3. The First Exam:
“Okay, stop everypony. Octavia, when the piece calls for staccato notes, you need to have absolute control over the duration, not just the rhythm. Your notes are lasting longer than called for before you finally mute them.”
Stifled giggles and choked laughter filled the air as Octavia’s gaze dropped.
“I’m sorry Professor Mode,” she said. “I’ll make sure to keep a better eye on my muting in the future.”
“A better hoof would be more like it, wouldn’t it?” he responded, failing to notice the snickers from the other ponies in the room. “Ah well, it seems to be about that time, doesn’t it? Okay class, this is it for today. I want everyone to go to their rooms and prepare for the test. You’ll have tomorrow to polish this piece and your solo piece, but that’s it. We’ll be holding the test in the grand auditorium so you won’t get a chance to work on your performance the day of.”
“The auditorium, sir?” a colt asked.
“Ah, yes. I didn’t mention that, did I?” he mused. “Yes, the music department has decided to make your test open to the public as a precursor to the Hearth’s Warming Concert. It’ll give you some on-stage experience and it will allow sponsors the sneak peak at the talent they’ll be scoping out come winter.”
The room became far tenser after his statement.
“But… But my sister said that we didn’t have to worry about sponsors until the Hearth’s Warming Concert!”
“Yes, and your sister is the reason we’re doing this, Mr. Neum,” Professor Mode replied. “Such a talented composer but she was an absolute wreck live. This is so you won’t fall apart when faced with an audience, or to at least make it so that if you do, we can correct it before it has a chance to matter. Do not concern yourselves with the possible sponsors yet, they know to wait till the actual concert before making decisions, and while they look at you all to keep tabs on rising talent, they’re really shopping for those nearer to graduation.”
A wave of relief passed over the students as a collective breath was let out.
“Everyone relaxed?” Professor Mode asked. “Good. Now, just because the sponsors won’t be paying attention doesn’t mean you get to slack off. Aside from your class participation grade, you only have four tests to make up the rest, and that is including the Hearth’s Warming Concert as one of them. As such, it would be a shame if any of you failed this class because you did not take this coming performance seriously enough.”
Octavia shuffled where she stood, feeling as if that last sentence had been directed at her and her alone.
“Very well, you’re all dismissed.”
The students packed up their instruments, the sound of shuffling cases mixed with the many conversations taking place. Before long, Octavia was out the door and walking in the direction of her room, as was the routine.
“Seems like that’s all I have nowadays,” she mused. “Routines.”
Eating alone, walking back by herself right after classes, working on homework and practicing by herself – these were the things that had become constant since her arrival. Even being called out as she had been by Professor Mode fit within the established norm.
She struggled through classes. She underperformed. She was alone. Nothing ever changed.
As she turned the corner she found the hallway unoccupied, save for one pegasus. He was wearing a grey vest and a purple scarf, as well as that same imposing glare he had worn for the past several weeks.
Octavia met his glare and walked by, aware that his gaze followed her until she was out of sight without having to turn around. After all, ever since that day in class, this had become part of the routine as well. Whenever they were in the same hallway or room, Octavia would often look up to find Slant Rhyme staring at her.
She still wasn’t sure what it was his look represented. Her first thought was anger, since thrashing his poems every class period had become another part of the routine, but she could not honestly make that claim. Anger would not intimidate her the way his glance normally did.
Arriving at her door, Octavia wasted no time setting up her instrument and beginning to practice, the hours rushing by as she ran through the song over and over again. As the moon began to rise, she chanced a look into the mirror, gasping at what she saw in her performance. Gone was the passion she felt for her cello. Gone was the love for music that had granted her a cutie mark. All that existed in her mind was the methodical repetition, the need for technical perfection, and it showed.
The cellist struggled against her tears as she faced her reflection.
“I played exactly how they wanted me to,” she mumbled to herself. “I played just like they played. So why do I feel so empty?”
She raised her bow, beginning to run through the song again, but she found herself unable. Instead, the melody shifted, transforming into a familiar piece she had learnt long ago – her first lullaby. Octavia smiled as she let the melody take over, seamlessly going from one note to the next, melting into the warm embrace of her music. For the first time in a long while, the cellist focused on the feelings of the music, rather than the technicality. Her notes were sloppy, her technique unrefined, but the song was alive and, for that night, that was enough.
