Nadine said artistic intention did not make boring music interesting.
They fought for three lessons.
Compromised.
The piece became better.
At ten thirty-five, Darius returned.
He wore work boots, navy uniform trousers, and a reflective vest over his jacket.
His hands were dirty despite washing them.
He found Malik backstage.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
Nadine looked at Malik.
Malik looked at Nadine.
Darius caught it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His father stared.
“Malik.”
The boy sighed.
“Some donors thought I wasn’t a performer.”
Darius’s face changed.
“How?”
“Dad.”
“Who?”
“Please don’t.”
That stopped him.
Darius understood his son was already carrying enough.
He exhaled.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Do I need to fight anybody after?”
Malik smiled.
“No.”
“Excellent.”
Darius held out a fist.
Malik bumped it.
“You nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“If you aren’t nervous, you’re probably about to do something stupid.”
Nadine looked at Darius.
“That is surprisingly good.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Mostly boiler knowledge.”
“Still multitudes.”
Malik laughed.
Good.
His shoulders loosened.
At ten forty-two, the emcee announced the next performer.
Walter Bellamy stood near the side of the stage.
Jonathan Pierce stood beside him.
They were still talking.
Then the emcee said:
“Our next composer is thirteen-year-old Malik Carter of Philadelphia.”
Jonathan stopped.
Walter turned.
Malik walked out.
The public seating area was maybe half full.
This was not a grand gala.
Commuters stood at the edges.
Families held coffee.
Travelers dragged suitcases.
Some watched.
Some did not.
Station announcements continued overhead.
That made Malik happy.
The piece belonged to noise.
He sat.
Adjusted the bench.
Then waited.
Not theatrically.
Breathing.
The first note was low.
Quiet.
A repeated B-flat.
Then another.
Then the left hand began a pulse.
Not train imitation exactly.
Movement.
The right hand entered with two notes separated by a fourth.
Short.
Questioning.
A station announcement interrupted.
Malik did not stop.
The voice overhead said something about Track Five.
His music continued underneath.
Strangely, it fit.
Jonathan’s expression changed.
Walter stopped looking at his phone.
Malik built the pattern slowly.
At first the piece sounded simple.
Then the left hand shifted rhythm against the right.
Three against two.
Then five-note groupings.
The train was moving now.
Nadine watched from the side.
Darius stood behind her.
His mouth had gone tight.
He had heard the piece dozens of times.
Still.
Something was different in public.
The middle section arrived.
Faster.
Sharper.
Malik’s fingers crossed rapidly.
Not showing off.
Controlled.
The public piano was heavier than Nadine’s instrument, and one upper key responded slightly late.
Malik adjusted.
He knew the piano.
That helped.
The melody emerged again, this time in the bass.
Then broke apart.
Silence.
Not total.