Porcelain Keys (24 page)

“What does that mean?”

“ ‘My sorrow.’ ” Her hand fell to mine. “I see the sorrow in you, right under your skin. I see traces and footprints of whatever it is you’ve had to endure. But when you keep
it inside, it becomes toxic. It will destroy your music and your happiness. So, Aria, the best thing to do with your pain is to take it from here”—she tapped my chest again with her free hand, softer this time—“and put it here.” She put my hand on the keyboard. “Take something ugly, and turn it into something beautiful.”

I stared at the keys, trying to figure out how to do what she was suggesting without falling to pieces.

“Don’t play anymore today,” she ordered. “Go home and think about what I said. You need to get those locked-up feelings on the very edge of yourself—to your very fingertips. Then go to the piano and liberate those feelings. Now go.” She pointed to the door. I nodded, gathered up my sheet music, and walked out of the room.

I
t was four
thirty and I didn’t have any more classes for the rest of the day, so I wandered around for a while, thinking of everything Margo had said. She was right. My emotional disconnect was keeping me from becoming the great musician I wanted to be. After losing Mom, I’d used music as an outlet for my feelings. But after losing Thomas, and Elsie and Hal, it had all become too much to bear and I’d closed my heart to everything, somehow thinking it would protect me from feeling pain. As I wandered, I realized how totally, utterly wrong I was. Not only was I alienating everyone around me by my coldness, but I was also destroying myself, holding at a distance the healing balms of friendship, love, and music.

I ended up in the hallway where the practice rooms were, leaning against the brick wall and debating whether to disregard Margo’s order to not play any more today.

Someone was playing piano in the practice room closest to me, and it caught my ear. A strain of delicate notes from a Chopin nocturne floated from the room, so haunting and
exquisite it wrenched my soul. Whoever was playing was amazing. I stepped over to the small rectangular window on the door and peered in. It was easy to recognize Devin, with his broad shoulders beneath his black suit jacket and his shaggy caramel hair.

His entire body moved with the rhythm. His hands shaped the lyrical passages with controlled power in one moment, then with succulent tenderness in the next. Mesmerized, I watched him until he finished the piece, and when he started gathering up his things, I stepped away from the door and leaned back against the wall.

The door opened and he walked out with an armful of sheet music, doing a double take when he saw me. “Aria,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised. “You waiting for a room?”

“No.” I looked away, a little embarrassed. “I was just listening to you play.”

“Oh.” He brightened. “Why were you listening to me?”

“Who wouldn’t want to listen to you play?”

“Did you just give me a compliment?” He beamed.

“I gave your playing a compliment,” I qualified.

“Well, I’ll take any kind of compliment from you I can get.”

I dropped my gaze to the floor and kicked my heel against the wall, feeling guilty for being so cold to him when all he’d ever been to me was nice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Please do.”

I looked up at him. “What do you think about . . . when you play?”

He shrugged and casually leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Just depends on the piece. A lot of the time I don’t really consciously think of anything. But then sometimes,
when a piece needs that extra emotional element, I think about experiences I’ve had, or fictional characters, or friends. In fact . . .” He smiled in the way he always did right before he razzed me about something. “Just now, I was thinking about you. That nocturne is meant to be kind of dark and depressing, and you’re the most depressed person I know.”

I tapped him on the chest with the back of my hand. “You know, I’m working on this really pushy, agitating piece. Maybe I’ll think of you the next time I play it.” My sudden playfulness surprised me, and my cheeks grew warm.

“Whatever helps.” He smiled, then his face turned more serious. “Hey, do you want to go get some coffee or something later? I mean . . . you know, just as friends.”

“Um”—I eyed the room behind him—“I think I’m going to take advantage of that empty practice room after all.”

“All night?”

“Margo’s not happy with me right now. I have a lot of work to do.” Margo had told me not to play any more today, but I didn’t see the point in delaying my journey into uninhibited despair.

“You know, Aria,” he said, “I think you misunderstand me.”

