The swell of my last note trembled not only inside my hands or my violin but also inside my chest. My heart shook like a skinny tree during a storm, and a single raindrop slipped from my eye and down my round cheek. I vibrated as if I could shake to pieces. The threads holding my person together frayed. The world around me was a black void, and I stood alone with only that last note. That note meant everything. It meant spending the night in my human form, before dawn where I'll become a swan again to swim forever in a lake made of tears. It meant while I longed to be human, I felt more poise and beautiful as a beast. It meant finding love.

Applause busted my bubble and reality faded back in. I took a sharp breath, holding the misery in my chest, keeping it down like I was going to hurl it all over the stage. Oh god. I don't think anyone has done that before. I really didn't want to be the first. I refocused on the small audience in our high school auditorium, my fellow band geeks, and for the next hour, my competition. Our band director, Mr. Burka, joined in with the clapping.

"Thank you, Lizzie," he said from behind his round spectacles. He had thick coiled curls with hints of gray. He had impressive crow's feet from obviously not taking life too seriously, and beige skin.

"Uh, you're welcome- I mean, thank you," I said, immediately wishing I could suck the words back in like spaghetti noodles. Someone in the crowd snorted, making their amusement known and suddenly, I was no longer a violinist on stage, I was the clown.

He jotted something down on his clipboard. He opened his mouth to say more, but all I could hear was the whispering. The crowded area of the brass section leaned into each other, eying me and saying whatever they wanted. It didn't matter if I knew they were talking about me and it was not good.

My face warmed, a wetness overflowing into my waterline and I hiccupped.

"Oh, god," I whispered and hiccupped again.

"Everything okay?" Mr. Burka asked the worst question in the world.

"Um, yes," I piped up, hearing the crack. Talking made it worse. Talking always made it worse. The pressure in the front of my face pushed harder, pushed me right off the cliff and my eyes burned, begging for the tears to douse the fire. I gripped the neck of my violin the way someone would hold onto a friend for support. Having a handle on my emotions was more like lassoing a bull. Out of control. Could turn on me any moment and murder me. Their whispers created weapons, pointing at me and shooting bullets through my confidence. When things fell apart, they fell fast, and I wasn't quick enough to catch all the pieces.

Why did Mr. Burka insist on having everyone out in the crowd during auditions? The situation is just asking for disaster. Statistics have shown that in every five girls making a presentation, at least one will cry, and I found that source straight from the paranoid part of my brain right now. Maybe it was why I went first, so I could lower the bar. I could take this for the team. Being the girl that always cried.

"Now, let's go over the sheet music. Can you read me the first stave, please?" Mr. Burka asked. I looked at him, swallowing my need to make a face. We both knew I could read sheet music. I'm in his class every day and with him during band practice. I played the piano for him if he needed to focus more on conducting. It should be like reciting my ABC's and yet, a lump formed in my throat, a high vault my words were forced to jump over.

"Y-yeah." I nodded and took a deep breath. My fingers itched. I'd much rather be at the piano. I wanted my fingers to keep busy, instead of picking up the sheet music with trembling fingers. A rush of whispers exploded from the corner of the auditorium. I heard my name. I heard a mocking sound of a baby crying.

Mr. Burka shot a glare at the peanut gallery, but that only threw them into a fit of giggles, delighted by being caught. He turned back to me with a more encouraging smile. "Starting from the treble clef, Lizzie..."

I nodded again, sucking in my lips. It was like trying to tighten the lid around a jar, keeping the tears at bay, but my hands were sweaty and I was never going to be voted "most likely to throw John Cena over my shoulders, Bowser style'. I was more likely to not be voted anything because everyone forgot about me. I longed for that power of invisibility at this very moment.

"I um-" I licked my lips and tried not to focus on all the things that made me nervous, but that just forced me to think of them more and the first tear escaped my eyes. My emotions staged a riot and led to an entire revolt. "I'm sorry," I said, choking back a sob. I ducked my head and ran right off the stage.

