Chapter 2 - EASTBRIDGE
Eastbridge Conservatory was not a university.
Not yet.
It was a private pre-college music institution with summer residencies, master classes, scholarship funding, and enough prestige that parents routinely behaved worse than children around its audition season.
The Young Artists Fellowship admitted twelve students between eight and twelve.
Audrey was nine.
Competitive.
Talented.
Hardworking.
No reason she should have needed fraud.
That confused me most.
Ms. Brooks explained.
Audrey played beautifully in live lessons.
She also froze when a camera appeared.
Not ordinary nerves.
Severe performance anxiety around recorded auditions.
Her hands stiffened.
Tempo collapsed.
She would restart ten or twelve times until frustration made everything worse.
Celina had been pushing her for Eastbridge since Audrey was seven.
Ms. Brooks advised waiting a year.
Celina refused.
Then the application deadline approached.
Eastbridge accepted unedited single-take audition recordings with basic identity verification performed by an instructor or approved arts administrator.
Ms. Brooks refused to certify Audrey’s first attempts because several did not meet the program requirements.
Celina became furious.
Then she stopped asking Ms. Brooks.
Three weeks later, she announced that Audrey’s application had been submitted independently through another music consultant.
Nobody questioned it.
Why would we?
Then the video Ms. Brooks showed me.
Audrey on screen.
Maisy on audio.
“How?”
I asked.
Ms. Brooks raised a hand.
“I don’t know exactly how the file was created, and I don’t need to speculate. What I know is the sound is from Maisy’s rehearsal recording.”
“How sure?”
“I recorded it myself.”
That mattered.
Six weeks earlier, Ms. Brooks recorded Maisy rehearsing tonight’s solo so she could practice with accompaniment at home.
The recording existed on the academy’s secure lesson platform.
Access:
Ms. Brooks.
Me through Maisy’s parent account.
The accompanist.
And temporarily, Celina.
Why Celina?
She had served on the recital coordination committee and received parent-preview access to several rehearsal files while organizing timing and stage cues.
A stupidly broad permission.
Not illegal.
Bad access design.
Then:
“How did you see Audrey’s audition?”
Ms. Brooks hesitated.
“Audrey showed me.”
Why?
Because Audrey had received an email that morning.
Eastbridge invited her to the semifinal assessment.
Congratulations.
Then Audrey cried.
Ms. Brooks asked why.
The child said:
“That isn’t me.”
There.
Audrey knew.
Not during submission.
After.
According to her, Celina had told her the final audition file was “fixed” because the first one had poor sound.
Audrey assumed her own audio had been cleaned.
Then she heard it again.
Recognized Maisy’s phrasing.
Recognized the cadenza.
Recognized the small squeak Maisy always made before beginning because she inhaled too sharply.
Nine-year-old ears.
Better than adult lies.
Then Audrey asked her mother.
Celina said:
“Families share things.”
That phrase would appear repeatedly.
Then:
“If you get into Eastbridge, nobody cares which practice take they heard.”
Except Eastbridge.
Except Maisy.
Except Audrey.
Except reality.
Then Audrey asked Ms. Brooks whether she should tell someone.
Ms. Brooks said yes.
Before they could decide how to notify Eastbridge and me, the recital began.
Celina arrived early.
Saw Ms. Brooks speaking privately with Audrey.
Asked what happened.
Audrey apparently said:
“I told her about the recording.”
Then Celina walked toward Maisy.
May you like
Five minutes later, the violin hit the floor.
The sabotage suddenly had a clock.
