The Pianist

Muffled yells echo from down the corridor. Her neighbor’s front door slam shut hiding it’s contents from prying eyes, and the lights flicker as Aimee enters the hallway leading to her apartment. Fiddling with her keys, she glances over her shoulder to make sure no one is behind her before pushing the door open. Right as soon as she opens the door laying on the floor is a white envelope with bright bold red letters: EVICTION NOTICE. Grabbing the paper in her hand she shuts and locks the door. Aimee walks further into her apartment with heavy steps and the floorboards creak beneath her every move. 

She tosses her purse on the pile of bills resting on the rickety wood table in the corner of the room collecting dust. Aimee unbuttons the first few buttons of her crinkled uniform shirt encrusted with the golden arches of McDonald’s and thinks to herself, Maybe if I talk to the landlord he’ll give me more time. He understands my situation. He wouldn’t kick out a girl who has no mother, right? Walking towards the kitchen, she pulls the refrigerator door open finding it just as bare as it was last week. There’s a container of some leftover Lo Mein from a few days ago and a half full can of Sprite. Taking the stale Sprite, Aimee takes a large swig from the can hoping to wash away her troubles with the liquid. 

She closes the refrigerator door and looks around her studio apartment. The couch has several springs sticking out and they always dig into her skin every time she sits down. The windows are covered with grime and cracks running down its length, the television sits atop cardboard boxes, the rug in the center of the room is faded no longer the shade maroon it was when she had bought it. The shelves along the walls have a few picture frames and cards on them. Aimee tosses the now empty can of Sprite in the trash before picking up one of the frames. 

There is a woman smiling broadly, her hair in an afro all her black kinky curls out for the world to see, her skin a deep tan resembling camel skin. She’s holding on to a young girl. She held the young girl tightly in her grasp pulling her into her embrace. The girl is smiling so wide that her eyes don’t look open. Her black hair is pulled into a sleek bun resting on the crown of her head. She has the same complexion as the woman holding on to her, but instead of holding on to the woman and returning the embrace she has a large gold trophy in her grasp. There is some distance between the two looking as if one were struggling in the hug. The flash from the camera gleams on the trophy’s golden surface. On the bottom engraved in cursive writing; 1^stPlace Grand Piano Award Aimee Wilson. 

Aimee stares at the picture unblinking, her face sets in a frown. She traces her finger over the woman trying to feel her features through the frame. She starts at her hair moving along the outline of her afro then she moves to her nose. Her nose is high and sharp then from her nose she moves to the arms that held her in that tight hug she was trying to pull away from. She closes her eyes and brings the picture to her chest hugging it tightly, “Mom, can we just go back please?” Aimee says her voice barely above a whisper.

***

The lights in the room a dim and in the middle of the room a stool is place directly in the center. Aimee strides in from the right side of the room. She bows to the space in front of her which has a coat rack rather than an audience. Sitting down, Aimee’s fingers ghost of the invisible keys while her feet mimic the movement of the foot pedals. The ringing of the piano blares from her headphones and her eyes are shut in concentration. There are rapid knocks on the door followed by the voice of a woman, “Aimee, are you ready?” The voice calls out from the other side of the door. Aimee continues her piano antics unaware of the world around her. The door flings open and a woman walks in with a limp on her right side and flicks the light switch on with her left hand. Her right hand remains still under her breasts bandaged all the way from the fingertips to the elbow. Brightness to engulf the room and Aimee’s eyes screw shut even more, the light from the room seeping in behind her eyelids. The woman stomps over to Aimee in the center of the room and yanks the headphones out of her ears. “We really don’t have time for this are you ready or what?” The woman screams.

Aimee’s eyes shoot open and she yells, “Seriously, Mom?!”

 “Are you trying to make yourself deaf right before this recital? I guess you don’t want to hear if you’re even playing the right notes or not, huh?” Her mother yells back in an irritated tone. “There’s important people here today. Do not for the love of God mess this up for us.”

Aimee tears the headphones out of her mother’s hand, “That’s why I was practicing! I have to be perfect. There are scouts in the audience tonight of course I didn’t forget. I’m not dumb.” Aimee stands up and roughly pushes her shoulder against her mother’s right arm. “For us? Ha.” Aimee let’s out a dry laugh. “Stop lying to yourself and just tell me not to mess this up for you.” 

