I was eleven years old the first time I played for a paying audience. It had baffled me why anyone would spend money to watch one short, scrawny kid sit at a piano and recite someone else’s work. Getting all dressed up to listen to me plunk at the keys. At home, dressed in my pajamas and strawberry jam still stuck in the corners of my lips, I had played for fun. To me, it had felt like paying to sit in a convention hall and watch someone else play video games. But then, that was a thing, too.
When I was old enough to start penning my own compositions, it began to make sense. As a child, I had never been good at making friends. Reading notations on a page and replicating the music was easy—the instructions were right there in black and white. Basic human interaction, though, wasn’t a natural process for me. Until I learned to create music. Through that act of creativity, I could express the thoughts I was incapable of speaking aloud. And it didn’t matter if the audience understood my meaning, because they were participating. It was an exchange of ideas. Upon the platform of music that I provided, they wrote their own stories. They interpreted their own emotions and imagined what untold narrative existed within the notes. In that way, we made a connection, and I didn’t have to leave the relative safety of the pool of light that encircled the piano.
Since I started performing with the band at the Nest, I’d gotten better about my proximity to my audience. I had learned to feed off their energy rather than fear it. But for me, there was no comparison to the quiet anticipation and rapt attention that I could command when I broke the well-mannered silence as my fingers hit the keys. On an empty stage, above an audience hidden behind a black veil with bright while lights staring back at me, it was like drifting in space. Free.
The small audience of classmates, friends, and families offered polite applause as I crossed the stage to the piano. Professor Monroe announced my name while I took my seat on the bench and flexed my fingers, preparing my muscles. Upstage, my jazz ensemble filed in and took their places.
The song began like a nursery rhyme: simple, sweet. There was a melodic quality that felt familiar, like something from childhood. It reminded me of my mother and how she’d taught me to play. The hours spent learning the basic progression of notes that told stories of fairy tales and adventures.
As my fingers moved over the keys, the tune matured. The upright bass came in beneath the melody, then the saxophone and trumpet. A slow, gentle, gradual growth. The drums tumbled in, soft at first, becoming more excited as the rhythm sped. It was a tightly focused chaos. Sonic near-anarchy bellowed from the stage, filling the acoustically designed auditorium with frenetic energy.
Behind us, the curtain opened. Revealed was a ten-piece orchestra of horns and strings and woodwinds. The chaos coalesced into harnessed harmony. Full, rich, vigorous tones vibrated the floor beneath my feet. The hair on the back of my neck stood tall. My hands danced across the keys, pulling my body to sway, chasing the lower chords and charging after the high, exuberant sopranos.
I poured everything into that performance. My years of frustration and fear, elation and pleasure, and the hope that I might have once more found myself in the one passion that had transformed my life. The piece wasn’t strictly jazz, not that I thought Professor Monroe would mind, but it was a reflection of me: a little off kilter and a bit too aggressive.
It only recently made sense to me that, despite my past, no one was stopping me from choosing the life I wanted to lead. For so long I had imagined all these tethers leashing me to an existence that was only about what I wouldn’t do and couldn’t have. Chains that bound me to destructive self-pity. That man had abused me, and though I had escaped his grasp more than a decade ago, I hadn’t let myself free of his influence. Carmen had given me all she had for the brief time we shared, but I hadn’t used any of it in any meaningful way.
Starting right away, I wanted my life to be about meaning, purpose. I promised myself that no matter my scars, no matter the work still left to accomplish, I wouldn’t be a passive participant. The path before me wasn’t entirely clear, but at least I had a direction, and I wouldn’t have to walk it alone.
The symphony played on as I stood from the piano and left the stage, descending the stairs into the audience. Hadley sat beside my father in the front row. Her eyes met mine, wet with tears and growing more terrified with every deliberate step I took toward her.
This wasn’t the plan. Hadley hated attention and would surely bludgeon me later for drawing her into the spotlight. I had intended to wait until after dinner to take her to the beach for a whole romantic scene under the moonlight. But fuck if I couldn’t stop myself.
At her feet, I sank to one knee. The speech I had prepared evaporated. Every painstakingly revised line I’d spent weeks writing escaped me. Because when I saw the excited anticipation overwhelm her face, I couldn’t think about anything else. This woman was the best part of me, and I didn’t want to take another breath without her.
“I hate you so much right now,” she whispered, her lips trembling.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my mother’s engagement ring to slip onto Hadley’s finger. “I can’t promise you a happy ending,” I said, leaning forward with her hand clasped in mine to speak at her ear, “but I can offer you a happy beginning. Marry me, Punky.”
She grabbed me by the lapels and stood, dragging me to my feet. “Took you long enough.”