In the gymnasium of our high school, everything smelled of floor polish and tension. The wooden floor glistened like a sheet of ice on which chairs, cables and nervous footsteps glided. On the wall, between the basketball hoops and a faded volleyball disc, hung a banner: "Talent Day - Deluxe Version". Someone had added with a marker: "as far as possible". My name is Nela Żuk, and if something in our school buzzes, crackles or goes silent too loudly, it usually ends up in my hands. I'm the sound engineer of the Moose Roar radio station (the name was left over from the previous team and, I can't hide it, I liked it for the ridiculous momentum). My world is about sliders, plugs and that tiny moment just before a show when everyone holds their breath and I know whether there will be a crash or an ovation. Tonight was going to be an ovation. At least that's what director Nowak announced, standing in the middle of the hall with a microphone, like a general before a parade: "Please be in full technical readiness. At seven o'clock we start. The mayor has confirmed attendance." At these words, Iwo made a sound that sounded like the creaking of un-oiled hinges - his way of laughing when things are going too well to be true. Iwo, my best mate and logistics personified, watched over the cables, speakers and mysterious boxes that arrived from the Local Cultural Centre. Basia, third on our informal staff, had an eye contourer sharper than most scissors in the staff room and a style that said: "I'm beyond all that, but nevertheless I'm going to plug that DI-box for you because I can see you can't do it". - Where did they dig that up from? - I muttered, kneeling by the mixer faceplate. It was heavy, metal, and bore the scars of tape, stickers and years of gigs of dubious reputation. Minimalist it was not; it had so many knobs it would have been suitable for controlling the view of at least three planets. - 'From a warehouse where people come back changed,' Basia replied. - 'Look, there's even a sign: "Do not touch without assistance". Amazing that our school thinks we are assisted. I knelt closer. On the side edge, between the power socket and the AUX panels, someone had written in angular letters with a marker: "Event mode". And next to it - a red switch with a plastic safety flap. On insulating tape underneath: "Use only...", but the rest of the sentence broke off with the piece of tape. - 'Deadly subtle,' muttered Iwo, bending over me. - 'If you turn that on, it'll probably set off a fountain of confetti, five strobes and a diploma spinning machine. Or it will just blow a cork. - Or," Basia interjected, leaning against the column, "we'll finally hear the voice of this place's conscience. Although I wouldn't count on it being louder than the maths lady. For a moment we stared at the red switch with the kind of pious reverence one has for things that are clearly asking for trouble. Then I remembered that we had two hours to set everything up. I slid the flap shut, ran my finger over the faders and began the basic ritual: microphone, test, reverb, mute, microphone again. The room responded with clicks, taps, a slight buzz from the left that mocked my efforts. - You can hear the carcasses from the previous wedding,' Basia remarked. - Such sonic phenomena occur when someone plays 'You're Crazy' forty-seven times in a row. - 'It's not a ghost, it's a mass of cables,' I cut off, although I wasn't so sure myself. The mixer had something organic about it; I could feel its warmth under my fingers. When I moved the slider a millimetre, it responded as if with a shrug of its shoulders - a purr that reverberated through the speakers in the room. The school choir had lined up on the rise and had been warming up the vowels for half an hour. The music mistress, wearing a dress with notes, would throw her hands up every now and then and shout: "Alts, less nasal! Tenors, more sunshine!". On the opposite side of the hall, deckchairs and a wall with the logos of the sponsors were set up: the paper shop "Sowa", the bakery "U Tosi" and the mineral water "Zephyr". The P.E. teacher was trying unsuccessfully to chase a ball off the floor, which by some miracle was always returning under his feet. - Nela, please check the headmistress's microphone," Iwo instructed, glancing at his watch. - 'There's a dress rehearsal in ten minutes, and I still haven't figured out where the digital piano input is. If I plug it into the output, we'll have techno. - And our high school's techno is already an art installation - added Basia. I prepared a microphone with a green band, the one reserved for 'official people'. A quiet crackle in the speakers betrayed that the circuit was waking up. The director approached, seemingly casual, but I could hear a note in her voice that sounded like: "If anything goes wrong, I will use your full name in front of the entire meeting." - Once, once," she said elegantly, then added in a whisper to me: - 'Nelu, remember: no effects, no experiments. It's supposed to be serious. The mayor likes everything to be lined up. - 'Of course,' I nodded, and almost physically felt the 'Party Mode' switch begin to glow red in my head, like a stop sign on a straight road. The rehearsals kicked off. A sophomore beatboxer worked on the sound of rain, which was more like popcorn. A high school graduate recited a poem about impermanence like someone who had just understood the nature of a watch. Three girls from the humanities class sang a song about coffee turning people into superheroes (it seemed dangerously realistic to us). Basia came up with a fine mist that we let loose for the final - one that wouldn't set off alarm bells. For now, it smoked from the kettle in the staff room and had the smell of earl grey. And the mixer... The mixer was alive. Once it seemed to move the slider minimally, although no one touched it. Another time, LEDs resembling little Christmas trees lit up to the rhythm of the footsteps of an audience that wasn't there yet. I put my ear to the case and heard a low murmur, as if someone had yawned in a particularly professional manner. - 'Don't look at him like that,' Iwo warned half-jokingly. - 'You're beginning to look like you've entered into a relationship with a device. - Because he is talking to me,' I