We never hated him. He was the nicest teacher around, and everyone in the orchestra regarded him with respect, not just because he was our conductor and commander, but also because we were a team, representing our high school’s pride through musical talent. We were a team.

Friday was symphony orchestra rehearsal day, where the top members of the secondary-level band came and rehearsed with us, the secondary-level string orchestra. Hand-picked and best-of-the-best, these people were generally respected and viewed as though a spotlight shone on them; they had developed some ego.

Slowly, the band members ambled in just as we string players were unpacking. I sat in the first column of the cello section. The band players were pushed to the back, and only the shining gold trumpets and trombones and the giant bass drum could be seen.

The orchestra was restless; through their chatter, you could find out what had happened in every class: the Algebra 2 test had not gone well; the chemistry lab had most of the juniors worried; the AP U.S. History project was due today, and the slackers (who sat in the back of the orchestra) had not turned theirs in. The clueless freshmen, like me, were sitting idly, listening. This would be us in three years.

The concertmaster yelled at us to warm up, and soon the chit chat was replaced with the sound of strings. We were soon drowned out by the loud band instruments and the timpani drums.

We all tensed slightly as the teacher walked in, and several phones were immediately turned off. The concert date was approaching, and we were all aware we still hadn’t gotten our two pieces down; we were also aware that the teacher was stressed about it. The bell rang, we finished tuning, and our orchestra teacher stepped up on the podium.

“Welcome to another Friday!” he exclaimed jovially. Nobody replied.
“A lot to do,” he continued briskly, flipping through the music aggressively, as the symphony stared in silence. “We’ll have to make every minute count.” I sighed; we all knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“The beginning,” the teacher said, which ceased all talk and plucking of strings. He raised his arms, baton in hand, looking like an eagle preparing to fly; I raised my head to wait for his cue; his eyes swept the crowd, and we tensed, bows on strings, ready to saw out musical magic. His baton, however, still quivered in the air; someone’s bow slipped and played a note; we were still waiting.

“We’re waiting for you, Sophia.” The teacher lowered his arms, and we slumped back. The upperclassmen in the front rows shot death glares at Sophia, the principal horn player. The teacher sighed and tapped the baton again. “Come on, get with the program. Gotta look up here; we can’t start without you. We’re a team. We’ve got to do this together.” He pointed toward the single word pasted high up on the blank wall. I always wondered why he’d put that word there.

Finally, the music began to flow. Within minutes, however, the conductor stopped us with a sweep of his arm. Suppressing a growl, I rested my head on my cello. “Horn, you came in late,” he snapped, weaving through the crowd to stand in front of Sophia.

“Watch! I’ll cue you. All right, again.” And we played, and Sophia finally came in at the right time; the trombones, though, weren’t playing in tune. Tensions began to spark; murmurs arose among the string players. I gritted my teeth and clenched my bow. All of a sudden, it looked like a twig I could snap.

We tried again. A couple of times we got through the majority of the piece. Three-quarters of the way through the class, the conductor stepped off to talk to the band. “All right, Sophia,” he growled, and we held our breath. “What is the dynamic at section two?”

“What’s what?” she asked nonchalantly. I sighed and looked away; I was embarrassed for the conductor and Sophia, that we still had to go through this juvenile process. My stand-partner had his lips pursed, and I could see the whites of the knuckles of the cellist in front of me as she gripped her bow.

“What is the dynamic at section two?”

“Your face?” Sophia blurted.
The conductor flushed; dead silence filled the room. I was astonished that she dared say that, even to a teacher as nice as him. The string players exchanged glances; my expression was mirrored on the concertmaster’s face, which was twisted in horror.

“I-I don’t-” he stuttered, running a hand through his hair. “Doesn’t being an orchestra mean anything?” He was crestfallen, and we looked away. Sophia shifted uncomfortably. He sighed, and slapped the music. “We’re playing this piece because we enjoy music, and we need to show our potential as a team, which you are all a part of. A team cooperates. Together, each achieves more.”

I made eye-contact with a violinist. She couldn’t play what I could, and vice versa, but she could play her part well, and I would mine. The music blended and created a beautiful song that others enjoyed. Each note had to be in sync, and we couldn’t back down. We had to work side by side to achieve a goal. Slowly, we directed our gaze to our conductor, who nodded grimly.

Raising his arms like Christ the Redeemer, baton poised like a fencing sword, he looked at every one of us. Bows clattered on the strings. He swept the baton upward, and we took one big breath in unison.

“Let’s play.”