I’d started walking into the practice room, but his statement made me turn around. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m not the bad guy you think I am.”

“I know a dozen girls who would argue with that.” I meant to tease, but his usually cheerful face fell into a solemn grimace.

“You’re probably right.” He sighed. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just that, before I came here, I’d never really dated. My parents didn’t allow it. They kept me busy with practicing,
studying, performing, and meeting people who could boost my career. So when I came here and lived on my own for the first time, I was like a kid who’d never tasted candy set loose in a candy store.”

“So, what? I’m just a flavor you haven’t tasted before?”

“No,” he said adamantly. “I’m tired of candy. It gives me a stomachache. I just want a nourishing, home-cooked meal. Something sustaining and real. And you seem . . . real. Even if you don’t want to date me, I wish you’d let me be your friend.”

I fidgeted with my sheet music and twitched my lips, but I couldn’t find an appropriate response. I was still trying to understand what he meant by his reference to candy and a home-cooked meal, and I couldn’t help picturing myself as a slice of roast beef.

“Have fun practicing,” he said after a long pause. “And let me know if you ever need a friend.” With that, he turned to walk away.

I watched him round the corner, then stood there feeling confused. Maybe he was right. Maybe I did misunderstand him. I sighed and leaned against the doorframe.

The barren-walled corridor stirred with students, coming in and out of practice rooms, standing in small groups conversing, or sitting on the floor making notes on sheet music. I watched them, studied their expressions, their demeanor and mannerisms. In some I saw peace and contentment, but in others I saw grimaces and sighs of discouragement. They were all struggling with their own problems. They were fighting their own demons and searching for their own happiness. In that, I was not alone. I listened to the sounds coming from the practice rooms. A cheerful dramatic flourish on a piano; a lonely, high-pitched cry of a
violin; a low despondent moan of a cello. I perceived that the difference between them and me was that their music was enhanced, not hindered, by their struggles.

Watching and listening to my fellow students was like watching a flock of starlings, free and unfettered, dancing in the open sky with the ebb and flow of life. While I, a caged bird, watched with painful yearning behind wire mesh and a latched door.

I looked down at my hands. I turned them over, bent and straightened my slender fingers. They were stronger and more competent than they had ever been in my life. They held the power and capacity to reach into people’s hearts, draw out their innermost emotions, and give voice to the incommunicable. Yet I kept this power locked inside me, along with all the feelings I didn’t want to give voice to.

A flame, ever so small, flared to life inside me. Small as it was, it was enough to illuminate the corners and shadows of my heart to see things hidden, to see the door keeping them inside. In order to liberate myself, to use the power I knew was in my hands, I needed to open the door and set these things free.

I went into the practice room and set my sheet music on the piano, suddenly determined to do whatever it took to break out of that cage. Nathaniel and Margo had said it would be hard, but that I would get stronger, and it would get easier. I needed to trust them. I settled myself at the piano, then closed my eyes and sent a silent, pleading prayer heavenward.

With my hands poised above the keyboard, I made a conscious effort to do as Margo asked, to get my feelings on the very edge of myself. I dove into the recesses of my heart and stood before the door where all my painful memories
were hidden. My hand hesitated on the latch, terrified to open it, but I knew it was what I had to do.

“Be brave,” I whispered to myself. I felt a warmth within me, a burning reassurance that I was strong enough to win this fight. With a gentle touch of the keys, I unlocked the door and set myself free.

I don’t know how long I played, but when I stopped, the hall was quiet. All the students had gone, either back to their apartments or out for the night. My lap was wet with tears, but I felt stronger and suddenly liberated. Not like I’d joined the flock of starlings, but like I was a lone nightingale with an open sky all to myself.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, but this time they weren’t tears of sorrow; they were tears of relief and gratitude. I thought of Mom, how proud she would be if she were here. I wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist, then lifted my hands and played the first part of a simple duet I used to play with her, a sweet and melancholy melody. To my surprise, I heard the second part of the duet.

