Ray paused, waiting to be acknowledged. Would they all come running to him, the associate concertmaster? Appalachian State passed him by. So did Duke. UNC looked at him vacantly and then headed toward a blond girl who’d sat a few seats behind him. It was as if he were a human-shaped block of wood or a potted plant: something to be bypassed on their way to someone else. Unaccosted, he made it to the front of the stage and was about to head down to the audience level, and then on to the waiting buses outside, when he heard his name.
He turned, almost knocking over a cello case. It was Shawn. “Oh, hey, man,” Ray said. “I was looking for you. You sounded great today.”
“Likewise,” Shawn said, “although I couldn’t really hear you over all twelve million violins. We should keep in touch. Let me know what school you end up going to.” They exchanged emails.
“Great meeting you. Maybe we can catch up once school is out. If you see Janelle, tell her I said bye and that it was nice meeting her.”
“Yeah, absolutely.” Shawn said, looking behind Ray at someone. “Take care, man.”
“Ray?”
He turned. Dr. Stevens, wearing a Markham University blazer, smiled from ear to ear.
“Dr. Stevens, hi!”
“Hello. I hope I’m not being too out of line when I first say congratulations on a terrific performance, and an even bigger congratulations on your associate concertmaster seat. That’s quite an accomplishment in itself—let alone for a first-time orchestra member.”
“Thank you. I just did my best.”
“I know you did. That’s why I am hoping you’ll accept the university’s offer. I’m authorized to offer you a full music scholarship to study with me.”
The world seemed to slow for a moment, the auditorium lights contracting around her.
“The scholarship would cover full tuition, and room and board, but you’d have to pay for your own books and miscellaneous materials. February is a little late to apply, so we’d have to get you in the system right away. I’m authorized to waive your application fees if you apply before Thursday. Housing assignments don’t begin until the summer, so you’re okay on that front. How does that sound? What do you think?”
He tried to speak but just kept opening and closing his mouth.
Dr. Stevens’s grin only widened, if that was possible. “I know this may seem like a lot all at once. I understand that you might need to talk it over with your family.”
“Yeah.” Hope and exhilaration fizzed in his veins—but his mom would never let him go. Dr. Stevens handed him two business cards: the university card she’d already given him and the other for the admissions director.
“Is your family here? I’d love to meet them.”
“Uh—they couldn’t make it.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “Go home, think about what I’ve said. Talk to your family. Email or call me when you make a decision, but don’t wait too long. If we don’t hear from you by the end of next week, I’ll have to offer the scholarship to another prospective student.” She looked at him hard. “This could be the start of a meteoric career for you, if that’s what you want.”
“Uh—yeah. Yeah. It’s what I want. I need to talk to my mom, though. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope so. Congratulations again.” She shook his hand and disappeared into the crowd.
Outside, in the weak late-afternoon light, kids and their families were moving on, shouting goodbye, the mournful thunks of car doors closing. He was one of only three students to ride the charter bus home. He stared out the window the entire way, thinking and trying not to think.
* * *
—
His mother and the twins were in the living room: the twins, as usual, glued to their spots in front of the TV, his mom on her phone on the sofa. “Your food is on the stove.” Their dinner plates, stacked with chicken bones, glistened greasily on the glass coffee table. He dropped the violin and his duffel in his room, went into the kitchen and made up his plate. Mashed potatoes, string beans, chicken breast. He put it in the microwave.
Voices bounced around in his head:
You need to find a real job.
This could be the start of a meteoric career.
Down the hall to the bedroom. Something made him notice the pictures framed on the walls: pictures of each twin over the past three years—his brother mugging for the camera in his baseball and basketball uniforms; his sister and a half dozen other little girls squashed into white tutus at the local community center’s ballet recital. There was only one of Ray, with his mom and dad, from when Ray was a baby. His mom wasn’t smiling.