Aimee stalks out of the room her heels clicking behind her. Aimee’s mother runs to catch her and grabs her by the wrist. Sighing she says, “Okay, okay. Listen, I’m sorry. I just… I just really want this for the both of us.” She touches the collar of Aimee’s blazer, straightening it out and placing it in the perfect position. 

Aimee stares at her mother’s bandaged right arm. She remembers the smoky blaze that caused it. She had to be no older than five when she was playing in the kitchen while her mother was showering. She turned the knobs of the stove, hearing the ticking of the gas pilot before the orange and blue flames kissed the surface of the stove. She thought it would be a good idea to channel her inner Martha Stewart and attempt to cook something for her mother. The rag she used to wrap around the pot got caught in the stove’s flames. The fire crept up the fibers of the rag and up to her tiny fingers. Aimee threw the rag on to the kitchen counter and the flames burst to life. It took anything in its path hostage; the opened envelopes, the car keys, the faux potted cactus. The flames scaled up the walls and Aimee watched in awe as everything disappeared before her eyes. 

It wasn’t until the heat tickled her little cheeks did Aimee realize something was wrong. The kitchen that was once a pale-yellow hue with floral accents quickly morphed into a melted combination of colors and household items. Darting out of the kitchen Aimee slid under the grand piano across the hall. The sleek black instrument more than twice her size provided her, and her mother comfort a variety of times. Like when it was Christmas season. For the whole month of December her mother would play Christmas carols and Aimee would accompany her by singing the lyrics to the best of her memory. 

“Oh, you better watch out! You better not cry!” Aimee sang at the top of her lungs yelling over her mother’s soft voice. Her mother looked over her shoulder, her fingers never stop, as sees Aimee dancing in a circle with her little arms in the air. She throws her head back and lets out a gleeful laugh.

The grand piano sitting center stage at the recital hall and her mother sitting with the spotlight shining down on her. Her mother plays Chopin’s Spring Waltz accompanied by the sweet sound of a violin. Aimee bounces in her seat with her father sitting next to her stone faced and the recital program crumpled in his fist. Her mother looks so ethereal. Her hair tied in a bun not a single strand out of place. Her long black gown pooling at her feet. Her body flows with the beat of the song and every note is crisp and vibrates through the quiet hall. Once the piece is down applause erupts and roses are thrown on the stage. Aimee stands on her seat and cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “You did it Mommy!” Her mother smiles so hard it looks like her eyes and closed.

Or the time when she had come down with the flu, her mother wrapped her up in a pink fuzzy blanket and sat her on her lap. Her mother’s fingers glided over the black and white keys. Each note sending chills through her little body. The crescendo of Franz Liszt’s Love Dream, soothed her aching body. She cocked her head up to look at her mother and her face was so peaceful. A small smile graced her features, not a muscle in her face tensed- everything was at ease. “I like this song, Mommy.” Aimee says to her mother. “I like this song too, baby.” Her mother says whisking the two of them away in the melodies.

Another time after her father had left. His shoes no longer by the doorway, his cologne that made Aimee cough couldn’t be smelled and her parents back and forth screaming ceased. Her mother sat at the piano from sunrise to sunset after he disappeared. She would only move occasionally to feed or care for Aimee’s needs, other than that she just sat there.

Over and over belting out the notes of Liszt Nocturne n.3. The dreary tune crying the tears her mother did not shed. Her mother’s fingers banged on the keys forcing the song out of the instrument making the notes screech and sound unpleasant. Her mother would stop abruptly and jump out of the stool placed in front of the piano knocking it down in the process. She would close the piano key cover and just stare at the large instrument. For a while, her mother remained still as stone before picking the stool up and opening the piano cover and started playing the song again. After a week, her mother never touched the piano again. She acted as if it never existed. She would never dust it like she used to or play a song whenever Aimee got sick or even play it during the holidays. The liveliness the piano brought to the house was gone.

The flames reflected against the piano’s black surface and the fire alarm’s annoying sound begins to echo in the house. Black smoke floats in the air traveling up to the ceiling. Aimee covers her head with both of her arms and curls herself into a ball. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens. “Aimee?!” Her mother yells tightening a white bathrobe around her body.