“Okay class, that’s good enough for today. I want to see you all early before tomorrow’s test, so I hope you spend the rest of the day preparing. Octavia, if you don’t mind, could you stay after class? I want to have a word.”
Octavia sighed as she packed up her instrument, fighting the fear swelling in her gut. The rest of the class filed out of the room, some smirking as they left, others whispering in hushed tones, much like they had been doing through the entire class. Before long, the room was empty except for her and her tired-looking professor. She approached him.
“Is something the matter, Professor Mode?” she asked.
“Yes, Octavia. You could say there is,” he responded. “Your performance today; I’m sorry to say this, but it was worse than yesterday. I thought you were going to practice last night.”
“I did,” she said. “I thought my muting was a lot better this time, the staccato notes, I mean. I muted them more according to the music, didn’t I?”
“Well yes, I guess you did,” he conceded. “But the emphasis on the notes was off. You put too much force behind certain lines and not enough on others. It just seems like you’re just guessing at what sounds right rather than following the music in front of you.”
Octavia made to speak, but was cut off by a look. He still had more to say.
“I realize that, being an earth pony, you do not have as much… finesse; as the rest of the class, I mean. You have to use your hooves instead of telekinetic magic. That being said, we really need to see better work. I cannot give you special concessions just because you don’t have magic to assist you,” he stated. “Being accepted into this school, and receiving the scholarship you have received to be able to attend… these come with the understanding that you are expected to perform at the same level as the rest of the students, regardless of any outstanding circumstances. Right now, I can’t say that you are meeting this expectation.”
“But I’m not that far worse,” she pleaded. “I’m working hard, and it’s not like I’m disrupting everyone else. The mistakes are minor. I’m not missing notes or anything, playing things wrong. It’s just the details, right? And I’m working hard on them.”
Professor Mode took a deep breath.
“Playing as part of an orchestra, no, you’re not that bad,” he said. “You play the correct notes at the correct time, but being a student at this school means being better than good. You may be able to get by in a group, but playing on your own, you will be exposed. At the test tomorrow, you will have to play the entire piece by yourself. Every mistake will be easily identifiable, by me and everyone else present. The ponies watching, the future sponsors and the other ponies from the department, they know the piece you’re performing. They know how it’s meant to be played.”
“But I won’t fail,” she said. “I may not be perfect at this one, but I’ve got the Hearth’s Warming Concert and two other tests. There’s plenty of time to improve, and I’m sure that averaged out I will have a very good grade, regardless of how tomorrow goes.”
The stallion nodded sadly.
“The spot you are taking in this class, and the scholarship that keeps you in this school, well… many ponies are in need of that opportunity,” he remarked. “As I said, your stay here is contingent on your ability to meet our standards, and failing that, we can find somepony else who can. Now, the decision isn’t mine alone to make, but the other ponies who are involved in making such a decision will be present tomorrow. What I’m saying is that if you don’t perform well tomorrow, well enough to show that this school has not wasted a spot in its roster by letting you in, you might not have that spot for much longer.”
“But the Hearth’s Warming Concert is the one that matters-“
“Yes, and the school would be remiss to allow a student who is not up to par to perform, even as part of the orchestra, during such a prestigious event,” he said. “Now, if I can be honest with you, I think we both know how this is going to turn out, and I don’t believe making illusions of other outcomes is altogether healthy. However, you still have today to figure things out. I would suggest you not waste it.”
“Very well,” Octavia responded numbly. “Thank you.”
As she walked towards the door, Professor Mode called out one more time.
“No one will blame you if you don’t show up tomorrow,” he said. “It might make it easier on all of us.”
Octavia said nothing as she walked away.
Once she exited the room, she immediately noticed three of her classmates standing next to the room, sneering at her. They waited until the door to the classroom closed, at which point one of the three, a beige filly with a light brown mane, began to talk.
“So, are they kicking you out?”
“I don’t have the time for this, Minor.”
“Will you just answer the question?” Minor insisted. “I have friends that really deserve to be in this school. I want to let them know whether or not there’ll be a vacancy soon.”
