The last noterings out through Rattlesnake Guitars, and I let it fade before setting my Gibson down on the stand. My fingers ache in that good way that comes from three hours of solid practice. The shop is quiet, just the radio playing low in the background, some classic country station Benny always has on. George Jones singing about choices.
Benny had to run out about an hour ago—something about his sister in the hospital, nothing serious but she needed him there—and asked me to cover a lesson at four. Didn’t give me much information, just handed me a sticky note with “Lily - 4pm - move to intermediate” scrawled across it in his handwriting that looks like a doctor’s prescription.
“Just work on whatever she needs,” he’d said, already grabbing his keys. “Kid’s good. You’ll like her.”
Now I’m alone in the shop, surrounded by guitars that cost more than most people’s cars and some that were bought for fifty bucks at estate sales. The afternoon sun slants through the front windows, hitting the vintage Martins on the wall and making the wood glow amber.
I check my watch. Three fifty-eight.
The bell above the door chimes. A kid walks in, maybe ten, carrying a Taylor Baby acoustic case that looks well-used but cared for. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with some band I don’t recognize on it. She looks around the empty shop, then at me.
“I have a four o’clock lesson?”
“You must be Lily.”
She nods. “Where’s Benny?”
“He had a family emergency. Asked me to cover. I’m Darian.”
“Okay.” She sets her case down and immediately starts unpacking her guitar, all business. No hesitation about the substitute teacher, no disappointment. Just ready to learn. She handles the instrument with the kind of care that tells me she understands its value, not just monetary but what it represents.
“What have you been working on?” I ask, grabbing one of the stools Benny keeps near the lesson area.
“Chord progressions. G, C, D. But they sound boring.” She sits across from me, guitar positioned correctly without me having to adjust anything. “I can play them fine, but when I listen to songs, they don’t sound like this.”
“Show me.”
She plays through them, and she’s right. Technically correct but mechanical. No life in them. Her fingering is precise, her timing accurate, but it’s like watching someone read words without understanding their meaning.
“You’re playing the notes,” I tell her. “But not the music.”
“What’s the difference?”
Instead of explaining, I pick up my Gibson. “Listen to this.”
I play the same progression but with dynamics, letting some notes ring, muting others, adding a walking bass line between changes. The same bones she was playing, but with flesh and breath and life.
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “That’s what I want to do. That’s what I hear in my head but can’t make my fingers do.”
“Your fingers already know how. You just need to give them permission to do more than the minimum.”
“How?”
“Let’s start with dynamics. Play your G chord.”
She does, same as before.
“Now play it like you’re trying not to wake someone up.”
She plays it softer, but also more carefully, more intentionally.
“Now play it like you’re angry.”
The chord comes out harder, sharper.
“Now play it like you’re asking a question.”
She tilts her head, thinking, then plays it with a slight upward inflection, lifting off the strings in a way that does make it sound questioning.
