kitchen door open and closed.
“God, you’re such a jerk.”
There’s no one here to disagree.
***
Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered and dressed, and it’s time to run through the songs once more before school. And even though I’m pumped with adrenalin, my nerves want to get the best of me. I don’t let them. The exchange with Daddy makes me more determined than ever to give the kind of performance no panel can ignore.
I survive the school day, but the only bright spot happens after the final bell. Today’s the weekly meeting of Keys for Kids, an after-school program for children who’d never get to learn an instrument otherwise. I give group piano lessons once a week downtown at the public performing arts magnet school. It’s just two blocks from Felix’s in a rundown part of the city.
This semester, there are two boys and two girls in my class. All of them show aptitude and a desire to learn. None can afford lessons, materials, or a piano of their own. I teach them the basics: how to read music, elementary terms, and fingerings. By the end of the semester, they’ll be able to play scales in C Major and G Major, along with a few simple tunes. I usually have a helper with these classes, but he’s been incapacitated lately. Which is why I’m shocked when he walks in.
“Mr. Cline! Mr. Cline!” The kids abandon their pianos and cling to his legs. The tallest hugs his waist. Mr. Cline sways, putting a burden on his cane.
“I’m happy to see you, as well. One couldn’t…ask for a better w-welcome.” In no time, the children discover candy in his coat pockets. “Children, I would love it…if you showed me what you’ve learned. Please go practice while I talk to…Miss Juli.”
Guilt blossoms when I notice how much better Mr. Cline seems. I would know he’s better if I visited more. He opens his arms, and in two strides I’m surrounded by his candy-coated eucalyptus scent. He’s thinner now but feels solid. I know he’s well, and that nearly triggers happy tears, but I swallow them back. I hang on a second longer than he does.
“I’ve missed you. So much has happened.” I sniffle.
“So I hear. Isaac keeps me in the…loop.”
“He does? Then maybe you can tell me .”
“Juli?”
“You forgot to tell me he hardly talks, at least about anything other than music. It took weeks before I could get him to smile. You warned me not to tease him, but I had to so he’d loosen up.”
He laughs, and happiness zings through my veins. I’ve missed that laugh. “I can see…this has been good for him. He needed to come home. Thank you for helping him.”
“Me? How have I helped him?”
“I think…you gave him a challenge.”
Before he can explain more, the children’s “practicing” disintegrates. They pound their small fists on the keys.
“Mr. Cline, listen to what I can do!”
“No, me!”
“I wanna go first!”
Mr. Cline smiles. “Children, I missed your energy. Now show me what Miss Juli has taught you.”
***
Afterward, I make a beeline for the studio where I find all the recording equipment in place. Isaac sits on the loveseat with his arms crossed and head back. I throw my things on the floor with more force than necessary.
“Let’s do this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He jumps up to fiddle with his laptop. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I’ve never been so ready in my life. I want this. I need this. The New England Conservatory will beg me to come there. I take a moment to summon the colors and images associated with the first piece—Dave’s visualization method proves very helpful—and begin.
The Bach is golden toffee, smooth and liquid, but precise. The Mozart is black and blue. Peacocks. Paper fans. Sibelius is more difficult to nail down…sometimes red, sometimes blue. Always with white. One of his most famous compositions was turned into a hymn, so I often see church sanctuaries. Last is the Rachmaninoff. I’m practically high by the time I begin. Red.
“God, you’re such a jerk.”
There’s no one here to disagree.
***
Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered and dressed, and it’s time to run through the songs once more before school. And even though I’m pumped with adrenalin, my nerves want to get the best of me. I don’t let them. The exchange with Daddy makes me more determined than ever to give the kind of performance no panel can ignore.
I survive the school day, but the only bright spot happens after the final bell. Today’s the weekly meeting of Keys for Kids, an after-school program for children who’d never get to learn an instrument otherwise. I give group piano lessons once a week downtown at the public performing arts magnet school. It’s just two blocks from Felix’s in a rundown part of the city.
This semester, there are two boys and two girls in my class. All of them show aptitude and a desire to learn. None can afford lessons, materials, or a piano of their own. I teach them the basics: how to read music, elementary terms, and fingerings. By the end of the semester, they’ll be able to play scales in C Major and G Major, along with a few simple tunes. I usually have a helper with these classes, but he’s been incapacitated lately. Which is why I’m shocked when he walks in.
“Mr. Cline! Mr. Cline!” The kids abandon their pianos and cling to his legs. The tallest hugs his waist. Mr. Cline sways, putting a burden on his cane.
“I’m happy to see you, as well. One couldn’t…ask for a better w-welcome.” In no time, the children discover candy in his coat pockets. “Children, I would love it…if you showed me what you’ve learned. Please go practice while I talk to…Miss Juli.”
Guilt blossoms when I notice how much better Mr. Cline seems. I would know he’s better if I visited more. He opens his arms, and in two strides I’m surrounded by his candy-coated eucalyptus scent. He’s thinner now but feels solid. I know he’s well, and that nearly triggers happy tears, but I swallow them back. I hang on a second longer than he does.
“I’ve missed you. So much has happened.” I sniffle.
“So I hear. Isaac keeps me in the…loop.”
“He does? Then maybe you can tell me .”
“Juli?”
“You forgot to tell me he hardly talks, at least about anything other than music. It took weeks before I could get him to smile. You warned me not to tease him, but I had to so he’d loosen up.”
He laughs, and happiness zings through my veins. I’ve missed that laugh. “I can see…this has been good for him. He needed to come home. Thank you for helping him.”
“Me? How have I helped him?”
“I think…you gave him a challenge.”
Before he can explain more, the children’s “practicing” disintegrates. They pound their small fists on the keys.
“Mr. Cline, listen to what I can do!”
“No, me!”
“I wanna go first!”
Mr. Cline smiles. “Children, I missed your energy. Now show me what Miss Juli has taught you.”
***
Afterward, I make a beeline for the studio where I find all the recording equipment in place. Isaac sits on the loveseat with his arms crossed and head back. I throw my things on the floor with more force than necessary.
“Let’s do this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He jumps up to fiddle with his laptop. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I’ve never been so ready in my life. I want this. I need this. The New England Conservatory will beg me to come there. I take a moment to summon the colors and images associated with the first piece—Dave’s visualization method proves very helpful—and begin.
The Bach is golden toffee, smooth and liquid, but precise. The Mozart is black and blue. Peacocks. Paper fans. Sibelius is more difficult to nail down…sometimes red, sometimes blue. Always with white. One of his most famous compositions was turned into a hymn, so I often see church sanctuaries. Last is the Rachmaninoff. I’m practically high by the time I begin. Red.
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