Melissa Troutman
The largest pipe organ in the world, in my home state of New Jersey, and I should have been elated. Instead, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open as I sank onto the bench of the Midmer-Losh organ at Atlantic City’s Boardwalk Hall.
Four months of touring. A flight from Australia yesterday. My first visit to Boardwalk this morning, then an interview with the pipe organ curator, then a meeting with the orchestra conductor. Lunch in my hotel room, a few hours of jetlagged sleep, and back to Boardwalk for rehearsal.
Life as America’s youngest professional concert organist.
One last concert in three days, to cap off the East Coast’s largest Comic Con and celebrate the release of my next album, Crescendo.
Almost done.
And then back home to . . . Never mind.
Movement caught my eye on the monitor next to my iPad, the screen that let me see outside my enclosure of stops and divisionals and pedals, as the conductor mounted his stand. He looked different, or maybe it was just the lighting.
“Ready, Miss West?”
“Ready.”
And we were off into “Romantic Flight” from How to Train Your Dragon.
I wanted to groan like the 32-foot stop.
It used to be one of my favorite songs. Not after playing for the British prince’s wedding, facilitating a proposal at one concert, and connecting a couple through my social media after another concert—the third match of my career.
When would a man message me for me and not to meet another woman?
Maybe with all the YouTubers, videogame designers, actors, and artists of the next few days, one of them would be handsome and single.
“Let’s run through that again.” The trace of an accent, the r flipping after the th of through. “Measure eighty-two.”
I squinted at the monitor, abandoning my seven keyboards to zoom in on the dark eyes, trim beard, and loose, curly hair that always bounced in synchrony to his baton. Alejandro Gabriel Mosca, the youngest Mexican professional orchestra conductor. Here in the flesh.
My heart pounded like the bass drum in the opening fanfare of “Thus Also Spake Sprach Zarathustra.” What happened to the conductor I met with earlier?
“. . . Miss West?” He was looking into the camera. Right at me.
“Yes, sorry. Ready.”
My hands were trembling, but—bless muscle memory—I somehow got through the song. The rest of the rehearsal. The musicians and techs who clogged my exit from the organ box to shake my hand, request my autograph, congratulate my new release. I tried to smile and sign and thank, but there was only one person I wanted to meet and greet.
He was waiting for me. Holding out his hand. Smiling his full smile of youthful enthusiasm. “Miss West.”
“Sophia, please.” I gripped his hand, pretty sure I was grinning like an idiot. In case he felt my tremors, I blurted, “Sorry, I’m kind of fangirling here. I can’t believe I actually get to meet you, and for a performance. I thought—” I stopped before I said something rude like You weren’t supposed to be here. Not so soon after his shoulder surgery.
“My doctor cleared me this morning. I wanted it to be a surprise for . . .well, fans.” His grin broadened like a full set of divisionals. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything, especially the chance to perform with you. I’ve been following you since your first album came out. Your joy in what you do in music is an inspiration.”
“Thank you. And same.” I was fumbling like I’d just been given a full orchestra score to sight-read. “Seriously. I’ve watched all your performances on YouTube, and it’s truly amazing. It’s kind of been a dream of mine to play for you.”
“If I hadn’t made it here today, I would have reached out to you.” His gaze held all the humble sincerity I’d seen in his interviews. Right here in front of me. Down to the Mayan tattoo snaking under his sleeve and the gold chain glinting at his collar.
I tried to swallow and couldn’t. YouTube didn’t tell me he wore such a pleasant cologne.
I took a step back, toward the organ box. “I’ll be practicing for a while, after the building closes. Any requests?”
His eyes brightened. “I’d love to hear ‘Ezio’s Family’ from Assassin’s Creed. Your transcription has been my favorite since you released it last year.”
“Done.”
It took me a few minutes to program the divisionals and pull out the stops, but then I let the music carry me into all the emotions of the theme and away from all the emotions of the year.
Music truly was its own therapy. Thank you, Alejandro.
The last reverberation was still fading when applause broke out behind me. I swiveled on the bench to look for Alejandro among the techs and security. There. Grinning his exuberant grin again.
Something in my chest played a tremolo.
Then a tech stepped in, and we had to reprogram one of the songs. By the time we finished, Alejandro was gone, the hall officially closed.
I tried not to feel disappointed—I’d see him again tomorrow.
Would he be as excited as I was? He said he would have reached out to me, but out of personal interest or professional appreciation?
Back at the hotel, I grabbed a midnight snack from the fridge and pulled out my phone for a quick social media check.
A new message.
I opened it and nearly dropped my phone. My heartbeat leaped into allegro even as the screen blurred. I blinked, smiled, and read the message again.
Sophia,
Thank you for playing the AC song for me tonight. It meant a lot. Besides your passion for music, your heart shines with kindness. I wanted to ask but didn’t get a chance—will you be practicing late again tomorrow? If so, may I bring you a coffee? Just let me know what you like.
~Alejandro
When not grading papers or red-penning more papers, Melissa can predictably be found curled up with a book (of any kind), tickling some ivories, having long conversations with friends, or enjoying a hot spicy mocha.
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