In April, Westbridge held its midyear scholarship review concerts—not competitive in name, but competitive in atmosphere, as all showcases in competitive places become. Jack was to play in the second half. He chose, with Ms. Blake's guidance, a Beethoven sonata movement that demanded both architectural clarity and a willingness to let feeling enter through structure rather than against it. He also prepared, as an encore if requested, Eleanor's humming-tune arranged into a brief miniature that Ms. Blake had helped him notate without making it precious.
The afternoon of the concert, Jack's stomach performed gymnastics. He stood backstage in his forest-green sweater—washed carefully, still not new—and listened to Pierce play a Liszt transcription with glittering accuracy. The applause was robust. Pierce walked offstage looking like someone who collected robust applause the way other people collected stickers.
"You're after the break," a stage manager whispered to Jack.
Jack nodded. He found a quiet corner and pressed his palms together until the bones remembered they belonged to him. He thought of St. Mark's and the stuck middle C. He thought of the cream card. He thought of Principal Harrison saying, "Still want to do this?" and of his own answer, "Absolutely," which had been true then and was true now in a more complicated way. Absolutely did not mean without fear. Absolutely meant with fear included and still moving forward.
During the break, Ms. Blake found him. "You're ready," she said. Not as pep talk. As assessment.
"What if I miss?"
"Then you miss, and you continue," she said. "Music is not a hostage situation. It does not die because one afternoon wobbles."
Jack almost smiled. "Mr. Delgado says mistakes are tuition."