Eternal Heat Page 6

  I grab my phone and send off a text: When did you put this in my bag?

  He responds immediately: When you went to the bathroom.

  Me: Sneaky brat.

  Erik: :) Fill it out.

  I don’t respond. Part of me knows he’s right about all this. I say I’d love to be a pianist, but how can I do that if I never find the courage to get up on a stage?

  Erik: Please.

  I still don’t respond. I put down my phone and fiddle with the end of my braid, staring at the application. Maybe I do just need to try it. Even if I don’t do well, it’ll help me get over my fear of playing in public. If that’s all I accomplish, well, that’s something at least. Right?

  Erik: For me.

  I sigh and grab my phone.

  Me: No. But I’ll do it for me.

  Chapter 6

  Over the next week, Erik and I focus most of our energy on practicing for Music Fest. We cool our jets a bit in the making-out department, and I ask him frequently when his parents will be home to be sure he isn’t forgetting about anything. The last thing either one of us wants is another unpleasant surprise.

  But by the time Music Fest rolls around, my bra gets undone with regularity and I’ve forgotten to be nervous about his dad. Instead I’m giving 100% of my nerves to the competition.

  “Performance,” Erik corrects me, whenever I refer to it as a competition.

  It is a competition, but for new players, like me, the focus is supposed to be on getting experience performing in a setting that’s more formal than teachers’ recitals tend to be. Not that I know anything about that either.

  I don’t tell my parents about any of this, for a couple of reasons. One, it’ll just make the whole thing that much more scary. If they don’t know, then it’s not a big deal. It’s almost like playing just for Erik.

  At least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself to get over my nerves.

  The second reason I don’t tell them is for less honorable reasons: Erik’s parents will be there. Of course, the one thing they take an interest in without fail is his “music career.” That’s how Erik and his parents talk about it: his music career.

  Whereas I’m just a girl who’s screwing around, in the end.

  But if my parents go and see Erik, they’ll want to talk to his parents and who knows what will get said. They think I see his folks all the time. They think Erik’s parents must be delightful people, since he’s “such a sweet boy”—my mom’s words. My mom has been pestering us about meeting his folks. The longer this goes on, the worse I feel about sneaking around. But Erik and I are enjoying our freedom too much to willingly give it up.

  When the big day arrives, Erik picks me up and drives us to the big church downtown where Music Fest will be taking place. We’re there early for the preliminaries. Since I knew his parents wouldn’t arrive until closer to start time, I didn’t give the preliminaries much thought.

  That was before I had to go into a little room and play in front of a panel of judges all by myself. I don’t realize until after they announce who’s going forward to the Honors Recital that I understand what the preliminaries were all about.

  It seems so obvious in hindsight, and only demonstrates how out of my league I am. Yet, here I am, sitting with Erik in the rows of the nave reserved for the final performers. There’s only two steps leading up to the front part of the church, the stage area. A rather intimidating black grand sits in the center. I’m distracting myself with the church’s interior architecture and wondering how old the building is, because they don’t make churches like this anymore.

  Erik’s keeping an eye out for his parents, and goes to say hello when they arrive. I stay put. We both know the day is coming that he needs to introduce me to them more formally, but today is not that day. Some other time we’ll let them know Erik and I have moved beyond the “friend” stage they think we’re in. I have enough going on to make me nervous without worrying about that.

  I’m curling the ends of my hair around and around my finger. I’ve styled the hair on top in a braided crown with a slender braid that hangs down the back, but the rest of my hair is loose and wavy and kind of in the way. I’m wearing an orange summer skirt that looks fancier with the white heels I swiped from my mom’s closet, and a plain white top. I’m pretty sure it’s too late in the year for these light colors, but it was the best I could do. We don’t have a whole lot of dress-wearing occasions in the Morrison household.

  When Erik rejoins me, he takes my hand. “Hey, look at what you’re doing to your finger!”

  He unwraps my hair to reveal deep red marks around my left index finger.

  “Keep that up and you’ll cut off the circulation and won’t be able to play.”

  “A valid excuse,” I say, considering.

  He takes my hand firmly in his. “You’ll be fine.”

  I’d protest about him holding my hand knowing his parents are here, but I also know they can’t see our hands from where they are. Besides, holding his hand is helping.

  “Just remember to smile, bow, and don’t look at the audience directly.” He’s already told me the trick to making it seem like you’re looking at an audience even when you’re not. You look just above the head of the person in the last row. It looks to them like you’re looking at the audience, but you don’t have to see them looking back at you with expressions that say, We think you’re a big idiot.

  Which is exactly how I feel right now. How did I let him talk me into this?

  I look around at the other performers. They’re all different ages and all wearing their Sunday best. Some of the male performers have button-down shirts and ties but a few, Erik included, are wearing suit coats.

  That’s something I didn’t know about Erik before today: he’s impossibly handsome in a suit coat. I wish we could skip the whole thing and just go make out somewhere, but since that’s not an option...

