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I hope he’s bad at it.
I hope he hates it.
CHAPTER NINE
“It’s like this,” Izzy says, once we sit down on the bench, spreading her fingers out over the white and black keys.
And then she begins playing.
The song sounds familiar, but I don’t know the name. My eyes get all big and wide watching her fingers fly across the keys. Music filling the room.
Her fingers twitch, stumbling, making it sound all whacky, and we both cringe.
She huffs, shaking her head, and tries again. “I always mess that part up.”
“What song is this?” I say, tilting my head.
We sit next to each other on the shiny black bench, and her elbow bumps me, so I scoot over, giving her room.
“‘Ode to Joy.’ Beethoven. It’s kind of boring, but Madam Elise says I have to get this perfect before I can move on to the good stuff.” She says this all while she continues to play.
Blinking at her face, I glance down and watch her fingers move. She has purple nail polish on—it’s chipped in spots. And it looks like she bites her nails.
Her head tilts to the side and she closes an eye, moving her shoulders along with her hands, making the song higher. Under us, she taps her foot on a pedal.
And from the top of the piano, next to where I sit, a thing she said is called a metronome ticks-ticks-ticks. She said it’s to keep time. I didn’t know what she meant, but now that I’m listening to the song play, it makes sense. She’s trying not to go too fast or slow.
She holds her fingers down, making the last deep note drag on.
Lifting them, she whirls toward me and grins. “Cool, huh?”
I nod. It is cool. The coolest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Do you wanna try?”
“Um,” I say, looking down at the keys. There are little stickers on them with letters and symbols. “I don’t know…”
“Here,” she says, reaching for my hand.
I have no idea how I'm gonna make my fingers do what she did. But she seems to know how to do it—make them work—because she puts my finger on a key, and has me tap it.
“That’s an E. Like it says right there. And there.” She points to the sheet music spread out, then down at the sticker. Seems easy enough, and when I hit it by myself, it sounds just like the sound she got me to make.
Izzy teaches me the next ones—the whole first line on the yellowed paper—using just my one finger. I don’t understand the blobs and squiggles, but I know the letters. I’m good at letters.
“This is how I learned. With one finger. Mom says you need to understand the piano and how music works first. It’s like a language, and you need to know the basics. Your body will follow.” She says this so seriously, sounding like such a grown up.
She explains things like sharp and flat, showing me the difference.
“How do you know all this?”
She shrugs, moving my finger over the keys, and suddenly I hear it. The song she was playing. The melody, she called it.
“Mommy and Daddy say I have a gift. Like it just makes sense to me. I see the notes flying through my head like little birds, and my fingers just know what to do.”
“And your brother?”
She pauses, her fingers still on mine, and she looks at me, the note dragging as we hold it. She smiles big and wide. “He draws. He’s really, really good. He wants to make comic books like the ones he reads.” Her mouth opens, and she slams her lips together, shaking her head with big brown eyes.
