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Days like today, I doubt it.
When she’s done, she cuts me a knowing, encouraging look, like she senses where my head’s at. “Your turn. You got this. Just feel it.” She scoots toward the edge of the bench, giving me room.
Just feel it. Right.
Expelling a breath, I find the foot pedals and lay my fingers on the keys. I inhale deeply, give Izzy one last small smile and nod before fully turning to face the piano, and the sheet music spread out before me.
I fuck it up just like I always do.
And reflexively, my body tenses, my jaw tightens, and my fingers stutter, as if to stop and start over.
Growling under my breath, I forcibly push past the discomfort, and go to the next cluster of notes. It’s choppy and awkward, probably more so to my ears than anyone else’s—well, except for Waylon who’s probably laughing at me.
But I ignore him. I even ignore Izzy. I just keep playing. All the way through, until it feels natural once more.
And when I hit the final note, I don’t wait for Izzy’s praise or Waylon’s sarcasm. I flip the sheet music back to the first page, and start again.
Fuck up again.
And keep going.
Letting my self-hatred and spite fuel every imperfect note.
An hour later, I take myself upstairs, leaving Waylon and Izzy to argue over a new piece she’s been working on. He insists it could sound better tweaking something or other—I don’t listen too closely—while she’s determined to first master it as it is, before making any changes.
Waylon doesn’t see the point, and that infuriates Izzy.
As entertaining as it is to watch them and listen—and inspiring too—I’m not quite feeling it today. I just feel…inferior. Bitter as fuck. Like I’ve already reached my full potential, and this is it.
No music school will ever accept me.
The thought is quickly followed by a second, more private thought:
Is that even what I want?
I quickly shove all that down, and quicken my steps up to the second floor, bypassing Ray watching a football game in the living room. My backpack’s up in Izzy’s room, so I figure I might as well get some homework done before Izzy and Waylon decide to come hunt me down.
Soft singing finds me at the top of the stairs, and my steps slow to a stop.
I cock my head.
I know that song…
Quietly, I pad toward the first room on the right, rather than heading straight for Izzy’s first.
When did he get home? I wonder.
His bedroom door is cracked open just enough for me to nudge it and peek inside. Not that it ends up making a difference, when I find his back to me. He’s seated cross-legged on the bed, back hunched as he draws in his lap. From this angle, I can’t see what it is—not unless I move closer and look over his shoulder.
He’s weird about people seeing his drawings though, so I try to respect that.
Still…
Curiosity eats at me.
Especially when I can’t help but notice the edge of a blue binder. It’s his top secret one—the one with the graphic novel he’s been working on for seemingly ever.
“Are you ever gonna show it to me?” I asked once.
