Elijah shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Just Cartwright being Cartwright. Nothing new."
His grandmother's expression hardened slightly. "That man," she muttered, shaking her head. "One day he'll eat his words. You mark mine." She patted Elijah's cheek gently. "Dinner's almost ready. Go wash up."
Elijah made his way to his small bedroom, closing the door behind him. The room was sparsely furnished: a twin bed with a navy blue comforter, a wooden desk that had seen better days, and a small bookshelf filled with secondhand books.
In the dim corner of the room sat an electronic keyboard, its once-white keys now yellowed with age. Several keys were missing altogether, creating gaps like missing teeth in a smile. Dropping his bag, Elijah sat down on the small bench before the keyboard. He didn't turn it on. The speakers had blown out years ago, but his fingers found their positions anyway.
With his eyes closed, he began to play a melody only he could hear, his fingers dancing across the broken instrument with surprising grace and precision.
As he played, a memory surfaced, sharp and painful despite the years that had passed. He was nine years old, standing on a small stage at the community center's talent show. His mother had saved for months to buy him a new shirt for the occasion, and he remembered how proud she had looked as she helped him button it up.
"You play from your heart, baby," she had told him, smoothing his collar. "That's something no one can take away from you."
But halfway through his performance, something had gone wrong. He had missed a note, then another. Whispers rippled through the audience, followed by the distinct sound of laughter from somewhere in the back. Panic had frozen his fingers, and the music died. Through tears, he had seen his mother rushing toward the stage, her face a mixture of concern and fierce protection. But before she reached him, the memory faded to black, as it always did.
Elijah opened his eyes, his fingers now still on the silent keys. His mother had been gone for six years now, a car accident that had left him with only his grandmother and these fragmented memories. Sometimes he wondered if he had imagined the talent she always said he had.
After dinner, Elijah sat at his desk with a torn notebook open before him. Instead of doing his algebra homework, he sketched music notes and piano keys in the margins, creating visual representations of the melodies that lived in his head. It was a habit he'd developed over the years, a secret language only he could read.
The next morning at school, the hallways buzzed with excitement about the upcoming talent show. Posters plastered the walls announcing Lincoln Heights Academy's Annual Showcase of Stars in bold, glittering letters. Students clustered around the signup sheets, discussing their acts in animated voices.
Elijah kept to the periphery, moving between classes with his usual quiet efficiency. He was waiting at his locker between periods when the PA system crackled to life.
"Good morning, Lincoln Heights," came Principal Cartwright's voice, smooth as polished marble. "Just a friendly reminder that signups for our annual talent showcase close this Friday. We encourage all students with genuine talent to participate." There was a pause, and when he continued, there was a hint of amusement in his tone. "Don't worry, folks. Even the silent types might surprise us, right, Elijah?"
Laughter erupted in the hallway as several students turned to look at Elijah. Heat rushed to his face as he quickly gathered his books and closed his locker, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. Without a word, he slipped away from the crowd, disappearing down a less-traveled corridor.
He didn't stop walking until he reached the east wing of the school, an older section that housed the arts classrooms. The hallway was deserted during this period, offering a momentary respite from the stares and whispers. Elijah leaned against the wall, clutching his books to his chest as he took deep breaths.
A door creaked open nearby, and Elijah froze, hoping to remain unnoticed. But it was too late.