  “Hey, cut that out,” he says softly, pulling my hand down from my mouth.

  I didn’t realize I’d started chewing on the end of my hair. Good lord, I haven’t done that since I was a kid. I take a deep breath. I need to pull myself together.

  “Ashley.” His soft but firm tone draws my eyes to him. “You know your piece. Just play what you know.”

  “Okay.” I take another deep breath and force myself to settle my nerves. I’m in this now, I may as well try to get through it the best that I can.

  I scan the program again. Erik is about a quarter of the way down the list. I’m about a third of the way from the end. A thin man with balding hair but a distinguished presence goes up on the stage to welcome the audience and performers. After a surprisingly long acknowledgement of sponsors and helpers, the first performer is introduced and away we go.

  There’s no getting out now.

  The first player is an adorable little girl I’d noticed during the preliminaries. She’s wearing a pink poufy dress and a big bow in her hair. She can’t be more than nine. She plays a surprisingly simple rendition and the audience claps when she’s done. I don’t know why I was expecting something more, but then, she’s only nine.

  The next performer is young, too, around twelve I’d guess, and he plays a more complicated number, but I suppose he’s still showing his age. The third pianist looks to be closer to our age. I straighten in my seat expectantly. It’s time to hear what the people my own age can do. His piece is certainly the most complex I’ve heard yet, but not near as complicated as I would have expected. Okay. So maybe I’m not the only seventeen-year-old beginner here after all.

  The player right before Erik is also our age, and plays a piece closer to the complexity I expected to hear going into this. It’s at least as complicated as the pieces we’re playing, and truly sounds lovely. When he finishes, I lean over to Erik during the applause and whisper, “He’s not as good as you.”

  Erik gives me a self-effacing grin, but it’s true. I think he probably knows it. He’s more than once accused me of not knowing
my own talents, but whether that’s true or not, I could never make the same accusation to Erik. His ear is too good for him to have any doubts about the quality of the music he creates.

  It’s his turn at last. As he gets on stage and settles in, I feel a swoop of nerves on his behalf. When he begins to play, I’m reminded of the first time I spied him through the windows of his house. He sounds brilliant, as he always does, but viewing him on stage adds an aura to the magic, just like watching him from afar did that day.

  After listening to the other performers, and now listening to him, I know for certain what I’ve long suspected: Erik is in a class all his own.

  Far, far above the rest of us.

  It’s the thing I love best about him.

  When he finishes I leap to my feet, clapping enthusiastically. I’m not the only one. The audience rises in spurts. Maybe we’re not supposed to give standing ovations at competitions, but I don’t care. He faces the audience with a handsome smile, bows elegantly, and leaves a stage that feels far, far too small for the music he just played.

  When he joins me, he’s just Erik again, but that aura of greatness is still lingering about a bit. I’m in awe of him and want to give him a kiss right here in front of everybody. I have to settle for beaming at him. “That was fantastic!”

  He smiles and takes my hand in his, giving it a squeeze.

  As the program marches on—ever closer to my own name on the page—my nerves are growing, but I’m a little distracted by what I’m hearing. With only a few exceptions, the pianists our age aren’t playing pieces nearly as advanced as what Erik and I chose.

  After the latest such performance, I lean into him. “These songs aren’t as hard as I thought they’d be.”

  He looks at me, a half smile on his face. “You’re starting to see where you fit into the bigger picture, aren’t you?”

  I look back to the stage. I don’t know about this. If I could’ve played a simpler piece I would have. I’m regretting playing something so complicated. Doesn’t that just give me more opportunities to mess up? Why did he pick this? He should’ve known I could get away with something less demanding.

  But before I know it, the time for thinking and worrying is past. The man in charge calls my name with ringing finality.

  “Good luck,” Erik whispers.

  I rise from my seat, feeling like every eye in the house is on me. I climb the steps to the stage, but don’t remember until I’m almost all the way to the piano to hitch a smile on my face. I get to the bench and turn to face the audience. I fix my eyes on the back wall and bow.

  I sit down and look at the keys. It’s the same as any other piano, when you get right down to it, but of course it’s not the same. The sight of the black and ivory doesn’t give me the same friendly feeling it usually does.

  I just want to get this over with.

  I only need to get through it, I tell myself firmly. That’s what Erik’s been telling me. That’s all I have to do.

  I put my hands on the keys and begin to play. I go measure to measure, watching my fingers as I go, and am kind of freaking out because I’m perfectly aware that I’m still here on the stage. I was counting on at least being able to slip down the rabbit hole and just lose myself in the music once I got started, but that’s not happening. I have to think about every chord. I’m aware of every eye. But I keep going, because what the hell else am I going to do?

  A third of the way through my piece, the music starts to rise and it’s here that it finally, finally takes over. It’s not me sitting at a piano performing anymore. I’m not just going through the motions. The music knocks its way through my nerves at last and my will surrenders.

