most about her. But when she died, things changed. He doesn’t like to be reminded of her. He keeps the parlor locked, and he put all her things in the attic where he can’t see them.” I couldn’t believe I was telling him this. I’d never talked to anyone about it.
“All her things?” he asked.
“Yeah—pictures, clothing, music.” I thought privately about the last time Dad had found me in the attic. He’d dragged me down and secured the hatch with an abundance of four-inch screws. What Dad hadn’t known was that I’d already taken one of her dresses to my room. I couldn’t put it back in the attic, so I’d tucked it in a boxand kept it hidden all these years in the hollow space of my box spring.
“He couldn’t even bear to look at the plants she’d grown in the yard.” I described how charming the house had looked with roses and jasmine climbing up the porch railing and marigolds popping out of window buckets—before Dad tore them out.
He was quiet for a long time, pondering my words. Finally he asked, “Did he let you play the piano before your mom died?”
I nodded. “He actually loved to hear me play. He would go to all my recitals and competitions, and beam with pride just like the other parents.” I sighed. “I tried to play for him after my mom died because I thought it would comfort him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. And eventually he locked the parlor door and forbade me from playing anymore. So I don’t . . . at least not when he’s at home.”
“That must be hard for you.” He studied me a moment, then shook his head and looked away, frowning thoughtfully. “Not to mention tragic. Your mom taught you, and she’s gone. By forbidding you to play, he’s cutting off this incredible emotional link between you and her.”
Relief washed over me when he said those words, to the point that tears brimmed in my eyes. To share the burden of grief, to have someone understand, were things I had never known until that moment. But with the tears came a feeling of self-consciousness, and I walked faster to hide my emotion, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Anyway,” I said, “I probably shouldn’t have told you all this. I hope you won’t say anything to anyone.”
Thomas caught up to me. “I won’t.” He was quiet foranother long stretch, then he said, “You’re stronger than you look, you know?”
“Is that why I’m out of breath right now?”
“No—listen.” He stopped me, and laying his hand on my arm, he looked directly into my eyes. “You have a gift, and I’m not talking about a ‘play at the county fair’ kind of gift. I’m talking about Juilliard. Carnegie Hall. You belong on a grand stage, not hidden behind dusty black curtains in a school auditorium.”
“Juilliard? I think you overestimate my abilities.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You underestimate your abilities.”
“You’ve only heard me play two pieces. Maybe they’re the only ones I know.”
“I’m willing to bet your repertoire is larger than you let on.”
“Maybe, but you’ve still only heard me play two—not enough to gauge my abilities.”
He pinned me with a scrutinizing gaze, and his mouth eased into a playful smile. “You may not know this, but Beethoven was my third great-grandfather’s second cousin . . . once removed . . . or something like that. So I have an uncommon ability to spot Juilliard material when I see it.”
I rolled my eyes and smiled before turning away and resuming hiking. “Okay, I’ll admit that I’m pretty good at the piano. But I can’t do anything about it until after high school.”
“What are you going to do after high school?”
“Get my own place and my own piano, then I can play as much as I want.”
“That’s it?”
I stopped and turned to him. “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”
“Your plan is to sit in an apartment and play for yourself?”
“Well, I . . .” I’d been so focused on securing my
“All her things?” he asked.
“Yeah—pictures, clothing, music.” I thought privately about the last time Dad had found me in the attic. He’d dragged me down and secured the hatch with an abundance of four-inch screws. What Dad hadn’t known was that I’d already taken one of her dresses to my room. I couldn’t put it back in the attic, so I’d tucked it in a boxand kept it hidden all these years in the hollow space of my box spring.
“He couldn’t even bear to look at the plants she’d grown in the yard.” I described how charming the house had looked with roses and jasmine climbing up the porch railing and marigolds popping out of window buckets—before Dad tore them out.
He was quiet for a long time, pondering my words. Finally he asked, “Did he let you play the piano before your mom died?”
I nodded. “He actually loved to hear me play. He would go to all my recitals and competitions, and beam with pride just like the other parents.” I sighed. “I tried to play for him after my mom died because I thought it would comfort him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. And eventually he locked the parlor door and forbade me from playing anymore. So I don’t . . . at least not when he’s at home.”
“That must be hard for you.” He studied me a moment, then shook his head and looked away, frowning thoughtfully. “Not to mention tragic. Your mom taught you, and she’s gone. By forbidding you to play, he’s cutting off this incredible emotional link between you and her.”
Relief washed over me when he said those words, to the point that tears brimmed in my eyes. To share the burden of grief, to have someone understand, were things I had never known until that moment. But with the tears came a feeling of self-consciousness, and I walked faster to hide my emotion, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Anyway,” I said, “I probably shouldn’t have told you all this. I hope you won’t say anything to anyone.”
Thomas caught up to me. “I won’t.” He was quiet foranother long stretch, then he said, “You’re stronger than you look, you know?”
“Is that why I’m out of breath right now?”
“No—listen.” He stopped me, and laying his hand on my arm, he looked directly into my eyes. “You have a gift, and I’m not talking about a ‘play at the county fair’ kind of gift. I’m talking about Juilliard. Carnegie Hall. You belong on a grand stage, not hidden behind dusty black curtains in a school auditorium.”
“Juilliard? I think you overestimate my abilities.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You underestimate your abilities.”
“You’ve only heard me play two pieces. Maybe they’re the only ones I know.”
“I’m willing to bet your repertoire is larger than you let on.”
“Maybe, but you’ve still only heard me play two—not enough to gauge my abilities.”
He pinned me with a scrutinizing gaze, and his mouth eased into a playful smile. “You may not know this, but Beethoven was my third great-grandfather’s second cousin . . . once removed . . . or something like that. So I have an uncommon ability to spot Juilliard material when I see it.”
I rolled my eyes and smiled before turning away and resuming hiking. “Okay, I’ll admit that I’m pretty good at the piano. But I can’t do anything about it until after high school.”
“What are you going to do after high school?”
“Get my own place and my own piano, then I can play as much as I want.”
“That’s it?”
I stopped and turned to him. “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”
“Your plan is to sit in an apartment and play for yourself?”
“Well, I . . .” I’d been so focused on securing my
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