“Mrs Garrett? Mrs Garrett, are you awake?” 

Susie shook me around in my seat as my eyes opened. 

“What is it?”

“You’re on soon, don’t you think you should do a few exercises?” She tilted her cute eyes. 

I patted her head and got a bit more comfortable in my chair, prompting her to pout and grab me by the shoulders. As she struggled to drag me out of my lethargy I laughed and resisted slightly. Finally, in one great effort, she successfully pulled far enough forward that I had no choice but to catch myself in a fall and stand. While I laughed and held my stomach from the humor of her little display, she crossed her arms and scorned me. 

“You’re the worst kind of artist.” She echoed one of her common phrases.

“I’m the best and you know it.”

“Well, will you stretch or not? We need you limber, you only get one shot here you know. I don’t think they’ll take it if you fool around anymore. Honestly, would it kill you to at least pretend that you have some level of refinement? What’s more…” 

Her lecture came across an extended figure that wagged sporadically like a puppies tail. I followed it with my eyes as my smile grew wider. Finally, when she stopped wagging and just let it hang in the air while she went on some tangent of reproval, I bit it. 

“Ow!” She yelped dramatically. I had not bitten down hard, just a touch of the teeth on the little digit that had the audacity to lecture her ex-mentor. 

“I’m better after a nap.” I chuckled. 

“Well you’ve had your nap so come on, let me straighten out your hair at least. Honestly, to think I admired you.” 

“Oh, you just love me Susie.” I sat down again as I let her brush and braid my hair into the style we agreed would look best for the stage. 

“Really, I understand being lazy most of the time, that’s just how you are, but I thought you’d be a bit more serious about this. How do you have that level of arrogance?” She spoke across sighs of hot breath that made my neck crawl. In the interest of lifting her mood I picked up a good spot of conversation. 

“Do you really want to know? It’s quite the tale, and it has to do with a young woman about your age.” As planned, I felt the sighs stop their crashing and a curious face leaned around to leer at me.

“Is the story going to be real this time?” 

“Of course! I’d never lie to you. The nerve of kids these days, honestly.” 

Susie withdrew back to her duty and spoke again. 

“Well, out with it.” 

“Like I said, this happened when I was about your age, so my second year in college. I had a friend who was totally obsessed with music. I had played a little piano at home, but I hardly qualified as the musical type, you know? It was kind of a pain to get up and do something like practice and stuff like that. She was insistent I join her band though, so I used some of my spare cash to buy a keyboard. She invited this other girl she had been talking to, a nice punk type from Baltimore named Caren. I was never really into it, so, as you can imagine, I ended up passing out a lot while the others were talking about what we would play…”

* 

“Are you awake there Jane?” Patty was waving her hand in front of my face as Caren tapped her knee with a drumstick. 

We were sitting in the music room, waiting around for our newest member to arrive. The last class had left all the chairs and the three of us were placed around at random while we waited. Patricia, or Patty, was standing in front of me at that moment, but her bass was sitting five chairs down the row to my right. Behind me, and to the left by three chairs, Caren had propped her legs up on the chair in front of her and was leaning over the back legs of her chair. While she angrily glared holes through the ceiling I could hear the tapping of her calloused knee exposed under the short daisy dukes she took to wearing those days. 

“Hey, are we going to start or what? My arms are getting saggy with all this waiting around.” Caren snapped, but she remained reclined and tapping. 

“She’ll come, I think she has to go and get her guitar from somewhere.” 

“Can I go home already?” I groaned. 

“No, how are we supposed to go on without you?” 

“I don’t know, Cream didn’t have a keyboardist.” My fun fact went unappreciated. 

“They almost killed each other too.” Caren chimed in, ceasing her tapping. “Just sit tight Janice, Christ above.”

“How do you expect to make it in the world if you’re just mopey all the time?” Patty scorned. 

Her question went unanswered as the classroom door opened and a thin girl stepped through with a guitar bag that was almost as tall as she was. She was also rather well dressed despite the general rocker type of personalities that Patty usually drew in. The girl was wearing a light blue polo shirt, more like a golf type of polo rather than a uniform, and she had on funny looking slacks that were rolled up at the bottom. While straight and very formal, they were clearly too long for the person who was wearing them. I might have been five foot five at the time, and she was at least five inches shorter than me. 

“The Sleepovers?” The girl asked. 

“Hey Maria!” Patty yelped, walking over and wrapping one arm around the small girl's shoulders with a wide smile. “This is Maria, she’ll be our new guitarist!” 

“How old are you?” Caren glared. 

“Twenty-three.” Maria shifted slightly away from the direction of Caren’s intimidating look, but was held fast by the grip of Patricia. 

“Are you as good as Eric Clapton?” I asked, leaning my chin on a chair in front of me. 

“I…don’t think so?” She stammered. 