  Ah, here it is, I sigh as I allow the music to take me away. I escape the scrutiny of the audience gladly. This is my music now. It belongs to me. And I give it all the love and care it deserves.

  I had doubted for a moment there, but now I know for sure: the music will always be there to save me.

  I fly through the rest, carried on wings only I can see but everyone can hear. When I finish, I smile at the keys. My old friends.

  A burst of applause claps over me like thunder and I look up abruptly. I forget to look at the back wall and instead look right at a sea of faces. My eyes land on a woman with an emerald green scarf around her neck, and I see it on her face. She’s got that glow about her. She felt the music, just like I did.

  How amazing, I think, still taking in this unexpected development.

  I smile, stand, and bow. I see another face that wears an expression of being touched by music. And another.

  The applause follows me off the stage. I’m not required to smile anymore, but I can’t stop smiling.

  Erik meets me and gives me an enthusiastic hug. “That was so great!”

  “That was!” But I’m not talking about how I played. I’m talking about playing up there. In front of people. “I made them feel the music. I did that!”

  He laughs and nods, like he understands. Of course, he does. I feel like I’ve been let into some sort of exclusive club. I had no idea how good this would feel.

  We settle into our seats and even though my heart’s still pounding, my body starts to relax. It’s over. I did it. Erik takes my hand and I smile at him.

  “Are you glad you came?”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  He smiles. “Don’t thank me. You did it for you, remember?”

  I grin. “I know, but I wouldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Hmm,” he says with a devilish look, turning back to the stage and squeezing my hand. “On to the next.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The next performer starts to play and he puts his finger to his lips, still smiling.

  When it comes time for the medallions to be presented to the winners, the emcee explains there are awards for each level.

  “What does he mean ‘level’?” I ask Erik, leaning close to him.

  “It’s like age categories, but for skill level instead.”

  “Oh, that’s what that was?” I’d seen a question about levels on the application, but didn’t know how to answer. Erik had told me he’d fill that in for me.

  The emcee announces honorable mentions and winners for the first level. The winners are all young, under ten at least. The girl who wins honorable mention looks no more than eight. I’m again jealous of all these people who’ve had such a jump start on me. But it’s not enough to kill my high. Even though I’m not winning anything, playing on stage in front of an audience has given me such a jolt it’s still inside me, stirring me up.

  I think about my fantasy of being a concert pianist. That wish, which has always been as vague and fuzzy as a wish on a star, is right now solidifying into something more real.

  I’ve had a taste of that dream. I want it now, in a whole new way. I don’t know how I’m going to make it happen, but as I sit here watching kids half my age climb on stage and get their awards, I’m feeling a level of determination I’ve never felt before.

  That can’t be the last time I get up on a stage.

  I want to do that over and over again until the day I die.

  As the emcee advances through the different levels, the winners are getting older, though there are the occasional standouts. “What level are you in?” I ask him. I want to know when to root for him.

  The emcee announces there’s one last group of awards, the highest level apparently.

  “This one,” Erik says, straightening in his seat.

  I cross my fingers and grin at him. “First place, baby. Four times in a row.”

  He looks nervous, which I think is completely adorable, but he smiles at me. He can’t seriously be nervous. There were some great pianists up there today, but no one touches Erik.

  The emcee says there are three honorable mentions for this level, and starts rattling them off. When he gets to the last name, my mouth falls open: “Ashley Morrison.”

  The audience starts their polite cla
pping. Erik joins in, elbowing me. “Get up there.”

  I turn my disbelieving stare at him. “I thought this was your category!”

  “Yours too!” He grins. “Get up there silly!”

  I stand and make my way down the row feeling a bit numb. But then it hits me. When I get to the aisle I look at Erik and grin. Holy crap! It’s all I can do not to run up to the stage.

  They’re already announcing the remaining winners as the assistant on stage presents me with a certificate.

  At the top it says:

  Idaho Piano Association

  Music Fest

  Honorable Mention

  Below that it reads:

  Ashley Morrison.

  Right there! I can’t stop grinning like an idiot.

  The emcee says, “And in first place,” my breath catches in my throat, “Erik Williams.”

  I grin even wider and watch as he makes his way to the stage. He collects his medallion from the assistant, gives me a wink and a smile, and joins the line of winners. And me. I’m one of them! I don’t even care that I don’t get a medallion. Honorable Mention totally counts.

  We all bow and start to exit the stage. Erik falls in next to me and we smile at each other. He looks so composed.

  Half way down the aisle, I say, “Congratulations!”

  “You too.”

  “Look!” I hold my certificate in front of him like a little kid showing her parents her kindergarten drawings.

  He laughs. “Now do you believe me?”

  “About what?”

  “About how good you are.”

  I don’t answer. I just grin down at my certificate. I can’t say whether I believe him or not, even though something in me has shifted. I do feel more confident, no question about that, but it feels too new a thing to give voice to it. I don’t want to chase it away.

  I want it to settle inside me, and give me the courage to do whatever comes next.