Filed by NinjaDoll on September 20th, 2008
The Kid made First Chair!
*****
So this past Saturday, much to my utter surprise, the school held an open house. The Kid and I schlepped there and in the course of the morning we managed to meet up in the orchestra room. She was seated in her chair with her cello while a kid who is a cross between Michael J. Fox and a really young George Stephanapoulos hovered over her. It turns out this kid is her orchestra teacher.
I wouldn’t have minded if he’d said something like, “Cyd is really good with the cello,” or “She’s a shoe-in for Honors Orchestra.” I would’ve been proud. Gushingly proud. So proud I’d put it in this-here blog proud.
But no, that’s not what he said. What he said was:
“Whatever it takes to keep her in this school and this orchestra. Tutoring, financial aid, someone to wash the windows…she can’t leave. Not her.” His eyes were sparkling and intense; he was talking faster than I can think - and that’s pretty damned fast.
With that one, sweeping sentence, he turned into a stalker.
I know that I have a mind for anxiety. My serotonin reuptake is only inhibited by some pretty strong meds. Still, through all the dosing, I manage to come up with some pretty mean reasons to panic over the slightest thing - or the most alarming thing, as is the case here.
“She stays if her academics are in the target range,” I politely hissed. “She can play a cello anywhere, but she can’t get into Harvard without a 4.0.”
“Is she having trouble in any of her classes? Because if so -”
I’m thinking, “WTF dude, quit the coke.” But what I say is, “we’ll see how she does by the end of the quarter.”
Ok, so I’m jaded. I get that. Musicians don’t impress me, neither do their managers, agents, attorneys, accountants, heirs or assigns. I expect the Kid to be talented because - hell, she’s my kid. I’m really stoked that she plays a mean cello - but I’m not stoked about her teacher, and that really bothers me.
I’m gonna be watching him closely. He’s either on something or he’s gonna cross some line that I’ve invented in my anxietal mind. Pyschotic of me, isn’t it? Poor guy.