At first I thought I was imagining it, but then I realized it was coming from the next practice room. I hesitantly played the next passage, and whoever was in the next room played along with me. I played the entire piece slowly, warily, the whole time being accompanied by the piano on the other side of the wall.

When I finished the song, the playing in the next room stopped as well. I sat there for a moment, waiting to hear more playing, or footsteps, or a door opening, but I heard nothing. Cautiously, I got up to see who was in the next room. I stepped into the hall and peered out, but it was
empty. The next door over was open, and I inched closer, craning my neck to see who was in the dark room. The piano came into view, but no one was seated there. I flipped on the light and walked into the room, but it was empty, save for a black suit jacket on the floor next to the piano bench. I looked out into the hall again, this time listening carefully for footsteps.

Empty. Silent. There was no one there.

I went over and picked up the jacket. It could have been anyone’s, but I suspected one person.

I took the jacket back to my practice room and sat on the bench, holding it in my lap. A subtle scent lingered on the jacket. Devin’s scent. I’d never really paid attention to it before, but it was distinct enough to recognize. Subtle, musky, and a little sweet, almost like vanilla. I wondered how long he’d been sitting in the room next to me, how much of my struggle he’d heard. I didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or flattered. It was something I’d have to think about when I wasn’t so physically and emotionally exhausted, and ravenously hungry.

I went back to my apartment and ate, then went to bed smiling for the first time since I’d come to Juilliard, deliriously satisfied with the progress I’d made.

I carried the suit jacket with me to my classes the next day. Devin came into ear training class a little late, and I watched him as he sat down across the room. He was wearing a suit jacket, but it was dark gray, not the black one he usually wore. When class was dismissed, I approached him as he gathered up his things.

“Hey, Devin,” I said, keeping his suit jacket behind me.

He looked up at me and smiled in surprise. “Hey, Aria.”

“There’s something I need to ask you,” I said, getting right to the point.

He straightened and looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Were you in the practice room next to mine last night while I was practicing?”

He shook his head, but I could tell from the uncomfortable twitching of his mouth that he was lying.

“Is this yours?” I asked, taking his jacket from behind my back and showing it to him.

“Uh . . .” He stared at the jacket, squinting as if examining it. “No. I don’t recognize it.”

“It smells like you,” I said.

“How do you know what I smell like?”

I grabbed the lapel of his gray jacket, pressed my nose against it, and inhaled. When I pulled back, his lips were curved into an amused smile. “Yep,” I said. “It smells like you.”

He sighed. “All right. You caught me.” His brow wrinkled and his expression turned serious. “I went in there to practice, but then I heard you crying. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to leave you alone, but I didn’t want to bother you either. So I just stayed there and listened. And then when I heard you play that song, I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help but play along. Maybe it was my way of letting you know that you weren’t alone. I left after because I didn’t want you to think I was creepy or anything.”

“It wasn’t creepy,” I said. “It was sweet of you.”

“A compliment.”

“Yes,” I said. “And this time I’m complimenting you, not your playing.” I smiled, and his face lit up. I realized it was the first time I’d ever really smiled at him.

“Is everything . . . okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, it will be.”

“Well,” he said, moving toward the door, “I need to get to my lesson.”

“Wait,” I said without thinking. He turned to look at me, but I didn’t really know what to say. All I knew was I didn’t want him to go. I wanted to talk to him more. I wanted a friend, and I wanted Devin to be that friend. “Are you doing anything tonight?” I finally asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” I looked down, hoping the disappointment wasn’t too evident on my face. “What are you doing?” I met his eyes again, and he was smiling.

“Whatever you want,” he said.

For the next week, I spent every spare moment working in a practice room, excavating all the emotions I’d spent years burying. I left the door to my heart wide open, and as each day passed, the pain and the sting of my memories lessened. The music helped me to see my past in a new perspective, as evidence of my strength, as a treasure of knowledge and experience, as sweet fruit within a bitter peel.