“I’m under here!” Aimee screams poking her head out from under the piano. Her mother runs towards her and yanks her body out from under her hiding spot. She shakes Aimee hard, her head flops back and forth like a ragdoll. “What did you do!?” Her yells at her. Before Aimee gets a chance to answer, her mother scoops her under her arms like a football and runs out the front door and the down the steps to the sidewalk. The two of them heavy and cough, taking large gulps of the fresh air around them. The sirens wailing in the distance get closer and closer.

“Mommy, I didn’t mean to do it. I was trying to cook you something to eat.” Aimee says not looking up at her mother’s face. 

Aimee’s mother lets go of her dropping her to the ground. “What on god’s green earth where you trying to do? Cook?! You?! A little child? How many times have I told you not to play in the kitchen.” Aimee’s mother bellows at her. Aimee keeps her head down refusing to meet her mother’s furious gaze.

Her mother lets out a cry that sounds like a mix between frustration and sadness. “My house! My stuff! My piano- oh god the piano!” Aimee’s mother starts pacing around her bare feet scraping against the concrete. “I have to go get it.” She says suddenly stopping her movements. She looks towards the house the thick black smoke seeping out of the front door and the windows shattered. Her mother starts walking towards the burning house. Aimee jumps up from her spot on the and grabs her mother’s hand. “Mommy, it’s on fire! You can’t go in there!” Aimee says tugging on her mother’s hand trying to pull her to safety. 

Aimee’s mother brushes off her hand freeing herself and turns to look at her. From her neck all the way to her ears, they are red. Her eyes are squinting in a glare, “You!” She yells pointing an accusing finger. “I lost a lot of things because of you. I don’t care if you’re my daughter you will not make me lose anything else!” Aimee’s mother runs off into the burning building just as the fire trucks arrive.

“Mommy! Don’t go!” 

***

Her mother’s hand drops from her blazer collar. “Do your best, okay? We have people to impress tonight. If you get scouted, you can get into a good college and even a get mentor and start playing around the world. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Her mother says smiling imaging all of things to come after this performance.

“Sounds great.” Aimee says tightly and distances herself from her mother. She stands right behind the curtain leading to the stage waiting for them to call her name. 

“Please welcome our next contestant from New York City, Aimee Wilson.” The announcer says into the microphone and the crowd begins to clap. Inhaling deeply Aimee holds her head high and walks out on the stage towards the piano. She stops short and bows to the audience before taking her a seat in the spotlight. Gently she lifts the piano key cover, the wood feeling heavy under her touch. She straightens her back and hovering her fingers over the keys. 

She begins to play Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Her fingers glide and press each key delicately emitting the soft sounds. When the second score begins the songs’ pace increases, and her fingers move even faster. Beads of sweat form at her hairline and her becomes hard in concentration. Her upper body follows her fingers movements across the keys. The song comes to an end with the last note ringing through the silence. The audience get to their feet and their claps shake the auditorium. Aimee breaths raggedly and looks out into the audience. She can see looks of astonishment and smiles. She rises from her seat, bows again and then exits the stage. 

Her mother is backstage wiping her tears. “My baby, you were amazing.” She says. Aimee ignores her and walks back to the dressing room her mother hot on trail. “You should learn how to take a compliment.” Her mother chastises her. 

“Whatever. Just call me when they announce the winners.” Aimee says shutting the door in her mother’s face. On the other side of the door Aimee leans against it and sinks down to the ground. She did very well, she knows that. But the fact that she may actually get the chance to play the piano, an instrument she hates ever since that fire, worldwide makes her sick. Her mother had to sacrifice her dreams after the blaze. I thought it would be okay just to let her live through me for a while, but it’s getting a little too real now.

The contestants line up on the stage and the award ceremony begins. Aimee tunes out the words of the announcer and closes her eyes. Dear God, please don’t let me get anything. Please, please, please- 

“And first place goes to,” The announcer begins as she opens the envelope containing the name of the winner. “Aimee Wilson, congratulations.” She says into the microphone. Aimee opens her eyes slowly and the whole auditorium is on their feet, cheers, whistles and clapping are heard all around. Aimee steps forward and accepts the award. The golden metal trophy weighs down in her palms. Her arms have no strength. She holds the trophy down at her side and briskly walks off the stage. Her mother is jumping up and down screaming, “You did it! You did it!”

