The Flyer
2021 Write Now Winner - Grades 5 & 6
The curtain rises slowly, splitting into two halves that dance away from each other. I watch as my fellow orchestra members file onto stage, some expressionless, others pale with stage fright.
Ms. Fisher, the orchestra conductor, nods nonchalantly in my direction and smooths an imaginary crease on her immaculate dress before striding confidently onto stage.
The audience erupts in a storm of cheering, clapping, and everything in between. I don't realize I'm clapping right along with them until my hands are raw and red. She dips a classical bow and steps onto the conductor's platform. I take a deep breath, recognizing my cue. This is it. Exhilaration shoots through me and I'm not sure if I feel more excited or petrified.
Either way, I walk steadily—if not confidently—onto stage.
My entrance attracts thousands of enthusiastic cheers, cheers that both gratify and frighten me; cheers loud enough to wake a bear from its hibernation. Abruptly, I remember how extremely populated the audience is.
Everyone in the orchestra looks expectantly at me and I hurry to play a long, open A for them to tune their instruments to. The tuning process is soon over and I turn to face the audience, searching for the familiar faces of my family.
They are easy to find. Eric, my unimaginably annoying brother, is seated between our parents with his entire torso nestled in Mom's lap. Dad is clicking away with his vintage camera and Mom is stroking Eric's hair. Mom must notice me looking at them because in the same second, my mother's face lights up with a beautiful smile.
Ms. Fisher signals for the pianist to start playing and I close my eyes, place my bow on the strings, and begin to play.
Hostile winter wind slapped my cheeks, wrenching me back to reality. Of course, reality was about as pleasant as diving headfirst into a steaming trash-can: my parents were dead, my dreams of being a concertmaster gone with them; Eric and I were homeless and lived off the few tips I earned from playing the violin; and the closest thing to a proper meal I'd had for months was a McDonalds happy meal.
"I'm so hungry," I whimpered, donning my threadbare jacket. Next to me, Eric breaks off mid-snore and shoots upright. "Who're you talking to?" He asked groggily.
"No one. Go back to sleep."
"I'm not sleepy," Eric said, like that explained everything.
"I'll buy you a chocolate bar if you shut up and go back to sleep,"
"Well, who were you talking to?"
"Two chocolate bars,"
"But who—"
"No one, Eric! I was just thinking out loud." Leave it to Eric to ruin my day before it's even started.
"Then why didn't you just say so right away?" Eric grinned, clearly enjoying himself.
I massaged my temples, unable to think of a comeback, "Eric—"
"I know, I know, you're in charge," Eric rolled his eyes, "Blah, blah, blah."
"That's not what I was going to say," I said through gritted teeth, "I was going to say—"
"You'll buy me twenty Hershey bars?" Eric batted his eyelashes at me, "Whoops, make that thirty."
"That's it!" I threw my hands up, fully exasperated, "Pack your things! We're going to Shake Shack."
"Where you'll buy me fifteen milkshakes!" Eric added, throwing his arm around me, "Right, big brother?"
I shoved him off, "Don't hold your breath."
"Yes, sir." He saluted me and skipped away to grab his luggage.
I sighed, rising to my feet. Resisting the urge to strangle my child of a brother was never an easy task, but one part of me knew that joking was Eric's way of cloaking his grief in bravado. Why was he grieving? For the same reason as me: our parents were six feet under. First our father, killed by gunshot on his last police assignment; then, our mother, taken by an aggressive case of breast cancer less than four months after Dad was murdered. It had been six months since Mom's death but I still couldn't wrap my head around it; and I was seventeen, nearly a legal adult. I couldn't even imagine what it must've been like for a nine-year- old.
As I was about to start gathering my few belongings, something white and feathery tickled my ear: a bird's feather. I looked up and there, perched on a leafless tree branch, were five snow-colored doves. The precise second I glanced their way; they opened their wings in perfect synchronization and began to fly north. An odd impulse to follow washes over me.
"MIKE! WHERE ARE YOU GOING? WAIT UP!" Eric called after me. I was chasing after the birds, incapable of resisting the strange urge. The fast tempo of Eric's footfalls sounded behind me.
After a few minutes, Eric's tiny figure appeared at my side, "Mike, where are we going?"
"I don't know," I answered truthfully, a little breathless.
"Then why are you running?" Eric grabbed my shoulder and pulled us to a stop.
"I'm following...them." I pointed awkwardly toward the sky, where the doves had paused with us.
"You're following the birds?" Eric raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, Eric. Just trust me." I break out into a sprint. The doves started flying again.
What felt like an hour but was probably only ten minutes passed until the doves stopped again. We—the doves, me, and Eric—were standing/floating above a round blue trapdoor in the ground.
"So..." Eric nudged the door with his toe, "Should we, er, open it?"
"Probably." I agreed, bending to get a good grip on the handle. "Ready?" Eric nodded, "One, two, three." I pulled open the door.
Taped to the floor of a room the size of a large pizza is a single flyer reading 'AUDITION FOR THE NEW YORK CITY ORCHESTRA!'