The first time I spoke to Jayce Evans, he was glaring at me over the top of his violin music book.
Twenty minutes before, he had graced the stage with his melody. The sound was ethereal and floaty, with a misty silver quality dancing around it; but yet not ready to fly as it was held down by velvet harmony and celestial notes. The song sparkled with sadness and regret. I imagined the various tones to be metallic bubbles riding the breeze out the open cherry-oak door, popping as they floated into the cerulean sky, until all that was left were reminiscent memories.
He bowed and strode off, taking a seat in the very back row.
He's won, I thought, glancing at him. I've got no chance against him.
The judges immediately huddled and began a long, heated whispered argument, one where the word "idiot" was used at least six times.
My mother sat tight-lipped next to me, pretending to rifle through a woman's interior decorating magazine. My father tapped his leather-clad foot against the plush carpeting, not looking at me. Around us, other parents were congratulating and hugging their children. I imagined that somewhere, the Overture of 1812 is playing on organ.
My held breath finally exhaled when the panel of judges chose me as the final winner. I walked up to the podium to retrieve my prize-$50 in cash, as well as a blue ribbon-feeling bewildered and a bit awkward, because I knew he deserved it more than me.
"Congratulations!" My mother's closed-mouth smile only lasted a fleeting two seconds before it vanished. My father nodded at me.
I walked up to him-his name was Jayce Evans, according to the program. "Hey, you...you were really good. You deserved to win." I considered offering him my prize money, but thought it'd be derogatory, as if I pitied him. Also, I wasn't sure how my parents would feel about that. Even though we definitely did not need the money-my father was a name partner in the law firm Chastain, Wagner, and Doyle, and my mother was a surgeon-they'd probably turn up their noses on giving competitors my prize awards.
He glowered at me. "I respect the judges' decision and will not take your prize," he said tightly. His voice had a clipped tone, like as if his words had been scripted. He turned his back on me and walked out, his black leather dress shoes clomping against the maroon carpeting. I watched his receding figure until he ambled out the glass automatic sliding double-door entrance and disappeared in the cluster of colorful automobiles in the parking lot.
Jayce Evans. I clutched my pastel-green paper program a little tighter.
On the way home from the Vivaldi Violinist Competition, Mother harangued me the entire time about my "horrendous posture" and my "appalling downbow." I nodded and replied with one-word answers, my mind drifting to Jayce and his sharp eyebrows, his eyes-the color of the caramel drizzle I always ordered on top of vanilla lattes, the magic he created with his bow and violin...
"Azure! Are you even listening?" Mother barked, turning around in her seat to frown at me.
"What-yes, I was!" I said defensively, leaning forward in the cream-colored leather seat.
"I hope you were. You almost lost to that other boy, that Jay Evans," she said.
"Jayce. His name is Jayce," I said, keeping my eyes glued to the beige floor of our Mercedes-Benz sedan.
"I've never seen Jay before at any other festivals or competition before," Father added, plowing over my words.
"Maybe he's new," Mother suggested. "He seems to be a threat to Azure, though. Perhaps she should practice more."
I wanted to say that no matter how much practicing I did, I would never be able to create the feeling his music has. That he had a connection with his violin I could never replicate.
But I stayed silent, letting my parents' babblings about extra practice hours to squeeze in and the district violin competition, which I had to register for soon if I wished to secure a place, wash over me.