Aimee looks blankly at her mother, “Mommy, I didn’t mean to do it.”

Her mother stops jumping and looks at Aimee confused. Her eye brows are furrowed and her mouth agape. “What?” Her mother whispers harshly. 

“Let’s get a picture of the winner!” An old man with a large camera yells disrupting them. Aimee’s mother comes close to her and pulls her into her side with her left arm. “You better smile like you mean it.” Her mother says to her enunciating every syllable in every word. Aimee gripping the trophy to her chest and tears form in her eyes. She smiles so hard that her eyes look closed and the tears aren’t visible. She tries to pull away from her mother so that she could breathe, so she could feel less suffocated, but her mother reels her in with her arm. The flash from the camera is blinding. 

“This is going to look so good on the papers front page. Congratulations young lady.” The man with the camera says before walking away. Aimee’s mother shoves her once the man walks away.

 “All you do is take things away from me. When are you going to finally give me something?” Her mother says to her. Her face is void of any emotion. 

“I’m really sorry. For everything.” Aimee says. She walks toward the trash can in the corner and drops the golden trophy in. She turns around and looks at her mother ready to apologize again, but all she sees is her mother’s retreating figure walking towards the exit. 

Loud banging on the door makes Aimee jump and she drops the picture frame on the floor. The glass shatters and the photo lays on the ground covered by the shards. “Aimee Wilson! Are you in there? We need to talk!” The voice of her landlord rings through the empty apartment. Aimee stands still, and the banging continues. “Aimee!” The landlord continues to yell. Aimee stares at the picture on the floor. If I could go back and play the piano again would we both be happy?

---

Mikrokosmos

I couldn’t believe my ears. I rattled off all the possibilities as to why the piano piece I’m going to perform tonight was being played and my feet haven’t even touched the recital stage yet. Either I practiced so much that the song is on rewind in my brain or I’ve finally lost my marbles. I stick my finger in my ear and wiggle it around trying to see if there’s some gunk in there, but the sound of Bartok’s Six Dances in Bulgarian Rhythm n. 2 echoes from down the hall. Even through the dressing room’s closed door the sound of the piano notes could be heard loud and clear. 

Sitting at the vanity I stare at my reflection, my kinky hair pulled into a tight bun (slightly fuzzed out because I can’t stop sweating), my olive skin looking a ghastly shade of yellow and my lips chapped, and the corners bitten raw from anxiety. I drop my head into the palms of my hands. Of course, it was too good to be true; a black girl on the borderline of poverty and homelessness but has a dream of becoming a pianist after listening too much Hazel Scott, Duke Ellington and Stevie Wonder so, her mother works multiple odd jobs to get her daughter piano lessons (and keep a roof over their heads), the piano teacher says she’s got a gift and to share it with the world, then the girl’s is swayed by her teacher to audition for the town’s prestigious art high school. And by the grace of God and probably her mother conjuring the spirits of their ancestors for good luck, she got in. 

I could never forget that audition day, I stood across the street watching all the Ferrari’s, Rolls Royce’s, and other expensive cars I could never dream about owning dropping off students. Blonde hair in loose curls bounce with very step and brown long hair like the kind you’d see on one of those coffee shop hipsters blow in the wind, alligator skin loafers cover their feet, Apple Watches adorn their wrists and the school’s crest lays there proudly on their uniform shirts. From across the street I stare into the school cut off from the rest of the world by the large silver gates, green acres run for miles on the inside and the buildings sit atop of hills, the indistinct chatter grows as more students’ flock beyond the gate. 

I look down at my scuffed and barely holding together sneakers and my faded blue top that was a hand-me down from a cousin. I almost turned on my heels ready to walk back in the direction I had come from but then I wondered, Did Hazel Scott or Stevie ever give up? If they did, we would have never been blessed with their music. Taking a deep breath, I steel my nerves and cross the street entering what would either big a huge disaster or my big break. 

Once I stepped foot into the school grounds, blue and green eyes immediately look in my direction. Some look at me with raised eyebrows others with a look of disgust. I lower my head and avert eye contact already feeling self-conscious and overwhelmed being surrounded by so much wealth and privilege. Their eyes burn the back of my skull and I try to block out their harsh words.

“What is she doing here?” One student said. 

