Chapter 6: The Night Before

Richmond, Virginia – December 14th

The day before the showcase arrives like a held note – suspended, trembling, waiting to resolve. I wake before dawn, the sky outside my window still the color of bruised plums. The snow from last week has melted into gray slush, but the air is still cold, still sharp, still reminding me that winter is not a season of comfort. It is a season of endurance.

I lie in my bed, naked, and I run the Rachmaninoff through my head from start to finish. Every movement. Every cadenza. Every breath. I’ve been doing this for weeks now – sleeping with the music, dreaming in D minor. My fingers twitch against the sheets, tracing the runs, the leaps, the impossible passages that have become as familiar as my own heartbeat.

Nana Ruth knocks on my door. “Ellie-girl, you up?”

“Yeah, Nana.”

She opens the door. She’s in her housecoat, pink with faded roses, carrying a cup of coffee. She sets it on my nightstand and sits on the edge of my bed.

“Big day tomorrow,” she says.

“Big day.”

“You ready?”

I think about the question. Am I ready? I’ve practiced for months. I’ve fought for this stage. I’ve endured Morrison’s traps, Brittany’s cruelty, my mother’s fear. I’ve walked through these hallways naked for two years, three months, and twelve days. I’ve played this concerto so many times that my fingers know the notes better than my brain does.

But ready? Ready means something else. Ready means I’m not afraid. And I am afraid. I’m afraid of the silence before the first note. I’m afraid of the moment when the lights hit my skin, and I feel a thousand pairs of eyes. I’m afraid that I’ll freeze, that I’ll forget, that I’ll crack like a child at a recital.

“I’m ready enough,” I say.

Nana nods. “That’s all you need to be. Ready enough to start. The rest will follow.”

She pats my hand and leaves. I drink coffee. It’s bitter, strong, the way I like it.

School is a ghost town on the day before a major performance. The hallways are quieter than usual. The teachers seem distracted. The students are either buzzing with holiday excitement or checked out entirely. I walk through the building, barefoot, bare-skinned, and I feel like a ghost too – a spirit haunting the halls of a place that doesn’t quite know what to do with me.

Priya finds me at lunch. She’s holding a folder stuffed with papers.

“I’ve been organizing,” she says. “Testimonials from every Natural in the city. I’ve got twenty-three so far. People who are willing to speak out if Morrison tries anything tomorrow.”

“Twenty-three? That’s amazing.”

“It’s not enough. But it’s a start.” She sits across from me. “How are you feeling? Really?”

I take a bite of my apple. “I’m scared. Not playing. Of everything else. The silence before. The walk. The moment when I sit down, and the whole world is watching.”

“Ellie, you’ve been doing that walk for two years. Every morning. Every class. Every hallway. Tomorrow is just another walk.”

“Tomorrow is a stage. The stage is different. On a stage, people are expecting something. They’re waiting for you to prove yourself. In the hallway, they’re just ... seeing you. There’s a difference.”

Priya reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You’ve already proved yourself. The performance is just the ribbon on top.”

I squeeze her hand. “Thank you. For everything. The petition. The testimonials. The friendship. I don’t say it enough.”

“You don’t have to say it. I know.”

Liam slides into the seat next to me. He’s carrying his trumpet case, which is unusual for lunch. “I’m skipping sixth period to practice,” he says. “You want to join me? Last rehearsal before the big night.”

“I can’t. Morrison changed the auditorium code. I’m locked out.”

“I know. That’s why I got us a key.”

I stare at him. “You got a key?”

“Let’s just say the janitor owed me a favor. And I may have promised him front-row seats and a fruit basket.” He grins. “Come on. Let’s play.”

I look at Priya. She waves me off. “Go. I’ll hold down the fort. And I’ll make sure Brittany doesn’t spike your water.”

The auditorium is dark, cold, and silent when we step inside. The stage lights are off. The seats are empty. The Steinway sits alone under the dim glow of the exit signs, a dark shape waiting for my hands.

Liam flips on the stage lights. They flood the space with warm, golden illumination. I walk to the piano and run my fingers over the keys. They’re cold. But they’re mine.