On Friday, I go early to Rowena’s office. I feel tremendously guilty over the New York thing, so I want to smooth things over with her. I want to do what she tells me, but I don’t want to. When I get there, I have to wait because she has a student in there, a blond girl. I recognize her as one of the students who sang at the La Traviata auditions, one of the less-good ones.
They’re in there a really long time, but just as I decide to give up, she runs out. She’s crying, and Rowena comes to the door, too, yelling, “Mary! Wait!” But the girl doesn’t stop. That’s when Rowena notices me there.
“This is a bad time?” I ask.
Rowena sighs. “No … I mean, it’s always hard.”
“What is?”
“Having to tell a student she should change majors—that I don’t think she’ll make it in performance and she should consider music education or merchandising instead.”
“That’s what you told her?” I’m thinking, I’d die.
Rowena nods. “She was promising at auditions last year, but she hasn’t improved much. I understand she parties quite a bit, and it doesn’t seem like the commitment’s there. You have to want it more than anything. You have to sacrifice.”
Sacrifice. I think about the New York program. “What will happen to her now?”
“She has to decide. She can change majors, which is what I suggested. Or she can decide I don’t know what I’m talking about. Maybe she’ll take it as a challenge and practice more and show me I’m wrong. It’s her choice.”
“Am I good enough?” I say.
“Caitlin, this isn’t about you.”
“But it could be. You said she seemed promising last year at auditions. You never can tell, right?”
“I can tell. I know you. And I know you’re very committed.”
“Am I?” I feel my headache right down in my neck. If I had to sing now, I couldn’t. I want to confess my lie about New York. But Mom’s so furious with me now, she probably would say no if I asked her.
“Yes. You’re one of my most talented students ever.” She touches my hand. “Don’t worry. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
At lunch, I tell Gigi about it—not about lying to Rowena because I know what she’d say (she’d kill me!), but about Mary.
Gigi rolls her eyes. “You said yourself the girl wasn’t very good. Rowena probably did her a huge favor. Why does it bother you?”
“But can you imagine not singing anymore? Why wake up in the morning?”
“But that’s how you feel about it. If she felt that way, she’d have practiced more. Then she wouldn’t be getting this news.”
“I guess.”
“Absolutely. It’s like a reality show where they vote the weaklings off first. When you’re five and dancing in your mom’s dresses, everyone’s a superstar. But then some people get picked to be ‘listeners’ in music class, and others don’t make the good chorus in middle school, and others don’t get in here. And some people screw up. But that’s not you, Cait. You can make it.”
“I guess,” I repeat.
But that night and both days of the weekend, I sing scales for an extra hour.