Page 18 of Petrify

“Could I play it?”

“Maybe someday. I don’t have the music for it.”

He kicks his legs back and forth, restless, and it’s so childish, I’m struck by his innocence.A few years younger than Arnie was?—

“You could show it to me,” he says.

“Maybe.”

I can tell there’s more he wants to say. So I wait.

“Do you think you can bring me some new music?”

“We’re working on something new right now.” On top of the scales we drill to warm up, we’ve been working through the beginning of Chopin’sWaltz in A minor—ahead of curriculum, may I add, even if we’ve slowed the tempo down a smidge.

He frowns a little. “But ifyoubring some new music, then my parents won’t say no.”

“What would you like?”

After a second, his eyes widen, like he hadn’t considered he would actually be given the choice.

“How about this,” I say as I stand. His last teacher’s sheet music is crammed into dozens of folders, spilling out onto the table, loosely organized by difficulty. I riffle through the papers, trying to find somethingnotover a century old. “I can look online tonight to find a few things that might work. There are a few pieces I learned at about your skill level?—”

The words die on my lips.

“Where did this come from?”

On top of the pile is a single sheet, handwritten. Musical staffs drawn out in ink, a few scrawled notes in the margins. A few dozen measures. There’s no title, the only word written out above the staffAndante.

It seems to be a simple piece, only taking up the one side of the sheet of paper, no tricky runs or changes in key.

Henri can’t answer me, because he doesn’t know what I’ve found.

It wasn’t here earlier. I don’t remember seeing it. But there it was, right on top.

Like it’d been left for me to find.

Who would?—?

Just as my heart drops, Henri comes up right next to me, peering over to see what’s in my hand. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Can we play it?”

A sour taste is settling onto my tongue, but I can’t say no

It’s a piece of paper.

I know it wasn’t here before.

We sit together at the bench, but he doesn’t attempt to play the notes, not even as my left hand brings forth the first chord. He watches in silence as I slowly parse my way through the first few lines.

It’s a waltz.

Andante.

My fingers feel clumsy, too large for the keys, my left hand finding the chords, while my right finds the melody. Locking into place too easily within only a minute. Like Iknowthis song. It’s familiar, the lilt from left to right, the minor key, the slow build of what can only be anguish. The notes are angry, despondent, rising inside of me like water slowly boiling over, a tide returning too suddenly to the shore.

Only thirty or so measures, the tune lasts no more than a minute, but by the end my mind is screaming at me, this strange deja vu so strong I know I’vedonethis before.

A dull ache blooms behind my eyes.