“Well, I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?” Octavia asked irritably. “You were listening at the doorway, what do you think?”
“I think that it was a very noble experiment, letting you into the school and trying that whole ‘diversity’ thing,” she responded. “But I’m also glad that they’re going to leave this program to the professionals and bring in someone better to fill your spot.”
“Oh good, so you weren’t spying on me,” Octavia said. “Otherwise you’d know that all I have to do is do well at my performance tomorrow and I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, that’s all you have to do. And I’m sure that you’ve kept your musical abilities hidden on purpose, just to psyche us out, right?” Minor said. “Bluffing only works when we don’t know your hoof, Octi.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t worry,” Minor said. “Soon we won’t call you anything. You’ll be back to whatever place you came from, free to play in your mud, and we’ll be performing with one less pile of dead weight to carry.”
Octavia wanted to answer. She wanted to answer more than she wanted anything in the world. And yet she continued to stand there, in silence, long after the three unicorns had taken their leave.
Moonlight shone into the deserted room as the desperate cellist practiced her craft, her music coursing through the empty corridors that surrounded her. The room had no door, no furnishings, and no light save for what the moon provided, located as it was in an abandoned corner of the castle that housed the school. There was no one to appreciate her music, no distractions, just an open space in which to practice away from the rest of the world.
“Again.”
That command was repeated a lot that night. A mistake would be made, the music would halt, she would utter the phrase, and the process would begin anew, as it had for hours. As the moon continued its arc, however, the command became more hostile, more urgent. It also became more frequent.
“Again,” she called out.
The music began again, shaky. The filly shook, the cello shook, the music shook.
Then it stopped.
“Why can’t I do this?”
The clattering of her bow striking the stone floor reverberated into the night, accompanied by the sobs of the tired and broken filly.
“Is it really too much to ask?” she cried. “That I play this piece properly? That I get to stay a bit longer?”
A sad smile formed on her lips.
“And I dared to think that I deserved to be here.”
Her ears perked up as she heard the sound of hooves striking the stone floor. The noise inched ever closer. She stared into the door-less doorway, into the darkness, squinting as she tried to make out the intruder.
“You know, I heard a rumor that they might be letting you go, and if your playing is what I’ve been hearing all night, I believe it. That was awful to sit through.”
The shape of the pegasus, wearing a suit jacket and a canvas bag, was illuminated by moonlight as he stepped into the room. He picked up the discarded bow. A small growl formed in Octavia’s throat.
“Shut up,” she yelled, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t want to deal with you right now.”
“Oh, so you get to insult my work and I can’t talk about yours? Hardly seems fair,” Slant said, getting closer. Octavia’s gaze fell to the floor, the fatigue evident in her posture.
“Please, just go,” she pleaded.
Slant looked at her for a moment. He sighed.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Play that song in a way that isn’t horrid, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Octavia glared at him, but took the bow nonetheless, and rose into her playing position. Thoughts and memories coursed through her head: tips for playing better, things to keep in mind, critiques she had received. She lowered her bow and began to play. However, after only half a minute, Slant interrupted.
“Nope, that was horrible,” he exclaimed. “That’s the opposite of what I told you to do. Start again.”
Octavia grumbled to herself but began anew, and once again he stopped her.
“That was even worse. Try again.”
“Nope, still horrid. Again.”
“When they told me how bad you were, I didn’t honestly think it was true. Now it seems they were being kind.”
Octavia struggled against her instincts to punch him, trying hard as she could to keep a steady hoof upon her instrument. She let out three notes before she was stopped again.
“Start over.”
Fuming, Octavia ran through the song, vile insults and retorts at the forefront of her mind. Then she noticed that her anger had transferred into her playing, applying more force and stress on parts where the sheet music called for gentle strokes. She stopped her playing.
“Why’d you stop?” he asked. “You were finally sounding like you knew what you were doing.”
“Will you shut up?” she yelled. “I’ve been trying hard to learn the song as it is written on the page, something I’m having a lot of difficulty with. You are making it worse.”
“I am making it listenable.”
“For the love of Celestia, shut up!” she responded. “I am so done with this. Done with you. I’m done with all of this. I don’t know why I thought I could play as well as they can without magic, but now I know that I’ll never be able to play like them. I shouldn’t even show up tomorrow.”
