Just one more practice. With my blistered hands, I adjust my grip on the mallets. I know I should’ve brought more band-aids for a cushion, so my hands wouldn’t directly rub against the mallets. My hands start to ache. I keep trying to relax my wrists so that the mallets will ease in between my fingers, but I don’t know why I can’t relax. I love this song. I want the performance to be perfect. I love the sound of the keys and the calming sensation that’s present when I play it. 

 

Yes, think about that. If my mindset is right, I trust that my body will follow and do the rest. Surprisingly, my hands relax, and my self-esteem returns. The natural light flowing into the choir room leads me to take a deep breath and feel the warmth of the sun on my instrument. I touch the keys as they absorb the heat and I sigh in relief. This is what my solo is about, rain. Be the rain. 

 

I close my eyes and imagine I can make out faint droplets falling, falling, falling in a steady rhythm. I place my mallets on the first keys and add color to the droplets, creating a steady pulse that reflects the internal metronome inside me. I create long strokes with my arms, allowing my hands to move in a soft, flowy motion. The notes start to softly ring one after another, barely being heard. Somewhere far away, I can sense my feet following my hands as I move up and down the keys. A slight sway keeps my feet from shuffling, and I continue on. 

 

In the same distant oblivion, I hear a door close. The thought allows the once quiet droplets to fall in an unsteady rhythm, slowly getting louder and louder. I nick another key, and the conflicting notes ring out, fighting for a spot in the song. I take a deep breath as I feel my pulse rising, trying to keep my anxious thoughts from running wild. My hands keep moving as the memorization doesn’t fail me. My mind starts to wander off my internal metronome and pushes my tempo, and somehow, so do the droplets that don’t sound too much like droplets anymore. I unknowingly play louder, and my feet start to shuffle with nerves. The quarter notes turn into sixteenth notes, and suddenly I find myself playing at a speed I can’t handle. My mind spins and spins, the roar of the clashing keys reflecting a downpour. I can’t seem to stop, and I miss a whole string of notes that ring out of key, changing the tone of the piece in a way that makes me cringe. My hands turn rigid and start to cramp up, not allowing the mallets to move smoothly. I push on, knowing I can’t stop during my performance. 

 

Finally, the written tempo slows down, allowing me to reset. I take another deep breath as I lower the volume and the notes flow back to the beginning of the song, in key and rhythm. The rain that once seemed to pound now trails off and on and finally, it finishes. My heart reverts to a steady tempo and I let my tired arms dangle. The motion permits my hands to release my grip and the mallets crash to the floor, bouncing off of the floor as each yarn ball collides with the dirty tile. Swiftly, I bend over to pick them up but they bounce again, sending each one in a different direction. The clattering sound of the plastic sticks hurts my ears and I quickly pick both mallets up as they start to roll. 

 

I nervously glance up at the clock: 10:40 A.M. I perform in five minutes. I suck in a breath and my eyes go wide as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water on me. I can’t seem to think, yet my mind seems to race a million miles a minute. GO! GO! GO! YOU NEED TO GO NOW! I grab my sticks and my sheet music and rush to the band room. I spot the judge through the open band doors, sitting on a desk in the middle of the room, still typing critiques into his computer from the last performance. Good, he’s not waiting on me. I make sure there’s nothing on my black dress pants, and I walk in, game face on. 

 

The judge seems nice. He’s an old man with white hair, and most of the time those retired band directors are super chill, happy-go-lucky people. The empty silence of the room sends me into an internal frenzy. I forcefully expand my chest, allowing my lungs to take in the glorious oxygen in the room. He finally glances up at me from his computer and smiles. 

 

“Good morning,” he says in a deep voice. 

 

I know to go straight into my script rather than let him know the nerves building up inside of me. I stand up straight, give him a friendly smile, and say in a confident tone, “Good morning! My name is Natalie Cagle, and I’m from Central DeWitt High School. Today, I will be playing a marimba solo titled Yellow After the Rain by Mitchell Peters.” 

 

The white-haired judge smirks; he likes my professionalism. “Alright,” he says with a smile. “I look forward to your performance!”  

 

Oddly, all my nerves have disappeared. I embrace the empty silence of the room. It sounds like the end of a rainstorm. I am the rain. 

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