“How do we get down there?” Haru asks.
“There’s probably a staircase.”
It takes a second to find it, but eventually we reach the lower level. It’s strange being alone in an auditorium, surrounded by rows of empty seats. I wonder what it’s like to see a show in here. As I’m looking around in the dark, I realize Haru isn’t beside me. I almost panic before I see him on the stage.
“What are you doing up there?”
“I want to look around,” he says.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble—”
Haru ignores this as he wanders behind a set piece. I glance at the steps at the side of the stage. Then I make my way up to get him. There’s enough light to make out the set of an apartment. Two glass doors are open to a faux balcony, overlooking a backdrop of Manhattan. There’s a grand piano atthe center of the stage. I wander toward it, wondering if it’s real. It’s been a while since I sat down at the piano. I run a hand along the keys.
“You play the piano?”
Haru appears at my side, startling me a little.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t,” I say. “My sister does, though. She taught me a few songs when we were younger. But I doubt I remember any of them.”
Haru touches my back. “You should try to play one,” he says.
I look at him and back at the piano. Then I set my camera down and take a seat on the bench. My fingers rest on the keys as I try to remember the chords. Maybe if I start playing, something will come to me. I close my eyes, letting my fingers move on their own. The sound of the keys rings through me, sweeping me away to another memory…
I open my eyes to Jasmine’sbedroom. I am eleven years old, sitting at her piano as sunlight streams through the window. She’s sitting right beside me, trying to teach me a new song.
“Keep your fingers like this,” she says, positioning them for me. She makes it look so easy when she plays, her movements as fluid as water. But I can’t seem to follow her, no matter how many times I watch her do it. “Try it again,” she says patiently.
We’ve been at this for hours. But I haven’t gotten any better. Finally, I pull my hands back in defeat. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I groan.
“You’re doing fine, Eric. It just takes some practice, that’s all.”
“I don’t want to practice.”
“Then you’ll never learn how to play.”
“I don’t care anymore.” I rise to leave, but Jasmine puts a hand on my shoulder, sitting me down again.
“You can’t give up like that,” she says. “Do you think I learned to play overnight? Just give it one more shot. We’ll try something different this time. Here—” She positions my hand again, keeping hers on the piano, too. “You play the left-hand part, and I’ll play the right.”
“Fine…”
It’s a little confusing at first, trying to keep in time with each other. But once I find the rhythm, it becomes easier to follow along. Since there’s only one hand to focus on, I don’t stumble quite as much. I hold the low notes, grounding the song, as Jasmine’s fingers dance across the keys to the melody. It’s like this intricate dance between us, filling the room with our music.
The door opens behind us as Mom comes in with a laundry basket. She looks at me and says, “Ð?ng làm phi?n ch?con n?a.”Stop bothering your sister.As she walks over to get me, she notices my hands. “You colored your nails?” she says. “Ai cho con son móng tay v?y?”Who let you do that?
I fold my arms, hiding my hands from her. I painted them last night with Jasmine’s nail polish while we were watching a movie. I didn’t think it was a big deal. But Mom grabs my hand, taking a closer look at them.
“Who let you do that?” she repeats.
“I painted them,” Jasmine lies.
“You shouldn’t let him do that.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Jasmine says back. “I know a lot of boys that do it, too. And Eric is helping me practice, okay?”
Mom stares at my hand, shaking her head. “Ð?ng làmdi?u này n?a,” she says.Don’t do this anymore. Then she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
Jasmine leans into me. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “I like your nails like that.”