“Wait, you want to play like them?”
“Yes,” she said, taken aback. “Why, what did you think I was doing?”
“Trying to be a good musician,” Slant said. “I know, kind of dumb for me to assume. You were acting like you were trying to reach some grand goal, not just become mediocre and untalented. I was going the complete opposite way with that one then.”
“What do you know about music anyway?”
“Not a lot,” Slant said, shrugging. “But I know that the better musician is the one that plays better sounding music. And I know that in competition, if you can’t copy what someone else does, your best bet is to do something different and hope it’s better than what the competition has to offer. I mean, what do you have to lose? You already said you sucked at playing like a unicorn.”
“I just want to play the piece properly,” Octavia responded. “I just want to follow directions, play the piece the way it’s written, and maybe still be a student at this school the day after tomorrow.”
Slant’s eyes narrowed, before a sneer appeared on his face.
“Well I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize that you valued being proper over being good. That was my mistake and I do apologize for it. I’ll let you keep practicing now. And yes, I do realize I said I wouldn’t leave until you played something tolerable but, at this rate, that seems like it’s just not going to happen and I have places to be. Good luck on your test and do let me know if you need help packing when you have to move back tomorrow. Not that I’d help, but you know.”
Slant turned around and walked away, leaving a teary-eyed Octavia behind, broken and alone.
A soft rumbling echoed through the mostly empty performance hall as the final violinist walked off the stage. The cello players lined up by the side of the stage, congratulating the violinist on a great performance, all the while preparing themselves mentally for what was to come.
“Minor Scale, you are up.”
Minor took a deep breath and picked up her instrument in her green telekinetic grasp before answering the summons to the center stage. By now they all knew what was expected. The piece would be performed individually by each pony, flowing seamlessly into their own composition. Professor Mode and the rest of the modest audience would refrain from reacting to each performance, and each musician would be given nothing more than a “that will be all” upon their test’s completion.
The unicorn began to play, her music filling the room with the deep tones of her cello. Octavia tried to listen, but her ears seemed deafened to everything but her own rapid heartbeat.
“That will be all.”
Minor took a bow and walked back, passing her fellow cellists. A look was exchanged between her and Octavia. There were no words, there was no sneer, but that look conveyed all that needed to be said. Then she walked away.
“Acoustic Resonance, you are up.”
The colt in front of Octavia picked his cello and walked onto the stage, wasting no time to begin his piece.
Octavia was now close enough to see the seats to the auditorium. There seemed to be thirty ponies there watching, not counting Professor Mode. He was five seats down, writing into a notebook as he watched Resonance perform.
“I can’t do this,” she thought, bile threatening to rise to her throat. “I’m not ready for this.”
“That will be all.”
Octavia snapped back from her thoughts, staring as the colt walked his way back to the sidelines.
“That can’t be right,” she thought. “That was way too short. No way that it’s my turn yet.”
As if to agree with her, the silence after Resonance’s departure seemed to last a lot longer than it should have. Octavia counted her heartbeats, waiting for the call she knew would come.
“Octavia Philharmonica, you’re up.”
Octavia walked onto the stage, carrying her cello on her back. She was aware of how her body shook from nerves, but found herself unable to control it as she fought the impulse as hard as she could while she set up her instrument. She then attempted to remove her bow from her saddlebag, only to drop it on the floor - the clattering seeming louder in the absence of all other noise. As carefully as she could, she picked up her bow, getting just the right tension on it. Finally, she looked up.
Staring at her with a disappointed look was Professor Mode, surrounded by curious-looking ponies. In the front row, Octavia could clearly see Minor and her friends, grinning as they waited for the cellist to start. A spike of anger registered in her mind, amid the worry, causing her to look upwards and take a steadying breath. That’s when she saw him.
Next to the doorway, wearing a black hoodie, was Slant, and while he made no move to communicate with Octavia, his gaze never faltered.
“Whenever you are ready,” Professor Mode called out, causing the fillies in the front row to giggle. And yet the cellist could barely hear them. In her mind, all she could hear were Slant’s words from the previous night.
