Should I Stay?

Chapter 4

I played my first recital when I was ten. 

I'd been playing piano for two years at that point. At first, just at school, as part of the music program. It was a piece of luck that they even had a piano; the good ones are very expensive. But some old literature professor from the university had died and give his piano to our school. It mostly sat in the corner. Most kids wanted to learn to play guitar or flute. 

When I said to my Mom and Dad that I wanted to become a pianist, they both burst out laughing. They apologized about it later, claiming that the image of me with such a huge instrument had made them crack up. Once they'd realized that I was serious, they their giggles and put on supportive faces.

But their reaction still stung, in a way that i never told them about.

Dad sometimes joked that the hospital where I was born accidentally swapped babies because I look nothing like the rest of the family. 

They've all crystal blue eyes and brown hair and I'm like their negative image, dark brown hair and dark eyes. But as I got older, Dad's hospital jokes took on more meaning than i think he intended. Sometimes I did feel like I came from different parents.

I was not like my outgoing, ironic Dad or my tough-chick Mom. And as if to seal the deal, instead of learning to play the guitar like my father did, I'd gone and chosen the piano.

But in my family, playing music was still more important than the type of music you played.So when a few months it became clear that my love for the piano was no passing crush or temporary thing, my parents rented me one so I could practice at home.

Everyone told me to start with easy plays, like ''Twinkle, twinkle Little Star'', but they were way to basic and easy for me. So I tried something harder every time i could play a piece without looking at the notes, until I was playing Bach suites. 

My middle school didn't have much of a music program, so Mom found me a private teacher, a collage student who came over once a week. Over the years there was a revolving group of students who taught me, and then, as my skills passed theirs, there came a new one.

This continued until ninth grade, when Dad, who'd known Professor McClain from when he'd worked at the music store, asked me if she might be willing to offer me private lessons. She agreed to listen to me play, not expectiing much, but as a favor for Dad, she told me later. She and Dad listened downstairs while I was up in my room practicing a Beethoven sonata. When I came down for diner, she offer to take over my training. 

My first performance, though, was years before I met her. It was at a hall in town, a place where usually local bands played, so the acoustic was terrible for classical music. I was playing a piano solo from Bach ''Prelude No.1 in C major'''

Standing backstage, listening to other kids play scratchy violin and halting  piano compositions, I'd almost chickened out. I'd run to the stage door and huddled on the stoop outside, crying into my hands.

Dad found me. He was just starting his hipster-to-square transformation, so he was wearing a vintage suit, with a studded leather belt and black boots.

''You okay, Lucy'' he asked, sitting down next to me on the steps.

I shook my head, too ashamed to talk.

''What's up?''

''I can't do it, daddy'' I cried.

Dad cracked one of his fabulous wide smiles and stared at me with his gray-blueish eyes. He'd been playing in his band forever. Obviously, he doesn't even know something as lame and stupid as stage fright.

''Well, that would be a shame,'' Dad said. ''I've got the most amazing performance present for you afterwards, way better than flowers.''

''Give it to someone else then, because I'm not going out there. I can't do this. I'm not like you or Mom or even Louis.''

Louis was just six months old at that point, but it was already clear that he had more personality and more energy than I ever would. And of course, he has brown hair and ocean, deep blue eyes. He was born in birthing center, not a hospital, so there was no chance of an accidental baby swapping, unfortunately for me.

''It's true,'' Dad mused. ''When Louis gave his first harp concert, he was cool as a cucumber. such a master.''

I laughed through my tears. Dad put a gentle arm around my shoulder. ''You now, I used to get the worst jitters before a show.''

I looked at Dad in disbelieve. He always seemed absolutely sure of everything in the world. ''You're just saying that.''

He shook his head, ''No I'm not. It was god-awful. And I was the guitarist, way in the back, in that time. No one ever paid any attention to me.''

''So what did you do?'' I asked.

''He got wasted,'' Mom interrupted, poking her head the stage door. She wore a black vinyl miniskirt and a red tank top. She was carrying Louis with her, drooling happily.

''A pair or forty-ouncers before the show. I don't recommend that for you though.''

''Your mother is probably right,'' Dad said.

''It isn't allowed for ten-year-olds to get drunk. Besides, when I dropped my guitar and puked on stage, it was punk and amazing. If you do it, it will smell like a brewery and  it will look nasty. You classical-music people are snobby in that way.''

Now I was the one laughing. I was still scared, but it was somehow comforting to think that maybe stage fright was something anyone could have, even my Dad, who had performed in front of people like a thousand times.

''What if I mess up? What if I'm terrible?''

''I'v got some news for you, Lulu.'' My Mom said, using the nickname she had for me.

''There's going to be all kind of terrible in there, so you won't stand out much.'' Louis gave me a squeal of agreement.

''But seriously, how do you get over these jitters?''

Dad was still smiling but I could tell he had turned serious because he had slowed down his speech.

''You don't. You just work through it. You just hang in there.''

So I went on. I did't blaze through the piece. I didn't get a standing ovation or something, but I didn't messed it up entirely, either. And when we got home after the performance, I got my present.

It was standing in the corner of my room. It was the old, dusty, but most beautiful piano that I'd been drawn two years earlier.

But now it was all mine.