“Why don't you just go back to middle school where you belong? I'm going to crush you.” His name was David, and no bigger peacock existed among the high school trumpet players. He even wore studded cowboy boots to further emphasize that he was DA MAN!

“We will see about that, David,” was all I said. I grabbed my trumpet case and tucked the sheet music under my arm. I walked around until I found a new place to settle down. A cacophony of musical notes filled the classroom and the nervous energy was electric.

Unlocking the case revealed my shiny Bach trumpet that my parents got for me on a special trip after a standing ovation at my first grade recital. “Your daughter, Lori, has a tone I've never heard before. You've got something here. Nurture it,” observed a music teacher who had been in the audience. The next day we were on the Amtrak to New York City to buy the best of the best.

I oiled the valves and then began my scales: 

C - D - E - F# - G# - A# - C and repeated the second octave to hit the high C. 

My embouchure wasn’t warmed up enough yet to hit that ever glorious high C every time, and of course, David had to walk by when I missed one. 

“Was that a high C? Sounded like an easy G to me. Told you, you don’t belong here.”

[italics] Lori, stay focused. You belong here just as much as they do. You shouldn’t apologize for Mr. Csolak inviting you to try out for the high school marching band while still in eighth grade. [italics]

I was about to retort when Mr. Csolak emerged from his office. I held my tongue. 

“Auditions will begin in five minutes. I will ask the person I finish with to tell the next person when it is their turn. You will play a random scale, then you’ll give me your best rendition of Carnival of Venice. We’ll be done by 12:30 at which time we will break for lunch, I will deliberate, and then post results by 3 pm today on my office door. I will stay until 4:30 today for anyone who has any questions about how I judged their performance. Good luck to everyone!”

As if someone did a virtual drum roll, auditions began. I had my head down fumbling with the mouthpiece when I saw the familiar tips of those studded cowboy boots. “Your turn, little girl. Hope you don’t choke in there.” Remember, ignore him and stay focused.

Now, I entered Mr. Csolak’s office with trepidation thanks to David’s comment. I dropped my sheet music on the floor. “Lori, take a moment to get yourself together.”

“Thank you,” as I gathered my materials and put the sheet music on the stand. “Ok, I’m ready now.”

“Ok, give me a double octave C scale.” 

[italics]Oh brother. It’s been hit or miss all morning.[italics]

I picked up my trumpet, shook out my arms, raised the trumpet to my lips, and started to play. 

And then it happened. Musical nirvana. I played like an angel on a harp. And dominated the high C–holding it for an extra few seconds.

Next he asked me to give my best version of Carnival of Venice. I was in the zone and didn’t miss a note or a rhythm. .

I exited his office and immediately went outside and jumped in the air. After collecting myself I decided to take a walk and return at 3 p.m.

At 3:00 on the dot, Mr. Csolak appeared from his office with a sheet of paper and some scotch tape. We all gathered around while he taped it to the door, then he went back inside. I didn’t have to look far to see where I placed:

First chair: Jonny

Second chair: Lori

Third Chair: Vance

Fourth Chair: Harry

Fifth Chair: David

As we started to disperse, I turned back and said, “Hey, David, if you ever want to practice on hitting the high C, I’m happy to help.” You can’t take the high road all the time, I justified myself.

I started walking down the corridor and in the background I heard David pounding on Mr. Csolak’s door and yelling, “There must have been some mistake!”