“Boo…”

“Shut up, you’re not getting out of this one, just deal with it.” Patty's eyes narrowed and I obeyed. “We’ll start with that number we were doing before.”

Maria was hardly on the same level as Eric Clapton, if anything she might have actually been a total novice, but she had a spirit in her. When she took the ax out of her bag it made her look much taller, that kind of spirit. It spooked me a little to see the shy little twig expand in such a way, but the feeling of unease never lasted long. I never cared much for the piano, and the lessons my grandfather gave me on the grand back home never set off a spark of joy. When Maria took up her guitar though, an old pre-used Telecaster, she sparkled. I think those were the only times I ever saw her actually smile. Caren liked the activity of thrashing the drums, Patty wanted to be a famous rocker, I was dragged along for the ride. Maria just loved to play guitar, and the power of that alone went a long way with helping me keep myself awake during our long sessions. 

She could even play any way Patty wanted her to on a certain day, just nodding along in honest reverence of our tiresome leader. One day Patty would want long solemn solo’s, and the next a finger tapping shredfest to make metal heads jealous. She could do it all, even if it was just covers of old songs. If she had no talent, then she was excellent at copying others' playstyles. 

That particular trait of hers was not limited to guitar either. She tried out my keyboard a few times. From Schumann and Lizst to John and Wright, the girl could pretty much play almost anything she had heard more than a handful of times. Not outright, of course, but if she fiddled around and got a feel for the keys she would knock out a line or two and stop before getting too excited. Acting all embarrassed and nodding to me as if to thank me for letting her touch the thing. I knew that she was not special, people who spend a long time playing music tend to be good at stuff like that. It was more the impression she made, the subtle ways in which her face would lighten when she unraveled the notes of a new song. Eventually even I, the so called mopey girl, ended up talking to her a bit. 

“You’re pretty good.” 

She had been tapping away trying to get the rhythm of a song by Ryuichi Sakamoto. 

“I’m not that good.” She smiled, lowering her hands from the keyboard.

“I mean, if you go for it I think you can do better than this. Why’d you bother with Patty’s invite?”

“Why did you?” 

“She dragged me along, I wouldn’t have bothered if we weren’t friends.” At this response Maria’s eyes seemed less bright. It would be hard to describe the almost imperceptible way in which they shifted down in solemnity. Her smile remained. 

“You don’t like it?” She asked. 

While I was trying to wrap my head around it Caren approached us victoriously with her choice of songs. Maria went to her position without another word that day, and I played just the same as I had before. Just repeating notes that I had heard somewhere else, just copying them, and for the first time I understood a bit more about myself. 

I was not mopey, it was a bit more than that. A bit more youthful, a bit more stupid. In her simple question I understood that I was just apathetic. Unsatisfied. I had no interest in playing the same old tunes over and over again. I was a lazy person, but the me that forced herself to play songs because someone else told her to was not correct. It was probably for that reason exactly that I never wanted to play in their practice sessions, why I would sometimes plot sneaking out while their backs were turned. So, the short answer to her question was that no, I did not like it. 

The next day I pulled her aside before we went into the room. Upon seeing me she had that same expression, that same smile that I hated. It was more than pity, but it bore the same awful toxin. 

“I don’t like playing in this band.” I told her. 

“No, I don’t think you do.” She turned away to leave but I grabbed her arm. 

“I like playing though.” Her eyes did not change, but she stopped trying to leave and waited for me to finish. “I just like playing the piano, okay? So I’ll stop playing in this stupid group and play by myself, I’ll even write music.” 

“And who will keep you to that?” The eyes, once filled with knowledge and understanding, became fiery and vindictive. “How can you know you won’t just fall back into the old routine you’ve kept up until now? I know you don’t practice at home, that much is obvious. I understand you’ve had a bit of training when you were younger, but have you kept it up? What will your hours be?” 

Again she seemed larger than she actually was. Not to be intimidated by a short little upstart like her though, I wrapped an arm around her shoulders like Patty and held out my hand. 

“I love the piano, isn’t that enough?”

Maria shook my hand as she eased up.

“And I love playing guitar.” She said, letting out a quiet laugh. 

This simple exchange, so meaningless and trite, was the entire world to us. Honest words, without procedure, without presumption. Just two statements that we always knew about each other, but which had remained unspoken. It may have seemed odd to some, that such things needed to be said, but when a person was young they had a hard time coming to terms with the realities around them. I assumed she loved the guitar, but without her word the thought was no more secure than a bridge of spaghetti. Just as well, I had never come to terms with how I felt about the piano. It was just one of those things my late grandfather had left behind for me. A reminder of younger days of carefree happiness. I was no longer that little girl on the bench beside her older teacher. I was a woman who refused to grow up. In Maria’s question I realized that fact, and I began to appreciate my inheritance more. 