Then another snickering asks, “Is that one of the lunch lady’s kid?” 

And a high pitched nasally voice chimes in, “Wow, her clothes… my daddy would never let me walk around like that.” 

My feet move quickly against the asphalt and up the steep hill towards the music building. I push the heavy metal door and I peer inside. Glass cases filled to the brim with trophies and medals line both sides of the hall. The area is silent aside from the clicking of computer keys. I follow the sound to the end of the hall where the receptionist sits. 

“Uh… Excuse me?” I say to the woman behind the desk. She glances up from her computer screen, she looks to her left, to her right and then back at me with a blank stare. “Are you lost? The job resource center is in the main building across campus.” She says to me with a blank stare.

“No, no, no.” I say shaking my head. “I’m here for the music program auditions.” I say scratching the back on my neck. 

“You? You want to audition?” She scoffs. “You don’t look the part for sure.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a dress code.” I clutch the hem of my faded blue shirt. I couldn’t afford to dress to the nines, so I opted for something that at least didn’t have any holes. 

Releasing a deep breath through her nose, “So, what’s your name?” She asks looking back at her computer screen.

“Eden Wilson.”

“Eden…Eden… Ah, here you are. Eden Wilson.” She prints out a paper and hands it to me. On the paper the number 420 are in bold black ink. “Take this door on your left and go straight down the hall the line is over there. Good luck you’re going to need it.” I swallow down my rude remark about where I would shove my foot and give her a stiff smile before walking away. I need to be on everyone’s good side if I even stand a chance of being accepted in this school.

Following her directions, I enter the hallway where teens are lined up waiting to show off their skills. Some are practicing on their instruments, then there’s people belting out notes and others are erasing and rewriting their music scores trying to perfect it. There’s a closed door at the end of the hall and the sound of Chopin or Bach is audible, or sopranos hitting glass breaking notes or tenors singing with such vibrato the whole room shakes. There’s a counter above the door that shows numbers and one by one we enter the room to face our fate. Finally, I realize this is actually happening. What am I doing? I never played in front of anyone other than my music teacher. How can I play in front of the judges? The rise and fall of my chest gets quicker and my palms are clammy. I crumpled the paper with my number into a ball ready to throw it in the nearest trash and high tail my ass out of this place. 

“You look like you’re going to pass out, chill.” A voice from behind me says. I whip around to look at the source of the voice and a girl who looks like Regina George threw up all over her with her platinum blonde hair and dressed in pink head to toe even though it isn’t Wednesday. She sneers at me and massages her manicured fingers, “Your panicking is going to totally throw off my Zen. I need my Zen and all my chakras aligned so that I could show everyone who’s the best pianist here.” 

She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and scans the hallway filled with others who are waiting for their faith to be determined. “My daddy already spoke to the principal I’m already in the school, but you know I have to audition just so people don’t get suspicious.” She says with a shrug of her shoulders as if what she just said was as normal as talking about the weather.

Wow, you’re not even trying to hide your privilege. I try to control my breathing before I accidentally send myself into cardiac arrest. “I’m a pianist too.” I say weakly disregarding the fact this chick openly admitted to me that she’s involved in a bribery scandal.

“Oh yeah? What are you going to play some Motown tunes or something?” The Regina George look alike asks me.

I twiddle my thumbs. I was going to play one of Duke Ellington’s classics because you could never go wrong with some jazz. When listening to jazz your feet would tap unconsciously, your head would be bopping, the sounds of the drums syncing with the beating of your heart, the wind and brass instruments coming together to create a sweet symphony in your ears, and with the piano leading- each note commanding the instruments leading them through each movement. Jazz is one of the greatest forms of art ever. Period.

“My god,” Regina’s look alike laughs out loud. Her stupidly loud laugh makes some of the other auditionees turn around and look at us. “You really think you can get into this school by playing that? Oh sweetie,” She says placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re so cute. Listen if it doesn’t work out maybe my daddy can bribe someone to let you in.” She smiles at me sympathetically. My hands curl into a fist, If I knock her out how fast can I run before the cops show up? Sighing deeply and resisting the urge to break her nose that her father probably paid for I turn back around, “You just wouldn’t understand.” I say.

