Amidst An Orchestra

• Elaine Tambunan, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2022

The smallest tilt of the baton, and the entire orchestra takes a breath.
Each polished instrument is poised high by its black and white clad player, arms quivering with tense anticipation. The silence itself seems to vibrate with a restlessness of its own.

Then the baton dips, and the audience is plunged into a ceaseless onslaught of music. Sharp stark notes rush into the air in rapid succession, like exhilarated actors dashing onstage before the audience with infectious eagerness. Out of chestnut coloured cellos, swarms of lively crotchets and quavers pour, engulfing the abyss of the silent audience; a piercing shimmer of light against hazy darkness.

Straight-backed bows are dragged across trembling violin strings, while night-tinted clarinets leave inky black footprints against the paperwhite silence, and the silvery waltz of the flute weaves in and out of the multitude of instruments.

The school orchestra is yet one of the many talents boasted by Southridge Charter Academy. A prestigious school, known not only for its unbelievably advanced academics, but for the innumerable gifts possessed by the attending students.
Fifty different distinction maths awards.
Seventy writing and spelling wins.
Forty highlighted recognitions in the scientific field.
Sixty national ranking works and compositions of art.
Thirty varying areas of sport, each one conquered by its fully formed, top trained team.
And to top it all off, its own vast range of bands, quartets, trios, and orchestras.

Admist such an intimidating number of talents, each vying for recognition and praise from teachers, parents, and even one another, it was easy to feel…
Irrelevant.
Inconsequential.
Insignificant.

Particularly for a certain young violinist, who, after gruelling through a lengthy selection process, fueled only by desperation and caffeine, found that getting into the school was only a foretaste of what to come.

Admittedly, she had initially viewed the school gates gawking in awe, shining eyes brimming with wonder. However it had only taken several taxing months, before the student had started to consider the gates as doors to a kind of tortuous labyrinth - a twisting and turning maze, pervaded by the smothering echoes of the dreaded Minotaur’s frenzied cries. Yet despite her countless fraught stumblings throughout the labyrinth, she had never once been able to identify the Mintoaur’s raging, scolding, demanding voice that clawed at her mind - voices that were too young to be her teachers’ or parents’, yet so distinct from those of her friends.

It was during orchestra practise one day, that she realised that the voices were her very own.
It was the same day the student also realised that though she may not have been given as many talents as those around her, and though the warbling notes she coaxed from her violin was so often drowned out by the triumphant melodies of those accompanying, it was her, and only her, who could choose what to do and what to tell herself.

It was her who held the baton.

Fingers curled once more around the bow, as she tilted her chin and played.