We were lamentably early to the recital hall. I had spent a good five minutes aimlessly circling the empty parking lot, but now we were parked and Sarah had managed to uneventfully navigate me into the performance room. “Oh good,” she gushed. “I can warm up on the piano.” She bounced energetically down the aisle. “Tell me how I sound.”
The piano was on the raised stage, and as she made her way up the steps, I found a couple of unobtrusive seats towards the back to sit in. Slightly recline-able and cushioned—it was the least I could ask for.
“Oh, Ryan!” She was sitting on the piano bench now. “Let’s not sit so far back.”
I moved up a row.
“In the front, let’s sit in the front!” she pointed excitedly towards the first empty row of seats.
There was no arguing, I knew that much already, but I wasn’t about to spend the next two hours in the very front where everyone could see me. I settled down in the third row, and luckily enough, she let it go.
I looked around the hall as she happily played through the two songs I had heard at least a million times already. The ceiling was high, and the sounds from the piano reverberated about the room. I’m sure the people who got degrees in this sort of stuff would make some sort of comment about how the “acoustics were good”, or something like that. She finished playing and got up from the bench. I clapped—a perfect performance of Forest Drums and Night of the Tarantella, as far as I was concerned.
“What time is this thing supposed to start?” I asked her as she made her way back down the stairs set along the side of the room.
“Soon.” She skipped up to where I was sitting and plopped down next to me. I heard the door opening again in the back, and at last, people began to file in, mostly little children with their parents and relatives
“So, uh, what kind of recital is this?” I asked quietly. A father dragged his protesting daughter into a front row seat.
She sighed happily. “It’s my teacher’s studio recital—everyone he teaches is going to play a little something—won’t it be exciting?”
Exciting. Right. “Sure,” I answered. “My kind of date.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, Ryan.”
The recital hall was really filling up now, and all around, well-dressed children romped about with their friends as their parents talked and occasionally shooed their charges a little closer to their seats. Were they all kids? I gave Sarah a look, but she seemed to be daydreaming. I found a program and scanned down the page. Nina Warden, 7. Andy Buchanan, 8. Kevin Anderson, 12. Oh, here was a 15-year-old, playing right before the intermission. The second half was all the same. 6’s, 7’s, 8’s, 9’s—and then—Sarah Porter, 22.
A midget Asian kid moved by, escorted by his parents. Heck, that kid was tiny! I sank down slightly in the seat. Seriously, I don’t think there was a single person other than Sarah and I between the ages of 16 and 35.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah squeezed my hand.
“Nothing.” I answered quickly.
She seemed to accept the answer and leaned back. “I think it’s starting soon.”
The short Asian kid and his parents sat down in front of us. He almost looked uncomfortable in his white dress shirt and tie—he kept pulling at the collar as if it were too tight.
“Sit down, Alan,” his mother hissed. “Keep your hands still!”
The recital began. The teacher, dressed in his suit, stepped up to the microphone on the stage and gave a few comments. He was so proud of all his students. He loved teaching them. He couldn’t imagine how he could live without them all—it was almost disgusting. Sarah lapped it up and clapped loudly in the ensuing applause. He stepped off; the first student climbed, solemnly raised the seat, and sat down. When he started playing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, I knew it was going to be a long two hours.
Sarah clapped enthusiastically for every performer, but I found the drama in front of us far more interesting than the one on stage. The parents were constantly berating the little boy for everything he did. For a little bit, he had drummed his fingers idly on the side of the chair. Then he had drawn on the program, little loops and swirls and what I thought might have been a horse—“Pay attention, Alan!”—and the program was mercilessly taken from him. I almost laughed at the antics. Having been deprived of his entertainment, Alan reverted to some sort of mental staring game characterized by the occasional shaking of the head.
“Hey,” Sarah jostled me from my trance. “We’re getting close to the intermission.”
“So?”
“The better people play at the end.”
“Oh.”
I looked at the program. A 13-year-old and the 15-year-old. They were playing some Sonata opus some number, number some number, movement some number, by some important-looking names. My eyes flickered past the intermission onto the second page. Sarah was the fifth person playing, far closer to the beginning than the end. The better people play at the end, she had said. Alan Chen was 8 years old. He was the final performer. I peeked at the boy in front of me again. He was playing with his fingers.
The 13-year-old finished playing and bowed. The final performer stepped up to the piano...
...and played, his fingers flying over the bleached keys with the expertise I had never seen in Sarah. I looked over—she sat enraptured.
The boy was swaying slightly, but, for the speed and frenzy with which he was playing, he seemed awfully in control. The performance sounded flawless, and I actually found myself somewhat impressed. Upon the end, there was a loud ovation, and after a few more words from the instructor, the lights came on and the intermission began.
“I’m going to go to the restroom,” Sarah smiled as she slid past me into the aisle.
Oh great. Leave me with all the little kids and old people—but I just smiled and nodded. Then I noticed that the Alan boy was staring at me, straddling his seat backwards.
“What?” I said finally, feeling awkward. His eyes lurked, unmoving, on mine.
“He messed up,” the boy said.
My look of confusion must have sparked him to repeat himself.
“The guy who just performed,” he said. “He messed up.”
He had? I sure didn’t notice. “That’s nice,” I told him.
“He’s not that good,” Alan told me matter-of-factly.