“Yeah obviously I don’t because we are refined and sophisticated people here. Maybe you don’t understand.” She says the annoyance evident in her voice. I roll my eyes and look up at the counter displaying the auditionees numbers and my heart falls to my ass when I see the number 419. Whatever nervousness I had managed to disperse comes back full force. One person exits the room and the numbers change to 420 and my legs feel like lead as I walk to the room to face the judges.

I open the door, walk into the room and stand face to face with two judges. The room is bare aside from its occupants and a grand piano sitting in the center. A man and a woman sit at a table with papers stacked high. Their pens scribble down notes nonstop, “Eden Wilson?” The man asks breaking the silence. I swallow hard trying to bring back some moisture to my mouth that feels drier than the Sahara Desert. 

“Y-Yes?” I say trying to sound confident but stuttering over my words.

“You’re auditioning as a pianist and you’re going to be playing Duke Ellington’s Take the A Train?” He asks me. I nod my head not trusting my voice. The man leans back in his chair and rubs a hand over his face already looking like he’s given up. The other judge gives me a look and a frown etch into her face. “Well since you came all this way we should at least hear you play.” The woman pipes up looking at me through her thick glasses. 

I walk over to the black Steinway Grand Piano; the glossy black surface is so pristine without a smudge I’m almost terrified to touch it. I sit on the bench in front of the keys and arrange the music sheets in the proper place. My fingers hover over the C key and I release a deep breath, Well, this is it. 

I press the key and then my fingers naturally press the following keys. My body begins swaying side to side riding the rhythm of the song and my foot presses the foot pedals helping to emits the piano’s sound. Just as I was getting into the groove of the song it slowly comes to an end. I lay my hands in my lap and turn to look at the judges and their faces look the same way as before, displeased.  

“Well thank you for your time, Ms. Wilson.” The other male judge says, and I can already hear the rejection coming. My only chance of becoming a musician is slipping away from me. Music is the only thing I’m good at and the only thing I want to do, and I’ll be damned if I give up without a fight. I spring up to my feet, “Wait!” I yell. The judges look at me startled by my outburst. 

“Let me play something else for you. Something that can really show off my talent.” I say clasping my hands together begging them for another chance. 

Sighing the female judge uses her hand and gestures towards the piano giving me the signal to go ahead. I sit down in a hurry and almost trip over the bench in the process. My heart is thundering, If they didn’t like me the first time they probably won’t like me the second time around. This is really do or die for real. 

            With quick movements my fingers press the keys alternating between flat and sharp notes. My hands create a dissonant harmony, my right hand playing with the pitch and my left-hand toying with the rhythms. The art of Bartok’s From the Diary of a Fly is to show off variation of patterns and manipulation sound. It’s complex, it sounds like grating two rocks against each other, but it’s the perfect piece to play when you want to be a show off.

By the end of the piece my fingers are cramping up and a thin layer of sweat covers my face, I turn to look and the judges and they’re staring at me bug eyed. “You know how to play a piece from the sixth volume of Mikrokosmos?” The female judge asks her glasses falling down the bridge of her nose. The man has his pen midair and his mouth slightly ajar. 

“Some of our current students don’t even know who Bartok or what Mikrokosmos is.” He says mumbling under his breath. I can’t help but smirk at that comment, the poor girl who wears beat up clothes is more knowledgeable about music than some students who’ve been going to the school for years and have all the resources to become master pianists. I stand from the bench, give the judges a smile and leave the room.

The hallway is eerily quiet as I exit, and all the eyes traveled towards me. Some of the eyes narrowed into slits of anger whereas others are wide and curious. Whispers float around the hall. 

“Who is she?”

“Where did she learn how to play like that?”

“She’s definitely competition.”

The Regina George look alike stands in front of me sheltering me from prying eyes. “Wow, even some advanced pianist struggle to play pieces from Mikrokosmos. Some of them can’t even get past the fourth volume but you can play the stuff from sixth volume?” She abruptly sticks her hand out, “I’m Amanda Bryans.” She says. I hesitantly reach out and shake her hand. A grin creeps up on her face similar to the Cheshire Cat’s.

From that day forward Amanda and I became best friends (even though at first, I wanted to beat some sense into her, but she claimed that she needed to keep everyone at arm’s length that day, everyone was an enemy). She sort of became my protector once I got accepted into the school. She’d tell off anyone who tried to make me feel bad for not fitting into their societal circle and she always made sure I never felt left out. She’d invite me to these fancy dinners, invite me to study with her group of friends and she made sure I was caught up on the school’s latest drama. 

