My Recital

So, being the stupid 11 year old I was, sitting down at the piano bench for 3 hours or more a day, wasn’t my cup of tea. I remember the first time we addressed the subject. Gail, my knitting-obsessed teacher, asked me how my practicing was doing, because apparently, I wasn’t getting things done quick enough for her taste. I wrote down each day how much I practiced, which ranged from 0-15 minutes. After seeing that, she went crazy. She thought I was a slacker, I wasn’t motivated, and that I was never going to get anywhere in life with piano. That set me off. Tears welled up in my eyes, but she showed no sympathy.
“Emily, I can’t tell if you are really serious about moving forward in your piano skills”, Said Gail, her eyes stabbing into the side of my head
“Uh”, I said, desperately trying to reach for words. This conversation continued with my “uhs”, and her confusing questions for a half an hour, until her last sentence:
“There is a recital, and you have to have your piece, Last Spring ready”. This was terrible news. Last Spring was then, most annoying, accident-prone song that I had ever played. And I only had 2 months to get it done. With me playing 5 minutes a day, it was almost impossible. Notice how I say ALMOST impossible. So every week, I would slowly practice about 20-40 minutes, and every week, I would get nagged. And how far did that give me? NOT VERY!! I didn’t care until the last week came.
“So Emily, you have this piece ready to play, am I right?”, said Gail. I froze; I didn’t know what to do. Of course, I had the notes learned, but I didn’t have the right touch. “Play the song Emily”, she taunted, as I stared at the keys. They looked back, saying Try me. After several moments of glances, stares, and sweatyness, my fingers pressed awkwardly on the notes and music rang out into the room. I looked over, and saw a disappointed look on her face. I stopped. I glanced over to my dad, who sat on the couch, pretending like he didn’t know what was happening. Pretending that he didn’t know that his daughter was drowning in her piano teacher sea of guilt. “Emily. Some teachers may think that it is bad to be harsh, but I am going to be straight with you. You are fake, your playing is absolutely fake. You don’t feel the music, you just play it, and I don’t see why you are even playing the piano.”
“I know”, I said, trying to avoid eye contact.
“I would like to see some emotion in this piece when you play it at the recital”. How was I ever going to do that?! I had never had any emotion in my playing before, I didn’t understand. I guess I had a week to learn how.
I practiced pushing harder on the keys, using more pedal, going faster, all of which made the song sound even worse. I did this, experimenting like the scientist I was, till the day before the recital. Tomorrow was the day where I would represent my masterpiece.. Was I ready? No. Was I scared? YES! My stomach had butterflies in it, even though the show was more than 15 hours away. I went to bed that night, wondering how it would turn out.
Morning came, I woke up, and watched TV like any other normal day. It was a perfect morning so far, sipping my OJ, and flipping from SpongeBob to The Soup, Till 8 fatal words hit my eardrums. “HEY EMILY, ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR RECITAL?!”. My eyes widened in terror. My performance was in 30 minutes, and I had totally forgotten. Not only had I forgotten to practice, I had also not prepared an outfit! Great, just great.
I threw on a flower-printed skirt, and a pink top, and ran up the driveway, jumping head first into the already-parked car in the driveway. The car engine turned on, and we were on our way. I practiced the song on my leg, trying to get a smidge of practicing done, but before I knew it, there we were, in front of the building. We walked in, and found out that we were 30 minutes early. It was like one of those jazz café places It was small, dark, and had a small, wooden round stage in the center. I loved it.
CLINK! I quickly turned to see my teacher, setting up tables, and giving instruction to the robust light bulb man.
“Hi Gail!”, I said, timidly, scared of her reaction. Strangely, she looked up, gave me the kindest smile I had ever seen on her face, and said “I know your going to do great”. From that point on, I wasn’t worried.
About 20 minutes later, people started flooding in. The lights were fixed directly at the center stage, and my family had the best seats in the house, Five feet away from the piano. Gail finally got up after chatting with her buddies, to announce the start of the recital. Nervousness crept of my spine like a shadow. She called off names, beginner to most advanced. I looked at the list, to see that I was 4 before last, out of about 35 kids. She read, read, and read, until she got to me.
“We are now going to have a performance by Emily Perry, Who will be playing Last spring”. Applause started, and I stood up, shaking, trying not to look too stupid walking up there. I sat down on the bench, the least ready I’ve been in a long time. Then out of no where, my fingers attacked the piano. I was playing, like I had never played before, and it sounded great. Every note rang out, and the whole time, I could have sworn I had a giant grin on my face. By the time I was done, people were clapping louder than I thought they should have been, and Gail was smiling. I knew, she especially was proud.
I sat back down, proud of myself. Then came the next 3 people. There Brahms pieces were amazing, it inspired me to be the best piano player that I could. So right after the performance, we went to Kennelly keys, bought a song that I loved, but never thought I could learn, and went home, where I spent 6 hours learning it. I finished it, and now I spend hours a day on the piano, never bored.