And now I started to feel offended. If he was implying that Sarah was even worse...well, it was true, but I didn’t want to hear that from an arrogant prick like him. And, I mean, Sarah had only started this year, hadn’t she? What else were you supposed to expect?
“Why are you here anyway?” he asked. I almost shushed him. I could have sworn the people in the next row were watching us. His parents, however, were talking excitedly in some other language with some other Asian parents. Figures.
“I’m here to hear people play,” I said finally. Why the heck was I still talking to this kid anyway?
He pointed to the seat Sarah had vacated. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
I must have been a bit loud myself, because at that moment, his parents turned.
Alan smiled wickedly and then stuck his tongue out at me. “Alan, don’t talk to strangers,” his mother hissed, “You should be preparing yourself so you don’t mess up like Calvin did—do your finger exercises.”
That’s right. Do your finger exercises, I mouthed back at him, and then left in disgust. How had I even felt sorry for the kid in the first place?
Sarah was outside in the lobby. She called me over when she saw me.
“Mr. Alexander, this is Ryan,” she thrust out my hand. “Ryan, this is my piano teacher.”
We shook hands, though I must admit that it felt rather awkward to me. Mr. Alexander didn’t seem to notice.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said. I almost expected his next words to be about what a pleasure it was to have Sarah as a student, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, but all he said was “I’m glad you came.” Sarah beamed.
---
Alan was watching us with an almost leering smile as we made our way back to our seats. I almost asked her about sitting somewhere else, but I realized how ridiculous it would sound... not to mention how difficult it would be to defend the compulsion.
The first student got up to play... and a minute later, I heard the notes of Forest Drums, Night of the Tarantella, and The Star Spangled Banner echoing throughout the hall.
I wondered how Sarah felt about being outdone by a 7-year-old, but if she reacted at all, I couldn’t tell. But, seriously. The kid had played perfectly.
“Isn’t he adorable?” she cooed softly as the little boy made his way down.
“Sure,” I responded. Alan flickered into the edge of my vision, and I looked down—to see Sarah’s hand trembling lightly. I steadied it with my own—“Don’t worry about it. You’ll do fine.”
The next three performers went by quickly, and suddenly, I realized that I was slightly anxious for her performance.
“My turn,” she smiled nervously. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I told her, and she moved into the carpeted aisle-way. I couldn’t help but notice Alan’s mysterious smile, and I swear I saw his lips move. Don’t mess up, they said wickedly.
Sarah moved onto the stage, and I suddenly realized that I could feel my heart beating. And were those whispers in the crowd? Ignore them, I told myself.
She sat down to play, and I watched as her fingers jerked awkwardly along the keys. The sound was nice, but it didn’t have quite the fluidity that some of the “better” kids had managed to coax out.
She finished, and I clapped loudly, trying not to judge how soft the applause was compared to the previous performer.
“You sounded great!” I told her as she returned. The boy grinned triumphantly.
“I think I messed up a little bit at the end,” she crinkled her forehead.
“I couldn’t tell,” I told her, even though I had sensed that everything hadn’t been right.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
The rest of the performers seemed to take almost no time at all. Sarah, as quickly as before, had lapsed back into that mood of rapturous admiration.
As the second-to-last performer finished, even though I had purposely spent my time trying to avoid the kid, I couldn’t help but notice his parents constantly leaning towards him and giving him ultimatums in hushed tones. “If you don’t want to be practicing four hours a day, you’d better not mess up, Alan...” “Do your finger exercises...” “Breathing, work on your breathing now. In... and out...”
I almost laughed at the kid’s apparent discomfort. Served him right.
His turn came, and he stood up and walked majestically down to the stage... or, at least, it would have been majestic had he not been all of three feet tall. He bowed before he sat down, and as his eyes scanned the audience upon the straightening of his body, I took the opportunity to mouth “Don’t mess up” at him.
I knew he saw me, because from that moment on, he only grinned devilishly and then sat down to play. The music sounded amazing, flowing from one passage to another, but I was waiting for him to mess up. I kept one eye on his parents, figuring their reaction would be obvious enough should anything happen. Alan played on, fingers hopping and skipping, and then smoothly sliding. The sounds that he managed to produce were clear, yet they shimmered with undertones of something more. Sarah was awestruck.
The boy finished with a flourish and bowed to thunderous applause.
“I wish I could play like him,” Sarah whispered.
I didn’t answer. His gloating eyes watched me the whole time he walked back to his seat. The instructor stood up to speak.
“Alan,” his mother’s voice was not congratulatory. “You didn’t show enough expression in measure three hundred twenty eight of movement three.”
Sarah and I left.
“Wasn’t that kid amazing?” she said breathlessly as we made our way across the parking lot.
“Sure,” I said grudgingly.
“I feel so inspired to practice harder now,” she said.
“Really now.”
“Naw,” she laughed and hugged me, and then attempted to straighten the collar of my shirt. I almost tried to loosen it afterwards.
---
As we pulled out, I saw Alan being led sternly away from the concert hall. His cockiness was gone now, and he almost looked defeated. When he looked up and saw me, there was no more challenge in his eyes, and his smile lacked effort. He quickly looked down again, and we were out and driving down the road towards the mall.
“I almost feel sorry for that kid,” I said finally.
“Who?”
“Al—oh, nevermind.”
