Connor had prayed his parents would decide to sit in the back row for once, but nope, there they were all proud and annoying in row one. “There’s our boy!” he heard Mom chime to anyone who would listen. “He made first chair this year!”

That was true. Every senior made first chair as long as they were nice to the band leader and dressed nice. Connor, however, was a junior. Juniors never made first chair. Austin Langston made that quite clear.

“The only reason she picked you is because you don’t have acne, ” Austin grumbled. “Good luck with your solo. I’d say don’t fuck it up but we know that’s impossible.”

That was also true. Ever since the school installed auto-tuners on all the instruments, everyone sounded fantastic. Heck, the keys didn’t even matter.

“I still have to blow,” said Connor.

“Yeah, that’s what your boyfriend said.”

Connor turned red. Thankfully, the director got things started. The crowd oohed and aahed through magnificent renditions of Ode to Joy and Pachelbel’s Canon. Connor use to enjoy playing these classics like a professional. But the closer it got to his solo, the angrier he got. Austin punctuated his irritation by emptying his spit valve on Connor’s shoes.

When he was called for his solo, Baker Street, Connor ripped off the auto-tuner. Determined to sabotage this concert and his reputation, he closed his eyes and played like it was his last time. A thoroughly mediocre sound echoed throughout the auditorium as Connor flubbed at least two-dozen notes.

After his final note, he opened his eyes. He could hear a pin drop. His parents look terrified. The crowd looked confused. The director glared right through him. Connor heard a squeal.

He turned around. Austin had his auto-tuner in hand.