The Violinist

I forced a smile, "You did... you did so well," I told her.

She was about to say something else, but the other performers swarmed around her and congratulated her.

I felt dizzy. I did not know why, but I felt dizzy. I walked towards my mother who was seated with the audience. I kissed her cheek, and she smiled at me sweetly.

"I'm so proud of you," she said, as she always did. I simply smiled back.

Six more performed, and the applause they received was tepid and polite. It seemed as though Emily's performance had drained the audience. Once the last performer finished, the music school's principal walked on stage with a microphone.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to announce our Most Outstanding Students from this summer's Musical Classes. Starting with the violinists..."

Ever since I was eight, I placed in the top three. Ever since I was thirteen, I have always gotten first place. I expected the same this year, though I had a nagging feeling that it would be different. Emily's piece resonated within my ears.

Relax, I thought to myself. She did great, yes, but she played wildly, and she didn't follow the sheet music. The judges must be furious with her. You have nothing to worry about. The best she could hope for was second.

Third place was silence to me, though there was applause. Second place caught my ears. The principal said my name, "Penelope Tales." For a moment, I was confused. I looked at the stage, and there was only the third placer, and the principal. She held a silver medal. There was a smacking of hands, and hushed murmurs amongst the audience. It seemed they were as confused as I was. I slowly stood from my chair, and walked up the stage, where the principal placed the silver medal around my neck. It was itchy and made me uncomfortable. My eyes were wide open, in search of who could've possibly placed first. My mind tried to recall any excellent pieces I may have heard from the other performers. Any performance that would've surpassed mine. Beethoven's Kreutzer rang in my ears, except it was no longer Beethoven's.

"And our first place is Emily Salas," the principal announced. Another standing ovation. Emily walked up the stage with a look of disbelief and utter happiness. She got her picture taken when the principal placed the golden medal around her neck. She stood between me and the third placer while our parents took pictures. I wasn't smiling. I felt dizzy, and the bright lights were irritating.

As we drove home, my mother seemed to have been able to read my mind, though maybe it was the fact that I was fumbling with the medal.

"You're still amazing, Penelope. I bet you'll get gold again next year," she said.

"Yeah," was all I could say.

I appreciated what my mother was trying to do, but she didn't understand. I've been in love with the violin since I was seven, and I've practiced every day since I started taking lessons. I have been playing for longer than anyone else in that class. Yet despite all that, despite having perfected my strokes and flexed my fingers over all these years, I was bested by Emily. A girl who picked up the violin only two months ago. How could she have played better than me if she doesn't have as much passion as I do? No one has as much passion as I do.

That same evening, I couldn't sleep. I rolled around on my bed, displacing and replacing my pillows in the dark. A nearby streetlamp being the only light that entered my room. So I decided, as I often do whenever I can't sleep, to pick up my violin.

I pressed it between my cheek and shoulder, and began playing. I played loudly and quickly. I wasn't necessarily angry, but my frustrations lead my strokes and fingers. I did not know what I was playing, but it sounded familiar. I do not recall learning this sequence of notes, but I felt like I've known it for a long time. When I thought to stop playing, I didn't. It was as if there was something else guiding my hands. It was powerful and thrilling music that emanated from my violin. I stood there with no control yet my body flailed, my fingers danced on the strings, and my arm stroked the bow like a madwoman. I stood there in the dark, in my pajamas, with only the streetlamp illuminating me. It would've been a beautiful scene if I wasn't somewhat scared and confused.