Patty was upset when I told her I was leaving the band to pursue my own musical interests. In part because our silly band name, The Sleepovers, was attributed to me and my listlessness. She got over that bit eventually, changing their name to something like Permit to Park, though I never asked why. For a while she kept pestering me whenever we would see each other about joining the band again, but that talk subsided when I won my first competition a year after leaving them.

Maria and I were not exactly close friends, we were actually barely acquaintances, so I never saw her again once I left. I never found out why she wore those weirdly formal clothes, and I never found out why exactly she loved the guitar. In the end I was probably better off not knowing. Those things were for her, and would only be helpful for her own journey, wherever it led her. I heard from Patty, when I saw her at my wedding, that Maria left the band when she graduated and moved to California. So, in the end, she had gone as quietly as she had arrived. Just another of the hundreds of people one meets in their lives. It made a good story though, and even when Susie leered at me with a doubtful kind of expression, I could tell she liked it too. 

*

“You grew a bit.” Susie laughed. “What are you now? Five foot eight? Three inches in six years, how unfortunate.” 

“Oh shut up, I’m still taller than you.”

“Only by two inches, I’m taller than you were at my age, how does that make you feel?” 

I laughed imagining what would have happened if Susie had stepped into that class all those years ago. The thought amused me, especially as to how different my life would have been. In such a circumstance I may have never achieved what I had. Though, considering how supportive she had been, I wondered if I may have turned out a bit more pretentious. 

“You’re bad for me.” I laughed, slouching down in the chair comfortably. 

“Well then next time you can do your own hair.” She said, finishing up and tapping me sharply on the back of the head. “Oh, wait, you suck at it. Maybe before you think about how I’m such a terrible influence you should consider all I do for you. Two years I was your student, now I’m a glorified babysitter, so on you go. Time’s up.” 

I could hear the stage hands shuffling about outside the door to our room. Further off I could faintly make out the M.C. announcing something muffled through the walls of the performance hall. I knew what he was saying, because it was the same thing all of his type would announce at all the boringly uptight piano concerts like it. 

“This evening we would like to present Mrs. Janice Garrett. Winner of blah, blah, blah…”

“Do I have to do these stuffy concerts?” I groaned. 

“Well, if you want a younger audience you should release a more upbeat album.”

She pushed me out of the chair and I nearly hit the floor before catching my footing again. I could feel her grinning behind me, so pleased with herself bullying me like that. I straightened out the creases of my dress and opened the door that led backstage. A few young folks with black t-shirts saw me and gave a thumbs up or quickly wished me luck. It was sweet of them, but I felt a bit offended that they thought I needed something like good luck. 

“Honestly, nobody treats me with any respect.” Susie and I went out and approached the stage right stairs. 

The man in a pretty tailcoat saw me ready and proceeded with his final words. From the look he gave I guessed I was probably late and he had spent the last minute or so listing off my accomplishments from what sparse memory he had of my career. It was funny to see him so frustrated with the tardy woman he was forced to praise. 

“Well, here I go.” I went to the first step but felt a hand on my arm.

“Good luck Jane.” Susie said, and I bent down as our lips met. 

“Thank you Mrs Garrett.” I smiled. 

The steps were rickety and old, but the lights of the stage called me on. I emerged from the curtains and walked briskly over to the man and shook his hand. It was hot from the overextended exposure to the hot stage lighting, and I could faintly make out a bead or two of sweat on his hairline. Though his face portrayed nothing more than respect and reverence, his eyes were aflame with irritation. I simply smiled wide as we finished the handshake and he hastily departed for respite backstage. I looked out into the crowd and bowed. Not to brag, but it was a full house. The realization of this perked me up and helped to keep my back straight as I took my seat on the bench. 

A grand Steinway lay before me, brilliantly illuminated ivories under the heavenly fires. I felt over the keys, getting my bearings. Then I flipped the songbook that was prepared for me to the appropriate page, the opening piece would be Tchaikovsky’s Opus 10.  In the end, I just played. It was a simple thing once it got started, and each note would lead into the next. Long pauses, slow rises, falling sounds. I was master of the flow that came from the strings. They said I was supposed to play for a half hour, but I ended up going for forty-five minutes. When I was finished my hair was heavier with sweat. The piano felt used like an old pair of sneakers, broken in and dependable. I stood, bowed again, and from eyes for so long accustomed to the divine lights, could no longer make out the forms of the crowd. 

Standing there, like many times before, I was able to affirm two definitive facts about myself. Firstly, I loved my wife, if not for her then I probably would not have had the wherewithal to maintain my reputation of being an upright and studious artist. To her I owed the world. Yet, beyond that still, there was a final thought in my selfish mind as I gazed out at the darkness under blinded eyes. 

I loved playing the piano.