#

"Dude." Andrea nudged me with her converse and I choked on my gum. I didn't even hear her walk into the bathroom. The drama department had their own bathrooms in the hall that separated the choir and band room, which helped during shows. Even now, it smelled like sweet hair oils the other girls used to protect their hair from piping hot irons. Feeling sorry for myself, I sat on the cold tile, listening to Daniel Powter's Bad Day on repeat. I take an Advil for headaches, Tums for heartburn and I listen to Daniel Powter when I make an absolute fool of myself.

"Are you..." Andrea squinted through her round glasses, "okay?"

"Yeah, I'm like jumping for joy. I think I'm gonna get a tattoo of a lake to commemorate this day, like right on my face." I ripped out my headphones. The music gently echoed against the walls now that they were free from my ear wax prison.

"Whoa. The rage is spicy today, huh?"

"Maybe I'll get a muddy lake tattooed right over my face and disappear into obscurity."

"No, no, you might as well commit and tattoo the swan. She gets top billing."

Andrea was a second chair clarinet player. She owned every legging design known to man, sporting a galaxy on her legs today and a long flowy black shirt. Her black hair was new, box braids that she compiled on top of her head into a bun. She had cool black skin like the embers at the bottom of a fire. Her eyes flickered with flecks of that burning light. All my life, I've gravitated towards people who were everything I wasn't as if they could possibly fill in my own blanks. Andrea wore what she wanted. Andrea didn't shy from her curves. Andrea changed her hair every month.

Though, my mother would probably strangle me for most of the things on that list.

If the police asked my mother, "Why did you do it? Why did you kill your only daughter?" My mother would say, "She modified the hair on her head, the hair that I gave her that I spent eleven months creating. Elizabeth and I have the same hair. Changing it would be saying she wanted to change something about me."

"Well," Andrea shrugged and joined me on the floor, "if it makes any difference, your audition sounded amazing. I always get goosebumps when you play. It's crazy. You just lose yourself. You know, like you're really there watching Odette transform. I was waiting for ballet dancers to pirouette or whatever on stage."

"And that's my problem," I muttered and shifted my sleeves higher around my palm, bunching the cotton into my fist. Hiding my face, I pressed my hands against my eyes. "I just want to rip out my tear ducts. God, I'm never gonna hear the end of this." I sniffed, feeling the pressure build again.

"Oh, Lizzie, you're allowed to be emotional. Don't let them take that away from you." Andrea sighed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, bringing me into her comforting embrace. She had no words and maybe I didn't want her to say anything. I was sick of hearing the same thing I've already heard a thousand times.

Just relax.

Why do you have to take them seriously?

Ignore them.

Don't let them get to you.

It's okay to be emotional.

I scooted out of her arms and wiped the tears and sadness from my eyes. This serious talk was too much and the tension felt suffocating. I wanted to brush today all under the rug. "Man," I mumbled, letting out a shaky laugh, "I'm so glad I didn't wear eyeliner today."

Andrea laughed, sounding relieved I wasn't going to be hanging like the backstage hand from the Phantom of the Opera. "No way, can you imagine the drama? It would have been iconic." We both laughed and let the awkwardness fade away. My phone buzzed and buzzed again, letting me know it was a phone call and not a text I could just ignore or read later. If someone was calling me, it must be serious, or my dad needed me to talk him out of buying something useless from Goodwill.

A picture of my cousin, Camille, flashed on the screen. She wore big red heart glasses and was kissing my cheek. It was a picture of our last family vacation. I'm laughing with my mouth open, a reminder of happier times. I answered, "Hey, what's up?"

"Tell me you're not busy," Camille begged and I could feel the ooze of her sickly sweet smile spittle out of my phone receiver. "Will you go to Olivia's party with me? I need a plus one!"

"She needs a ride," Andrea muttered.

'Bad Day' began playing again. I looked down at my sheet music and my violin case. I said, "I'm not busy."

Andrea rolled her eyes. At once, we got up and I started shoving everything into my bag, maybe a tad harder than necessary. "Hey, if Mr. Burka asks about me," I said before Andrea made it out of the bathroom, "tell him dust got in my eyes."

"Sure, Lizzie," Andrea snorted and left me alone with Daniel Powter's velvet voice.

#

Man, we all knew the girl that cried during a presentation. And it's probably obvious I was not a band girl. I did community theater (like a cool kid). So, if the sheet music test didn't sound authentic, let me know!