My stomach sinks as the door opens and the guy walks right out, a rather complacent smile plastered all over his face. He looks at me, up and down, and smirks again. It's riling me up, and I can't let this happen. I will not give him the time of day. I can tell he's waiting for something from me, maybe a good job or something similar. But he's playing the same piece as me and was damn near perfect. Like the gods of music taught him and threw him down from Olympus to play in front of all these people - just to torture me.

Did the jurors choose this on purpose? Did Henry know? I put my hands over my mouth and breathe heavily through my nose. What on God's green earth did I sign up for?

"You might want to go in there," he says, his voice hushed and low. Almost too intimate for the situation we're both in.

I don't even say a word. I pretend he is non-existent, maybe even a ghost. I can't allow myself to stoop to his level. I can feel the condescension in him. He reeks of self-assuredness, something that he wears better than his fancy tuxedo.

He mutters something under his breath as I open the door. The acrid scent of Edwardian-era wood brings me back to the old days. Recital hours and beer and pretzels after with my old roommate Betsy at Parallel Fifths.

And it's times when I'm about to go on stage that I think of Tristan Moreau and how he played a part in the scholarship issue.

I will not think about him in this moment because he doesn't deserve even a mention of his name.

My best friend turned into my biggest nightmare. Not now. Not when I have to go on stage in front of all these jurors.

As I walk on the stage, the jurors are silent, as expected, as they go over the scoring for the person before me. I've been through this rodeo before. I should not let this defeat me; I can't let him win. For if I do, how can I do my best?

"Contestant 13. You may approach the bench now," a male voice calls out from the auditorium.

My heart crumples up when I notice who is sitting as chairman of the jury. How could I forget his face? The one who went off to Oberlin after his time here at the conservatory.

Julien Deroche.

I can't bear to look at him for too long. He won the scholarship over me. It does not help that I see my mother up in the mezzanine. Her eyes reveal the line that straddles the boundary of knowing and complete apathy. And it kills me inside that I'm not welcome inside the exclusive "piano club" because of the scholarship loss. I am not worthy in her eyes and never will be. Why didn't she warn me that he would be a member of the jury?

The Steinway stands there, solitary with the pale spotlight illuminating its shiny ebony polish. The dust motes dance there as if they are relishing in the music of the god that has played before me. The motes fall to the scratched-up hardwood floor. How can I live up to that performance?

I don't know what's worse. My mother, or the descendant of the conservatory's founder scoring me.

Does he remember me? Tristan had posted proof of how I felt about Deroche all over campus, a letter that I meant to burn but he clearly read, and he never spoke to me again. This is going to be a disaster. Just great. I should never have auditioned for this competition. I'm done for.

My hands are like leaves on a dry branch, and I don't want the members of the jury to see me like this. I cannot let him see me like this, even though I doubt he remembers me.

I play the first chord. Fortissimo as the score dictates. C sharp-minor. I play it again and go down to the lowest C sharps on the keyboard. Octave. Another chord above. And then my hand rolls the sextuplet arpeggios. The roar of a dark-blue foghorn rests on top of my hand.

My synesthesia.

If I look up, all I will see are balls of color floating around everywhere. If I at least keep my fingers on the piano, the color will flick off of them as if I'm literally touching color itself.

I feel it against my skin now, the music. The notes tingle against my arms, my neck. The C sharp minor runs against the hammering tenth intervals crystallize into darker, warmer colors like red as my hands glide across the keys, as the music bleeds into the main romance theme. I've always loved the glitter that shows up in the red and blue that skirt just close enough to mesh with each other, but pull away at the last moment.

It's here where I have the potential to melt entirely. If I take one step further, I'll lose myself completely. If I take that plunge and surrender, I am gone, and the music will turn to mush. I cannot succumb. I am the current.

The arpeggios in the left hand glitter as they thicken into blue, washing the piano like ink all around me. The dark-red runs are mixed with the chords descending as the main melody sighs into the music.

But the moment is short-lived as it disappears into the recapitulation, and this time the notes are even more relentless. Stacked full octave chords underneath the sextuplets that taunt me, but I stand straight and play the final chords as strong and confident as I can make them.

And the last C sharp minor chord - a glittering dark-blue mixed with red. The colors had spent so much time fighting each other, almost meshing together - until the very end. The colors float together, completely intertwined above me and up into the ceiling.

"Thank you, Contestant 13," Julien says, scrawling down something on his paper. "You may leave the bench. Please wipe it for the next contestant."

I look down at my open hands, and my heart sinks. The guy before did an incredible job, and I was the weak one compared to him. How can I win over that? These jury people. I should be mad - I should be reeling, but I know this is how these competitions work. I should have prepared myself better for this particular situation.

I leave, knowing I laid my soul bare for those people, even if it was just for seven minutes. All the blood, sweat and tears for the toil over this piece. It's all over now and in the past, even though I can still feel the music lingering through the colors that are still all around me and in the rafters of the ceiling. I know that the jury is supposed to remain silent, but I want to know now how I did. This waiting is going to make it like my heart's been through the garbage disposal a hundred times over.

Henry is standing by the door, and there's no one in the hallway right now but us. He gives me a thumbs up and smiles at me.

"Good job," he says, his voice so soft I almost can't make out what he's saying. "Between you and me, you did better than the other guy. He was ice cold. You were all spirit and fire, Corrie."

"Thanks."

I guess it's nice that I was all spirit and fire. But did my mom think so? Did Julien Deroche and his pen think so? I saw him scrawling down notes with such vigor that I thought he was going to break his pen.

"Now go before we're caught talking," he shoos me away, then waves.

I walk away, toward the hallway where the mezzanine is. I know I'm not allowed to be up there, and that Mom got special rights to watch the contestants for fun because of who she is, but I want so badly to find her and ask her how I did. If the performance was worthy in her eyes. If I slip up there quietly and go up the stairs, maybe no one will notice.

I exit the hallway, and sure enough, my plans to be the next best stealthy ninja slash concert pianist are thwarted by the presence of two people. The guy in the tux from earlier is with another woman who seems familiar to me, but there's something different about her.

"I told you," he says, digging his finger into her chest as he leans closer to the other woman. "I told you to be here. You don't show up until after I'm done playing?"

"Look, I didn't mean to be late. It was Chef Mark - he had me working late."

"Oh, Chef Mark," he says, almost mocking her tone. "The one person you could have told that you needed to leave early. God, you're so dense."

"Come on, I tried. But he's persistent. And besides, the tips are good over there."

"Is everything okay?" I ask. "Y'all should probably take this outside. You guys are getting pretty loud, and there are people here in the competition." I point to the sign that says no conversations while contestants are playing.

The other woman narrows her eyes at me and then frowns as she walks up to me, her brow furrowed and her nose wrinkling as she continues to approach me. Her eyes widen as her mouth drops. She's about to say something, but closes her eyes.

I'm half-expecting her to fight me on something, but instead she breaks into a smile as she approaches me.

"Corrie?" she asks, her eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas.

"Yeah," I say. "Wait, I know you. Betsy? Betsy Landry?"

"Yes! Oh my God, I haven't seen you in ages. Babe, come here." She waves the guy over, and I know he does not want to come over. "It's Corrie."

"I know," he says, his voice falling into a hush. "She played the same fucking piece as me. Corrie Frederick," he says, his eyes rolling.

"How have you been?" she asks, clasping her hands together. "God, it's been ages. Tristan," she says, turning away again and gesturing for him to come over. "Come and see Corrie."

Tristan. Tristan Moreau. I didn't even recognize my best friend turned bully. And wait? Betsy and him - together? She couldn't even stand him back in the day.