Preparation

The gentle taps of Converse^TMsneakers and a couple clacks from a few pairs of high heels echo through the backstage area. Everyone is trying to stay silent, as to not alert our waiting audience to our presence. Silent fingers run over notes, reminding ourselves of familiar patterns one last time.

I slide the black-laquered bench away from it's matching instrument. In the barely-there-light, I set the music up on the attached stand. My fingers run softly and silently over the familiar keys. I close my eyes and let out a soft sigh.

We have been waiting for this; preparing, practicing, perfecting our parts. We fit together, like pieces of the same puzzle. Yet, we are our own part, as different as night and day from each other.

As the conductor walks out, joining us behind the curtain, heart rates increase. We seem to draw a collective breath. The moment is upon us; no more time to prepare. As our leader checks the pitches and tones of the wind instruments, I
can not help but to look around at my comrades, heading forth in to this battle along side me. I can see nervous smiles, no doubt mirroring my own, spreading across young faces. The bassist and guitarist carry intense looks in their eyes as
they silently pluck away. I can spy the tongue of the drummer peaking out between his lips in concentrations as he
adjusts the cymbals.

I look down at my own hands. They feel stiff and clammy as I stretch them, feeling the joints pop and crack. I silently run over a grand scale. 'Two octaves up, parallel; four octaves contrary, two up and two down; two octaves up, parallel, two down;  four octaves contrary, two up and two down; and a final two parallel octaves down.' I finish with an arpeggio, two octaves, and a simple cadence.

I catch the sound of almost inaudible tapping. The conductor is waiting to count us off. A few quick waves of a baton, the curtain opens, the lights come up, and the show begins.