replied equally half-jokingly. - He is saying: "I have functions you never dreamed of". - Just don't test them today," interjected Basia, who had a habit of saying out loud what I sensibly just wanted to ignore. I wrote with a thick marker on a piece of paper: "DO NOT TURN THE RED ON" and stuck it over the switch. I felt smart and responsible for about two minutes, until a barely audible, cheerful theme came from the speakers. The kind that ice cream parlours play when they pull up to the block. - Did you hear it? - I asked. Iwo raised an eyebrow. Basia looked around as if she suddenly needed to find a hidden camera. - 'The sampler's probably on,' Iwo stated. - 'Check if something's on automatic. I turned the knob signed 'FX' and the sound went quiet, but something like a tickle remained in my head. I imagined the editor of the school newspaper coming to me tomorrow for an explanation: "Beetle, what was that?" And me, that it was probably an overload, or an echo. Definitely an echo. The most polite of explanations. A rumble came from the hall. The mayor appeared with an assistant carrying a briefcase with a gold clasp and a bottle of 'Zephyr'. The headmistress quickened her step and the rest of the teaching staff took on the look of people who had just remembered that they had their own names on the door. A basket of white carnations was placed at the entrance. The atmosphere had solidified like a thick jelly. - 'In five we start rehearsing the speakers,' hissed Iwo. - Nela, this is your five minutes of genius. Basia, have at the ready... whatever it is. - He pointed to the cable that Basia had slung over her shoulder like a boa constrictor. I made a quick diversions through the sliders and connectors, stopping my finger at the red switch. The safety flap was like an eyelash - it trembled slightly, even though no one had touched it. I could have sworn I felt subtle pulses, like a heartbeat. I knew it was absurd, but there is a moment in a sound engineer's life when the equipment looks like it has intentions of its own. Usually it's just electricity and our brains gluing the rest together. Usually. - Nela, start - I heard the director. - The perfect mix, please. No interruptions, no surprises. Perfect mix, no surprises. I shifted my weight to the other leg and was about to signal the first speaker when all the lights on the mixer dimmed simultaneously. For a split second. Like a blink. And then they lit up again, but half a tone brighter. A single, clear sound seeped out of the speakers - a crystalline A, as if from a camertone. It sailed through the hall, smothered the school pennants and stopped right in the middle of my chest. - 'That was a test signal,' I announced too quickly, trying to convince myself. - Automatically generated. Sometimes it is. Basia looked at me from under her fringe. - Automatic cameramen. Mhm. Sounds like an election slogan. And then something else happened. From the corner of the room, where someone had once placed a metal trophy cabinet, came a soft ringing. Not a school bell. More like... like a key falling on porcelain. No one tried to rationalise this anymore. The faces of the headmasters and guests darkened by half a tone, exactly like the LEDs moments before. - Nela - the director tried a smile. - Please. The official microphone in her hand whistled in a friendly manner and fell silent. I moved the fader gently. I didn't want anything to surprise me, so I decided to stick to the plan like a rock climber. Except that the plan promised to be like that rock: shaky, with holes and a sign saying "Please don't touch the red". Iwo leaned over me. - If this thing has broken, it's now. And I'm not just talking about the equipment. - Maybe the mixer is just in a mood - I replied. - 'Or maybe...' - I broke off as I felt a silly, tempting thought growing inside me. - Listen. Maybe this 'Party Mode' is actually a stabiliser. You know, the kind of secret mode that calms everything down and gets things in order. - I heard Basia snort, but I didn't look. - Maybe someone just called it wrong. - Or right,' Iwo replied. - And he called it exactly the way it works. Nela, I beg you not to turn on the red when the city is looking. The mayor sat in the front row, passionately unscrewed the 'Zephyr' and took a small sip, as if inspecting the bouquet. The chemistry lady began to summarise the programme to him in a whisper, and the music lady began to tune the choir to the key of the speech. The P.E. gentleman finally caught the ball and knelt down, as if making a proposal to her. Everything was ready. Everything except my confidence that I was in control of the situation. I leaned over the panel. Up close I could see the red switch had tiny scratches on it, and someone had put a microscopic sticker on the flap with a silhouette of a duck in sunglasses. I didn't ask. On my back I felt the chill of air conditioning or... well, that's what it was. There was a quiet, metallic clatter coming from the ceiling. As if someone was opening an invisible window. - 'Nela,' Basia said slowly, solemnly, like in the movies when the heroine stands over a big red button. - If you have to do it, do it quickly. So that we have time to live with the consequences. - Or escape,' Iwo added, glancing at the nearest emergency exit. I snorted a laugh that sounded more nervous than I wanted it to. I lifted the flap. The plastic swung back with a click that all three of us heard, though it was tiny. It felt like the green LEDs at the top of the panel winked at me. The headmistress looked in our direction and raised her eyebrows. The choir took a collective breath in with a wonderful, steady hum of their lungs. I rested my fingertips on the switch. One flick could have turned us into a legend - or an anecdote told by the gym teacher at every campfire until the end of the world. In the hall, even the air held its breath. And then, just as my finger was about to make its last, millimetre-long move, a firm, short snap came from the space above the stage. As if someone had unlocked something huge, dark and just ready for action. A finger hovered just above the red. And then all the lights in the room simultaneously dimmed, and a whisper rang out through the speakers, very quietly, as if only to me: "Well then...?"