“Today’s Wednesday, right?”
The voice came from the desk beside him.
“Yeah.”
“You have piano today?”
“Yeah.”
The teacher kept talking at the front of the room. He wrote in his notebook and checked the clock. Fifteen minutes until the last class ended. He’d get to the piano studio a little before five.
If her lesson ended when it usually did, she’d be finishing around then. When he saw her, he could say hi. He could always manage that much. What are you playing at the recital?
He could ask that. She was probably playing too. After her lesson, before she left, there would be enough time for one question.
“What are you playing at the recital?”
She’d tell him the title. What if he didn’t know it?
“Oh, cool.”
And that would be it. Not much different from every other week. If he did know it, he could say,
“Oh, I know that one.”
But he probably wouldn’t. The chair beside him scraped against the floor.
“Hey.”
He looked over. His friend was watching him.
“What?”
“Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“The piano girl again?”
He looked back at the front.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re seeing her today, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s there every Wednesday, right?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t know.”
He ignored him and looked down at his notebook. His friend laughed. He’d never really told him about her. His friend had just seen the group photo from an old recital tucked inside his wallet.
One day at lunch, he’d opened it to buy something and the corner of the folded photo had slipped out.
“Who’s this?” his friend had asked.
“Nobody.”
That had worked for about thirty seconds. After a few more questions, he finally gave him that much: she was “a girl from piano.” His friend had called her the piano girl ever since.
“Talk to her this time.”
His friend kept his voice low.
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t tell me to.”
“You think about it every week anyway.”
“I do not.”
The teacher looked in their direction. They both went quiet. He looked at his notebook. He had written the same number twice in a row.
He erased one.
When he reached the piano studio, music was coming through the door. He stood outside for a moment before going in.
He knew the piece, but not the title. She played it often. The first time he’d heard it, he’d stopped outside just like this. He hadn’t known who was playing until he opened the door and saw her at the piano.
After that, he started noticing whether she was there on Wednesdays. He opened the door. The teacher looked over.
“Hi.”
“Hi. Give us a minute.”
He sat in the chair against the wall and put his bag at his feet. She kept her eyes on the score as she played. The piece ended.
“That was better than last week.”
She smiled.
“Really?”
“Really. But you’re still rushing here.”
The teacher pointed to a measure. She started again from that spot. While she played, he remembered what he had been rehearsing at school. What are you playing at the recital?
One question. That was all. Her lesson ended, and she closed the book and stood.
The teacher looked at him.
“Your turn.”
He got up. They passed each other.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
That part went the way it always did. Now. What are you playing at the recital? In his head, he said it perfectly.
She picked up her bag.
“See you next week,” the teacher called.
“Okay.”
She opened the door and left.
“All right,” the teacher said. “Let’s start.”
He sat at the piano and opened his music. Before touching the first key, he looked once at the closed door.