Finding the Magic (Tom Kelly's Boys Book 1)

I was a sophomore at Juilliard when the New York Philharmonic called me to fill in for their pianist who was suffering from appendicitis. That concert was the starting point of my career. Because of the exposure from that concert, I had several other big gigs during the remainder of my sophomore year. I played so many concerts during my junior year that my professors and I came to a mutual agreement that it would be in my best interest to put off my senior year of college and focus on my ever-growing professional demands.

I had to maintain a non-stop practice schedule to keep myself ready for performance. Between that and traveling, I just wouldn't have had the time to devote to my studies. My boyfriend, Kade, who also went to Juilliard, tried to discourage me from dropping out, but I went with my gut. My professors saw it my way, which served as confirmation that I was doing the right thing.

It was almost Christmas, which meant I would have been halfway through my senior year. Instead, I was in London performing as a featured soloist with the London Philharmonic Orchestra.

I went onstage by myself before the doors opened just as I did at every venue. I walked around the stage, getting the feel for it—looking out at the empty seats and picturing the crowd. I sat at the piano and looked at the rows of empty chairs that the orchestra would fill. I imagined brief little snapshots of how the evening would go, complete with a standing ovation. It was something I did before every show.

The venue was called The Royal Festival Hall. I'd obviously heard of it, but this was my first performance there, and I was incredibly pumped as I stared into the auditorium. The piano was positioned at the very front of the stage between the conductor and the audience, and I walked around it, smiling a little as I continued to imagine scenes from later tonight.

Four hours later, I was sitting at that same piano. Only this time, the orchestra was there with me and the seats were full. It was exactly as I imagined. This concert was the same as every one I'd played before it. The music I performed that evening was stuff I'd been playing and practicing non-stop for the past year, and even though every audience contained new faces, the whole process was all very familiar.

We were playing Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 3. It was an extremely technical, crowd-pleasing piece, which was why I always chose to perform it. I practiced and thought about the concerto so continually that I was utterly one with the music.

We were in the third and final movement when my world came crashing down.

It didn't happen all at once. The symptoms started gradually. The first thing I noticed was that my hands started shaking. It was something I never had problems with, so I felt a sudden, initial wave of dread and fear, wondering why I had the twitches. I gave my hands one vigorous shake when I had a slight break, and I could see the audience react out of the corner of my eye. I was known for my dramatic posture at the piano, and I could tell they thought that hand-shaking thing was part of my act.

I had a few thoughts at the same time.

The first was reprimanding myself for even caring how the audience reacted to my hands. The second was wondering why my hands were still shaking in the first place. And the third was wondering why the piano sounded like it was off in the distance somewhere.

Wait.

Were my ears closing up?

There was definitely something wrong with my ears.

I glanced up at the conductor and orchestra to see if everything still seemed normal to them. Everyone looked like business as usual, so I squinted back down at the keys, feeling a little perplexed as to why this piece that my fingers knew so well suddenly felt different—distant somehow.

Distant was the perfect way to describe it. I felt disconnected in a way I'd never experienced. I continued to play the piece, but had to concentrate on the notes, which was a completely different approach to playing than the one I normally used. Usually, I just sat at the piano and let the music flow from me. The pieces were committed to memory and all I had to do was sit there and let it out. But this was different. I found myself having to concentrate on remembering what came next.

I glanced at the conductor again, and was relieved to find that he seemed to be behaving normally. I gave my hands another shake, trying to get rid of whatever had overtaken me. I took stock of my symptoms as I continued to play, hoping against hope that I was still playing the right notes.

My hands were shaking more and more and the piano sounded increasingly distant. I couldn't tell if my ears were clogged up or not, but I had the distinct feeling that the piano was no longer right in front of me but more like a hundred yards away.

I risked the briefest of glances at the audience and felt the weight of expectation as 2,500 faces were focused on me, all waiting to be wowed. I looked back at my hands (which were hopefully still playing the right notes) wondering if I was doing enough to wow them.

Panic.

The word crossed my mind, and once it did, it took root like a nasty, infectious vine, tangling around my limbs, rendering them stiff. I wasn't paralyzed, but it felt as if someone had poured concrete into my joints, and it was progressively hardening.

During a short, but much-needed break in my music, I took a deep breath, adjusted on my bench and gave my hands and head a vigorous shake.

