Page 22 of Play Me

But I think I know enough about this weird, mysterious woman to know, nothing I say right now is going to change her mind.

So I don’t. I will give her time.

I move my finger away from her chin but she doesn’t look away. Her gaze unsettles me, I expected her to turn away after the speech, but it seems to have emboldened her instead.

I pivot away from her and take a step toward the middle of the room.

“You conduct the orchestra?” I gesture to the semi-circle of chairs.

“Yes.”

“How big is it?”

“Almost fifty students.”

“Wow!” I’m honestly impressed. Even at my renowned music college, conducting a group of fifty is a task undertaken only by the best or the most committed. I knew she was talented, now I had a little sense of her tenacity and commitment.

“They any good?” I ask, expecting a humble response.

“They’re the best.” She answers, without missing a beat.

I can’t help but laugh at the way she says it so matter of factly. She says it without an ounce of bragging. She actually thinks they are the best.

She just shrugs at my reaction and repeats her statement. “They are the best. They are motivated, hardworking, passionate and just plain talented.”

“All of them?” I don’t know why I’m questioning her, I think I just like to hear her speaking with such conviction.

“Sure. I mean, some more talented than others while others work harder than the naturally gifted ones.”

“So it’s really the common factor maybe, that makes them the best.”

“What’s that?” She asks.

God, she doesn’t even see it.

“You.”

Her face flares red in an instant and she turns back to her piano, which I’m starting to realize is her security blanket. I have one too, my cello.

“You play beautifully.” I realize I haven’t told her yet.

“No, YOU play beautifully.” She sighs and I wish I had a recording of the sound.

And then I tell her what I’ve been thinking since I walked into the school grounds. “You’re too good for this place, Cadence.”

She doesn’t say anything and just turns on her creaky piano stool and follows my eyes around the room. The dark, decaying room with the falling apart music stands and the stained carpet. The dusty shelf of music scores held together by browning masking tape that would crumble under a strong breath. I watch her sitting there, like an angel amongst ghetto ruins. The only light in the place.

“You should be teaching...or performing in some of the best schools, the best concert halls in the world. Trust me. I’ve been in them. You wouldn’t be out of place.”

“So, you mean where there would be other teachers just like me?” Her voice asks quietly.

“Yes! Really, really talented musicians. The best there are. From all over the world. You’d beat them all out, all those people vying for a place there. Killing themselves and each other for a chance there.”

“Hmmm.” She grows pensive for a few moments, then speaks up again, “Oh. So, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” I’m thrilled that’s she’s engaging with me.

“You’re saying those places are filled with amazing teachers? Musicians? The best of the best?”