The condescension in his voice was clear. He didn’t believe Mateo could actually play. None of them did. To them, he was just a server who’d maybe taken a few lessons as a kid and was now exaggerating his abilities. They expected him to pick up the abandoned horn and fumble through some basic tune while they smiled and pretended to be impressed before going back to their conversations.
Mateo’s hands were shaking. He wanted to run, to simply walk out of the ballroom and never come back, but he needed this job. His rent was due in a week. He still had student loans to pay. His brother needed help with his textbooks for next semester. He couldn’t afford to lose this income. “Fine,” he whispered. “What was that?” Westbrook cupped his ear mockingly. “Speak up.” “I said, fine. I’ll play.”
Mateo’s voice was stronger this time, though it still trembled slightly. Applause broke out, but it wasn’t the respectful applause given to performers. It was the amused applause people give to something they find entertaining in an unexpected way, like when a child tries to do something grown-up—patronizing and belittling.
Mateo set down the tray he’d been holding and began walking toward the stage. Each step felt like he was walking through mud. The distance from where he stood to the saxophone couldn’t have been more than thirty feet, but it felt like miles. Every eye in the room was on him. He could hear whispers, giggles, the clink of glasses as people settled in to watch the show.
“This should be interesting,” he heard someone say. “I hope he knows more than ‘Hot Cross Buns,’” another voice joked, followed by laughter. As he approached the instrument, Mateo’s mind was racing. Part of him was screaming to turn around and walk out with whatever dignity he had left. But another part, a part he’d tried to bury for two years, was stirring to life.
That part remembered what it felt like to put a saxophone to his lips and lose himself in the music. That part remembered the power of a perfect phrase, the thrill of hitting every note exactly right, the way a difficult passage could send electricity through your entire body when you finally mastered it. He reached the stool and stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the polished brass. The professional alto saxophone left behind by the hired player was beautiful, the kind of instrument he used to dream about owning.
Its lacquer gleamed under the lights, perfectly maintained. He could see his reflection in its polished surface, and for a moment he barely recognized himself. Behind him, someone called out, “Play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’!” The comment was met with roaring laughter. Others joined in with their own suggestions, each more mocking than the last. “How about ‘Happy Birthday’?” “Do you know ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?” “Can you play with one finger?”