Her father did pay her way into the school, but she is actually a really talented pianist. Amanda taught me piano pieces and vice versa. Some days we’d play the piano in the lavish sitting room in her house or we’d hole ourselves up in the school’s practice room until the janitor chased us out for the night. She really gained my trust, she became one of the people I held dear to my heart, but now I can see how stupid I was. 

Why did I think someone who was talking trash about me the first day they ever met me would actually be genuine? Why did I think someone who openly uses their privileged to get what they want could ever care about someone other than themselves? Did my mom drop me on my head because there ain’t no way I can be this stupid naturally?A knock at my dressing room door breaks me out of my self-deprecating tirade. I rise from the vanity, open the door and speak of the devil and there she is. Still with her platinum blonde hair and dressed in pink head to toe, Amanda stands in the doorway smiling brightly at me.

“Eden! How did you like the piano piece I played? Sounded amazing, didn’t it?” She says every word laced with humor.

“You’re such a snake. How could you do that to me?” I say spitting my words at her. My grip on the doorknob is so tight my knuckles turn white, “Are you trying to make me look dumb out there? I thought we were friends!”

“Friends?” Amanda says pointing between me and her. “When Hell freezes over maybe we could be friends. I had to swallow so much of my pride when I was hanging out with you. A debutante such as myself should never be around your kind.” She gestures to me with the flick of her wrist before turning on her heels and walking away. Over her should she says, “After hearing you play at the auditions I knew I had to ruin you. There’s only room for one pianist here and it will be me.”

Stunned I stand there with the door wide open and watch her retreating figure. My body heats up in anger. This was probably one of the only chances I would ever get to be on a stage and do what I love the most. The opportunity was right in front of me, but because of some entitled brat it’s slipping from my grasp even before I really got a taste of it. Walking out of the room and slamming the door behind me I march towards the stage. 

These stereotypes, stupid societal norms and this damn hierarchy aren’t going to stop me. I’d be crazy to not even try after coming this far. Amanda could keep the song, it really isn’t my style anyway. These people don’t know anything about me. I played nice for too long. I forced myself to play their refined classical music pieces and ignored where my heart and passion truly lies. If those people don’t know anything about Duke Ellington after I play they surely will.

I walk to the stage the curtains are drawn cutting off the performers from the audience. In the center of the stage the grand piano sits waiting for the next performer. I walk towards it and sit on the bench and I lift the piano key cover to reveal the pearly white keys. The curtain slowly rises and a round of applause ensues. Taking a deep breath, I raise my fingers to the keys and the same bouncy tune I played all those months ago for my audition comes to life. My lips turn upward into a smile and my body moves to the beat. Duke Ellington’s Take the A Train is ringing throughout the hall. My fingers glide over the keys with ease. I go with the flow and let the melody carry me through the performance.

I end the song and the final note vibrates the whole room. There’s no applause, there’s no cheers but I smile widely. Standing up from the piano bench I bow to the audience before exiting the stage. Off to the side Amanda stands with her arms crossed over her chest and a smug smirk on her face.

“Looks the audience hated your performance.” Amanda says laughing.

I look at her and laugh right back. I throw my head back and clutch my stomach from laughing so hard. The tears in my eyes cloud my vision.

“What’s wrong with you?! You really played a jazz song for people who came here to hear classical music and you’re laughing? You should feel embarrassed.” Amanda shouts at me.

I wipe the tears from my eyes still giggling but I manage to get myself under control. “Embarrassed? Nah.” I walk towards her, “I’m not going to be embarrassed for being who I am. I won’t forget who and what made me love the piano in the first place and if you guys here,” I say gesturing to the area around us. “don’t like it please shove your opinions in the place where the sun don’t shine.” I walk past her bump past her harshly knocking her shoulder. I walk away with my head held high and a smile gracing my face. I hear Amanda in the distance stuttering and trying to say something, but it just comes out as incoherent sounds. If I get expelled it won’t be the end of the world. I won’t give up this was just the first stepping stone towards my future. I won’t stop until my name is in flashing lights; Eden Wilson the Jazz Pianist.