Mrs. Chen pulled out a thick book, The Complete Pianist. But I can prepare you. Starting today, we work on fundamentals. Your technique is good for self-taught, but it has gaps.
Harrington will find those gaps immediately. So, we fix them now. They worked for six hours straight. Mrs. Chen was merciless, making Marcus repeat scales until his fingers cramped, correcting his posture with sharp taps of a ruler, drilling him on music theory until the terms swam in his head.
By the time she left at 8:00 p.m., Marcus was exhausted. Tomorrow you practice at the church, Mrs. Chen said at the door. Four hours minimum. I will check with Pastor Williams.
If he tells me you practiced less, I will know. Yes, ma'am. She paused, her stern expression softening slightly. Marcus, what you did Friday night, that took courage.
More courage than I had at your age. But courage without preparation is just recklessness. Harrington gave you two years. That's not much time to close a 10-year gap. So, you cannot waste a single day. Understand? I understand.
Monday arrived too quickly. Marcus had barely slept, his mind racing with scenarios of what the first lesson might bring. He went to school in a daze, barely hearing his teachers, ignoring the whispers from classmates who'd seen the videos that had now gone massively viral. One video alone, Jessica Huang's live stream, had been viewed over two million times.
Marcus's face was everywhere. Social media, local news, even a segment on a national morning show. Marcus Williams, the fourteen-year-old piano prodigy from the Bronx, who challenged classical music's establishment and won. But Marcus didn't feel like he'd won anything yet.
He felt like he was standing at the base of Mount Everest, being told he had to reach the summit, and everyone was watching to see if he'd fall. At 4:30 p.m., Marcus boarded the subway heading to Manhattan. He'd never been to the Upper West Side before. Not really.
Not beyond passing through on his way to somewhere else. The buildings here were different from his neighborhood. Elegant brownstones, doormen in uniform, restaurants with handwritten menus in the windows. Money whispered from every corner, subtle and assured. 435 West 57th Street was a beautiful prewar building with an ornate facade.
The lobby had marble floors and a chandelier that probably cost more than his entire apartment building. The doorman looked at Marcus with barely concealed skepticism. I'm here to see Mr. Harrington, Marcus said, trying to keep his voice steady. I have a lesson at 6. The doorman checked his computer, eyebrows rising slightly.
Penthouse elevator is that way. The elevator was one of those old-fashioned ones with a brass gate and wood paneling. It rose so smoothly Marcus barely felt it move. When the doors opened directly into Harrington's penthouse apartment, Marcus stepped out into a space that took his breath away. The apartment was vast, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, hardwood floors that gleamed like glass, and walls covered with photographs of Harrington with famous musicians, conductors, even presidents.