“If you can’t copy what someone else does, your best bet is to do something different and hope it’s better than what the competition has to offer. I mean, what do you have to lose? You already said you sucked at playing like a unicorn.”
She positioned her bow at an angle, instead of completely horizontally as it was proper to do.
“If I’m going to be kicked out anyway, I might as well do it with style,” she thought. She turned her gaze to the fillies in the front row, her anger rising at their sight. She then began to play.
A dark quality overtook her music, tainted as it was by her emotions. Her anger fueled her performance, changing it. Professor Mode looked on in confusion as Octavia threw out everything they had talked about through the various classes and critiques. Some notes were elongated, some shortened, regardless of the music notation. Octavia added vibratos where there should not have been any, slid into notes or bent the strings in order to complete her melody rather than changing positions. The notes were right but the performance was wrong. The music sheet lay forgotten.
Octavia then sped up the song, changing its rhythm and intensity, turning the mezzo-piano into a forte. The song, usually a calm piece, became fire in her hooves, as auditory rage filled the hall. Forte became fortissimo. The crowd only looked on.
The piece ended but the cellist continued to the rhythm, seamlessly transitioning into her own composition. Her song became defiance itself, building in speed. Her notes became chords. The chords became noise. The only constants were the sharp strokes of the bow upon the strings, adding a rhythm to the chaos, keeping it in check, if only barely. And then it stopped, her signature trill echoing into the silence.
Not a single breath was taken.
And then the clapping began.
Professor Mode looked around in confusion as his colleagues and sponsors alike clapped and cheered for the “earth pony prodigy” who had just performed. He answered questions, albeit reluctantly, about Octavia and when her next performance would be. Glancing back towards the stage, he used his magic to subtly dispose of a paper he had, which Octavia supposed was his proposal for her expulsion.
Meanwhile, the filly-in-question was suddenly struck by how tired she was as she struggled to place her bow in her saddlebag and her cello upon her back. Before leaving, she looked towards the back door, but the pegasus she had been looking for was nowhere to be found.
The sound of Octavia’s hoofsteps echoed through the lone hallway, giving a fair warning of her oncoming arrival. Still, when she finally reached her destination, she found Slant Rhyme looking out a window.
“So I guess you’re not leaving after all,” he said, without turning to face her. “It’s a shame; I had actually decided that I would help you pack in order to get you out of the school faster.”
“I had a feeling you would be here,” Octavia said, ignoring his statement.
“I had a feeling you would want to talk.”
Octavia nodded, despite Slant being unable to see the gesture.
“Why did you help me?”
“When is me telling you that you’re awful at your instrument and that your goals are dumb considered ‘helping?’”
“When it helps.”
Slant took a deep breath, then turned to face Octavia.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I told you my opinion, nothing more. As to why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you do have a speck of talent underneath all your idiocy. Maybe it’s because you are better than all of them and it’d be a shame to see you sent home first. Maybe I was just bored and thought that helping you out would make for an amusing evening. It didn’t, by the way.”
“I thought you hated me, though,” she responded. “I’ve spent every day for the past month tearing your work apart, and you’ve been glaring at me whenever I pass by or when we’re in class together.”
“That’s not hatred,” Slant said, shaking his head. “You see, I don’t really try in class. I don’t have to. I can write absolute garbage and no one will criticize it because of my family name. So I began to write garbage on purpose. What your daily outbursts in class have gotten you is not hate, and not even my attention. It’s my respect.”
Octavia blinked, staying silent for a moment as she tried to organize her thoughts.
“So, are we friends then?”
Slant glanced at the moon, thinking for a while before answering.
“No, we’re not,” he said. “We’re not friends. I still prefer to keep to myself and I’m not really in a hurry to have more conversations with you. You do have my respect though, so we’ll see. Just don’t stop criticizing me, and we should be in good terms.”
As he walked past her and towards the door, Octavia called out to him again.
“What did you think?” she asked. “Of the song.”
“Very melodramatic,” he answered, not turning to face her. “But it was listenable. I might actually pay for a ticket to listen to you someday. Maybe. Anyway, goodnight.”
Octavia watched him walk away, waiting for a while before making her way to her own room, feeling lighter than she had in a very long time.