Chapter 4: The Application
On Monday morning, Ayana woke before her alarm, dressed carefully in her nicest blouse, and walked to the community college with her violin case in her hand and a folder tucked under her arm. Dr. Celia Foster met her at the door of the music building with a warm smile and a printed application form for the Sloane Summer Showcase, and together they sat at a small table in the practice room and went through it line by line.
The form asked for her name, her age, her act, and a short description of what she would perform. Ayana wrote in her neat, careful handwriting: Ayana Brooks, nineteen, solo violin, an original piece blending classical technique with blues feeling and gospel warmth. She paused over the last line, then added, simply, that she had been playing since childhood and busked at the Atlanta farmers market. It was the truth, and she was proud of it, even if it did not sound grand on paper.
Dr. Foster read the form over and nodded. "Good," she said. "Honest and clear. That is all a good application needs to be. Now, the showcase office is downtown, in the Sloane Music Group building. You can deliver it in person, or send it by email. I think delivering it in person shows courage, and courage is a good thing to show."
The Sloane Music Group building was all glass and polished stone, with a lobby that smelled faintly of new carpet and coffee. A receptionist in a crisp suit looked up as Ayana entered, her eyes flicking briefly to the worn violin case and the taped corner, and then back to Ayana's face with a polite but distant smile.
"I am here to submit an application for the Sloane Summer Showcase," Ayana said, holding out the folder with steady hands.
The receptionist took it, glanced at the first page, and her smile thinned. "Solo violin?" she said. "From the farmers market?" She tapped a few keys on her computer and shook her head slightly. "I will pass this along to the showcase office, but I should be honest with you. The showcase is a professional event. Most of our acts are established bands with management and recordings. A street player is, well, a long shot."
Ayana felt her stomach tighten, but she kept her voice calm. "I understand," she said. "I would still like it to be considered. I have worked very hard, and I believe I have something worth hearing."
Ayana walked out into the bright Atlanta afternoon feeling smaller than she had when she walked in, as if the gleaming building had quietly suggested she did not belong there. She sat on a bench outside for a moment, the violin case beside her, and watched people hurry past in suits and polished shoes. For a second, doubt whispered to her that the receptionist might be right, that a girl who played on street corners had no business dreaming about a grand hall and a judged showcase.
Then she thought of her grandmother Evelyn, seventy-four and stubborn and proud, who had told her more than once that other people's small opinions were not a good reason to make herself small. She thought of Dr. Foster, who had heard her play and believed in her without needing her to be anything other than herself. She thought of the market crowd that had stopped to listen, and of the music that had always been her truest language.
She stood up, straightened her blouse, and made a decision. The office might dismiss her application, or lose it, or file it away and forget it. That was their choice. But the showcase was a public event, and Meridian Hall would be full of people, and she had already decided she would attend, whether her name was on the official list or not. She would go, she would listen, she would watch, and if there was a chance to be heard, she would take it. She had not come this far, practicing in a small living room and playing through summer heat and winter cold, to turn around at the first closed door.
That evening, back at the apartment, Evelyn was waiting with a pot of soup on the stove and a question in her eyes. Ayana told her everything, the form, the lobby, the receptionist's polite dismissal, and her decision to go anyway. Evelyn listened, stirring the soup slowly, and then she laughed, a warm, proud laugh that filled the kitchen.
"Good girl," she said, reaching across the table to squeeze Ayana's hand. "You did the right thing. You put your name forward, and you did not let one person in a fancy lobby decide who you are. Now you go to that hall, and you hold your head up, and you let them hear you if they will listen. And if they will not, you will still have played, and that is never wasted."