sipping milk after every bite.
As Mr. Pinker watched me eat, he got this big smile on his face. His eyes lit up and he kept grinning. He watched till I finished every last crumb.
But there was nothing
strange
about that — right?
3
“This is one of Chopin’s early pieces,” Mr. Pinker said. He set the sheet music down on the piano. “I think you will find it easy to play, once you get used to the rhythm.”
“I practiced the other piece you gave me last week,” I told him. “But I only have a small keyboard at home, so it’s hard to do it right.”
Mr. Pinker patted my shoulder. “Once your parents hear how good you are, they will want to buy you a real piano,” he said.
I guess I am pretty good at it. I’m not bragging. Music comes pretty easily for me. Same with magic and doing stand-up comedy and other stuff onstage. I just like to perform.
Dad says my uncle David sang and played piano with a very popular dance band. He died before I was born. But maybe I get my talent from him.
I pulled the piano bench up closer and leaned over the music. I tried to figure out the fingering of the first few bars.
Mr. Pinker was wrong. This piece was hard. Very fast and complicated. I knew it would take hours of practice to get my fingers moving fast enough.
Mr. Pinker slid next to me on the piano bench. “Let’s try a few measures,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
I still had the chocolate taste in my mouth. Mr. Pinker’s cookie was so rich, my stomach was already churning.
I watched his hands as he started to play. I kept moving my eyes from his hands up to the music. Then I tried the first few bars … very slowly.
We worked on the piece together for about twenty minutes. It was pretty intense. But I was starting to get it right.
The phone interrupted us. Mr. Pinker jumped to his feet and started for the kitchen. “I have to answer that,” he said. “Keep practicing the first few pages.”
I leaned forward and moved my fingers over the keys. My hands were sweaty. I dried them off on the towel Mr. Pinker keeps on the piano.
My back ached. I hadn’t moved in nearly half an hour. I decided to stand up and stretch.
Where was the bathroom? This would be a good time to go. But I’d never seen the rest of the house.
The kitchen was to the left. To the right, I saw a long hallway. I decided there must be a bathroom down there.
I stepped into the hall. There were no lights on. But I could see doors on both sides. The floor was wood and creaked under my shoes. The air smelled like pine, like bathroom cleaner or something.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light. I could see that the doors along the hall were all closed.
I pulled open the first door and peered inside. It was a closet with sheets and towels piled on the shelves.
I closed that door and walked to the next door. It was partway open. I peeked inside and saw a twin bed and a dresser. Probably a guest bedroom.
Maybe I should have waited and asked Mr. Pinker where the bathroom was. But there
had
to be one in this long hall, I figured.
My shoes made the floor creak and squeak. I stepped up to the next door and pulled it open. Gazing inside, I blinked several times—and let out a startled gasp.
Gray afternoon light poured in from two windows on the far wall. I gripped the doorknob and stared down at the floor.
What was I seeing? A tiny town? A tiny town of wooden dollhouses?
Before my eyes could focus, Mr. Pinker’s angry scream rang through the hall. “Get OUT of there! SHUT that door! GET AWAY! Right NOW!”
4
I jumped a mile. And pulled the door shut.
“Steven!” Mr. Pinker cried. “What are you
doing
there?”
“Well — I — uh —” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I was looking for a bathroom, Mr. Pinker.”
“The bathroom is at the end of the hall,” he said. He pointed. He still had an angry look on his face.
I was shaking a little. I mean, I didn’t understand why he was so angry.
What was in that room? Why was it such a
As Mr. Pinker watched me eat, he got this big smile on his face. His eyes lit up and he kept grinning. He watched till I finished every last crumb.
But there was nothing
strange
about that — right?
3
“This is one of Chopin’s early pieces,” Mr. Pinker said. He set the sheet music down on the piano. “I think you will find it easy to play, once you get used to the rhythm.”
“I practiced the other piece you gave me last week,” I told him. “But I only have a small keyboard at home, so it’s hard to do it right.”
Mr. Pinker patted my shoulder. “Once your parents hear how good you are, they will want to buy you a real piano,” he said.
I guess I am pretty good at it. I’m not bragging. Music comes pretty easily for me. Same with magic and doing stand-up comedy and other stuff onstage. I just like to perform.
Dad says my uncle David sang and played piano with a very popular dance band. He died before I was born. But maybe I get my talent from him.
I pulled the piano bench up closer and leaned over the music. I tried to figure out the fingering of the first few bars.
Mr. Pinker was wrong. This piece was hard. Very fast and complicated. I knew it would take hours of practice to get my fingers moving fast enough.
Mr. Pinker slid next to me on the piano bench. “Let’s try a few measures,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
I still had the chocolate taste in my mouth. Mr. Pinker’s cookie was so rich, my stomach was already churning.
I watched his hands as he started to play. I kept moving my eyes from his hands up to the music. Then I tried the first few bars … very slowly.
We worked on the piece together for about twenty minutes. It was pretty intense. But I was starting to get it right.
The phone interrupted us. Mr. Pinker jumped to his feet and started for the kitchen. “I have to answer that,” he said. “Keep practicing the first few pages.”
I leaned forward and moved my fingers over the keys. My hands were sweaty. I dried them off on the towel Mr. Pinker keeps on the piano.
My back ached. I hadn’t moved in nearly half an hour. I decided to stand up and stretch.
Where was the bathroom? This would be a good time to go. But I’d never seen the rest of the house.
The kitchen was to the left. To the right, I saw a long hallway. I decided there must be a bathroom down there.
I stepped into the hall. There were no lights on. But I could see doors on both sides. The floor was wood and creaked under my shoes. The air smelled like pine, like bathroom cleaner or something.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light. I could see that the doors along the hall were all closed.
I pulled open the first door and peered inside. It was a closet with sheets and towels piled on the shelves.
I closed that door and walked to the next door. It was partway open. I peeked inside and saw a twin bed and a dresser. Probably a guest bedroom.
Maybe I should have waited and asked Mr. Pinker where the bathroom was. But there
had
to be one in this long hall, I figured.
My shoes made the floor creak and squeak. I stepped up to the next door and pulled it open. Gazing inside, I blinked several times—and let out a startled gasp.
Gray afternoon light poured in from two windows on the far wall. I gripped the doorknob and stared down at the floor.
What was I seeing? A tiny town? A tiny town of wooden dollhouses?
Before my eyes could focus, Mr. Pinker’s angry scream rang through the hall. “Get OUT of there! SHUT that door! GET AWAY! Right NOW!”
4
I jumped a mile. And pulled the door shut.
“Steven!” Mr. Pinker cried. “What are you
doing
there?”
“Well — I — uh —” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I was looking for a bathroom, Mr. Pinker.”
“The bathroom is at the end of the hall,” he said. He pointed. He still had an angry look on his face.
I was shaking a little. I mean, I didn’t understand why he was so angry.
What was in that room? Why was it such a
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