It’s 12:00 a.m. I’ve stared at the same four sheets of music for the past six hours. The keys on the flute feel way too heavy for something so small. Both hands have been hurting to the point of numbness for what seems like forever. The piece, which had been perfect yesterday, good enough to earn a rare compliment from my teacher, had been fine when, after dinner, I’d sat down, intending to run it through a couple times before tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The day I’ve been waiting for, dreaming of, dreading, for the past three months. The audition. According to everyone else, I should do fine. I’d made it the year before. In fact, I’d done well for my age group, placing 2nd out of all the competitors. I’d done well, considering there were at least 60 kids, all flute players, fighting for one of the 25 spots in the Festival. But my victory last year, which seemed like it should be a source of encouragement, only means that I have little room to improve and a lot further to fall.

So even though I’ve been told a thousand different ways by a thousand different people that the piece sounded great, and that if it wasn’t perfect by now, then it never would be, I’m still not satisfied. I play it through, top to bottom, over and over, again and again. The first few times had been fine. Hardly flawless, but passable. I would be satisfied with a lower score than last year; after all, the music was harder. But I don’t feel confident enough to stop for the night; not yet, anyway. I push myself past the stiff fingers, past the heavy eyelids, past the dry-as-sandpaper feeling in my mouth, and make myself play through it one more time. Just one more time. And then one time more, because after those first few lucky repetitions, it had all fallen apart. I was completely screwing up the hard sections and making mistakes on phrases that had been simple before. By the time the clock rested on eleven, I couldn’t hit the high notes anymore. But I ignored the tiny voice in the back of my head that said I was only digging my own grave, and kept on going. I promised myself it would be better this time around. Somehow, miraculously, I would hit every note, remember every accent and grace note, and make the perfect fade out at the end. But no. That hadn’t happened, because miracles don’t happen in real life.

So now, I was alone in my room at midnight, with aching fingers and a piece that I knew had no hope of passing the audition tomorrow. Or actually, come to think of it, by this time, the audition was today. I want to throw the unforgiving sheet music in the trash. I want to scream. But I can’t do either of those things. What I could do, was crumple to my knees next to my bed and cry. At first, it came out as frustration, in hard sobs that made my throat hurt even more. But I didn’t even have enough energy for that, and it morphed into the silent type of tears, the kind that left me drained of emotions and thoughts. It left me asleep on the floor.

The alarm rings at 7:00 the next morning, and I reach out to turn it off. Only I was on the floor. Shutting it off would require me to get up. And no, I don’t really feel like it right now. So I just let the thing keep shrilling at me, trying to ignore it. Eventually, I force myself to get up. And of course, just because the world loves me, I have a sore throat and the puffy eyes that come after a night of crying.

By the time I reach the school where the auditions are being held, I’m are in full panic mode. The other kids’ conversations about the large building and their own problems float over my head. All I care about it how bad my own audition piece is and how I cannot fail at this. This is the one thing I’m supposed to be decent at. To fail here would mean I was a failure at life.

The teacher leads a few of us into the auditorium to warm up and do last minute practicing. I decide to skip the warming up part and go immediately into a pointless attempt to fix up the music. Admittedly, it isn’t as bad as it was last night, but it is worse than it had been two days ago, and it definitely isn’t good enough to pass. This is the thought that I hold on to as I climb the stairs to the area designated to the flutes. I join the end of a long line and try to shut out the sounds of the people in front of me.

But I should have known that that wouldn’t work. The beautiful music floats out of the closed room and the people in front of me whisper in hushed voices to each other. I recognize parts of my music, parts of other pieces I hadn’t chosen because they were worth less, point-wise. At this point, I really, really wish I’d chosen an easier one, even if it would have cost me points. It might have been worth it to have music that I could actually play. That would have been nice.

Sooner than I’d expected, my name is called and I push open the heavy door. As it fell closed behind me, I step up to the music stand and place my piece softly on it. Wasn’t this where I was supposed to forget everything else and just focus on the music? Well, that was one thing I wasn’t thinking of. The homework due on Monday, the test I have fourth period after the weekend, the way my fingers still hurt from last night and my eyes still sting? Yes. But the music? A big, resounding, no.

Somehow, I make it through the scales without messing up too badly. I take a deep breath and try to slow my breathing. That will kill my phrasing if I can’t calm down. Far too soon, the judge tells me to begin. I stumble through the slower part and completely die on the fast part. The high notes are strained and off key, the dynamics are non-existent. By the time I come to a stop, I feel lucky to have made it through without having to stop. By the look the judge gives me, I know it’s over. There is no way I’m getting in. So when she places the next piece in front of me, the one I’m are supposed to sight-read, I really don’t care anymore. Ironically, that part goes incredibly smooth. I hit every note; get every rhythm, even put in the written crescendos. But it doesn’t matter.

The judge hands me the score sheet and calls the next name on the list. Another scared looking kid enters and I walk out of the building without really knowing what I’m are doing.

I was one point away from making it in.

And that’s the part I hate. That’s the part that stays with me for the next month, continuing to bother me every time I pick up the flute. That and the fact that according to my teacher, I could have stopped when I realized the piece was going badly and asked to start over. Even though my instructor says that the scoring was off this time, even though she claims I did fine, that the music was difficult, and that I will make it next year, I can’t forget that part. I was disappointed in myself, but more than that, I’d let down everyone who had believed I would make it. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to try it again. I could have gotten in with one more point. Just one more.

As the memory fades over the months, I come to terms with it, taking an outrageously long time to do so. Everyone tells me that I take failures far too personally. But I do want to try again. I’ve learned your lesson. I don’t have any wish to be that disappointed again, ever. But I want to try again, to see if I have the ability to make it when I’m not as apprehensive. After all, I would never forgive myself if I didn’t give it one more try. Just one more, at least. And if I am again digging my own grave, well, there isn't much I can do about that, is there?