Seconds later, my worst nightmare came to life.

It happened.

The thing every musician fears.

I forgot how to play the piano.

I knew it was time for me to come in, but I couldn't for the life of me remember the song. I had just been sitting there playing it without even thinking about it, and now the music was just gone.

Every second felt like an eternity. At first, I stared at the keys, wondering how and why they suddenly felt so foreign. I tried to make my hands move, but the concrete that had been poured into my bloodstream moments before was now in its hardened state, and my fingers were completely useless.

It didn't matter. Even if I would have the use of them, I wouldn't know what to do since I couldn't remember how to play the piece. What was I even supposed to be playing, anyway? I looked up at the conductor, who was now looking over at me with a perplexed, expectant look. He definitely expected me to start playing. The whole orchestra
expected me to start playing
—and so did the audience for that matter.

It wasn't the type of thing where the show just went on without me. I
was
the show. The music couldn't continue until I put my hands on the keys, but at that moment, I just couldn't make that happen. I searched my brain for the notes to the music, but came up empty. I stared at the conductor with a look that must have conveyed what was going on, because he stepped off of the platform and began walking toward me.

I had no idea how long the music had been stopped. It could've been a few seconds or as long as a minute.

The orchestra was silent.

The crowd was silent.

The silence was deafening.

I could hear nothing but the tap tap tap tap of his footsteps as he crossed to stand by my side at the piano.

I looked up at him, terrified. "I forgot," I whispered.

"What do you mean, you forgot?" He spoke so softly that I knew I was the only one who could hear him.

"I forgot the music." I said stiffly. I felt as if I was watching the whole thing from the outside. I was ashamed of myself for admitting such a thing to him, but I had no other choice. It was the truth. I'd simply forgotten the music.

"You didn't forget it, Addison." He stood facing the audience, which meant my back was turned to them. He must have seen by my expression that I was serious because he knelt down and reached to take my hand. "You didn't forget the music," he whispered. He squeezed my hand. "It's all in here," he said. "You have to just trust that it's in your fingers."

I stared at him for a second, which in the current situation felt more like an eternity. "It's just not there," I whispered, hopelessly. "I need to look at the music."

The conductor (whose name was Leon) glanced around nervously. I had the concerto fully committed to memory and never,
ever
brought sheet music on stage with me.

"You don't think you can get going again if we back up a few measures?"

I looked up at him with wide eyes. "No."

This situation was extremely unorthodox. I was being paid twenty thousand dollars as the featured artist at the concert because I was the best of the best.

Not anymore.

Leon stood regally and smiled at the crowd. He put a finger into the air and bowed, saying with a gesture that everything was fine and we'd be back in just a moment.

I was absolutely stunned as we walked off the stage. The last minute, or two, was a total train wreck, and I felt as if I was standing outside my body watching in horror as the whole thing took place.

"Get her the music," he whispered frantically as soon as we got behind the curtain. There were several stagehands waiting expectantly and they all scrambled at his words—I assumed to go look for my music.

A few blurry seconds passed.

"Are you okay?" Leon asked. He put a hand on my shoulder and tried to look directly at me. I was so ashamed that I couldn't even look him in the eye.

"I'm fine," I said, numbly. "I just need to look at the music."

Just then, a copy of the piano part was thrust in front of me. I started from the end and worked my way back until I found the spot. I stared at the notes, and thank God, they began to find their way back to my memory. I glanced over the papers for a few seconds before looking up at Leon.

"I've got it," I said nodding. I stuck my hand out to give the music to whoever would grab it.

"You can bring it out if you want," Leon said. "There's no shame in—"

"I'm fine," I said with frustration. I shook the music and one of the stagehands grabbed it from me. "I've got it. I just needed to see it."

I followed Leon back onto the stage. I sat at the piano with no acknowledgement to the crowd. He stopped by my bench, faced the audience, smiled, and put a thumb up to reassure them all was well.

"Smile," he said under his breath. I glanced at the audience and smiled. "Good," he said, patting me on the shoulder. "You okay?"

I glanced at him with a slight nod, and he turned on his heel and walked back to his pedestal. He quickly told the orchestra where to pick up, and we finished the concerto with no further incident. Once my memory was jogged, I played the remainder of the movement easily.