. But I’ve never been this transparent about it.
“Thanks,” I say. “I still don’t think I can do this.”
She laughs. “We’ll see about that.”
I clutch my oboe case and take the stairs one at a time. Drawing it out as much as I can. Sophie grabs my arm and pulls me through the station.
And I hear something. Music, the sweet pluckings of a classical guitar. It almost makes sense in this setting, tinny chords splayed out by fast-moving fingers.
I turn the corner, half expecting to see some Spanish guitar master slash bullfighter, cape and all, even though I know that’s a horrible generalization of an entire culture. Damn, my American is showing.
But when I turn, I see … well, a cute guy. His eyes are pressed closed as he sways to the music. He’s in all grays—light jeans and a V-neck sweater—and he flips his head back like he’s got this massive head of hair, but his buzz cut isn’t budging.