Vincent, I took lessons as a boy, Peyton said hesitantly. I'm quite rusty, but perhaps sit down, Richard, Harrington said coldly. I need a pianist, not a child's recital. This is a professional performance, not a charity event.
The insult hung in the air. Peyton's face reddened, but he sat down without another word. That was Harrington's power. He could humiliate even the wealthy, and they'd take it because his approval was worth more than their pride.
Suddenly, Harrington's eyes gleamed with an idea. Ladies and gentlemen, what if we turned this disaster into an opportunity? What if instead of a predetermined dueling partner, I opened a challenge to anyone, anyone at all, who believes they have the skill to match me? He smiled and there was cruelty in it.
I'll even make it interesting. If someone can play something that genuinely impresses me, I'll donate $100,000 to the charity of their choice. But when they fail, and they will fail, they must leave immediately in front of everyone with the knowledge that they were never meant to touch such an instrument. The crowd buzzed with excitement.
This was even better than the planned performance. Live humiliation, public failure, all wrapped in the guise of opportunity. Marcus felt his heart pounding. This was it.
This was the moment he'd been dreaming about, preparing for, living for. Every night on that broken keyboard, every lesson with Mrs. Chen where she'd pushed him until his fingers ached. Every composition he'd written on scraps of paper, it had all been leading here. But his mother's words echoed in his mind.
This world isn't meant for people like us. The security guard beside him seemed to read his thoughts. Don't do it, son. Men like Harrington, they don't give real chances.
They just want to remind everyone of their place. Marcus watched as Harrington surveyed the crowd, his expression smug. No one was taking the challenge. Of course, they weren't.
The wealthy didn't need to prove themselves, and everyone else knew better than to try. As I suspected, Harrington said after a long moment. There are no takers because there are no equals. Very well, we'll postpone.
I'll play. The words left Marcus's mouth before he fully realized he'd said them. The security guard grabbed his arm, but Marcus pulled away and stepped forward to the balcony railing, his voice stronger now. I'll take your challenge, Mr. Harrington.
Every head in the hall turned upward. The crowd seemed to notice him for the first time. This fourteen-year-old black boy in a janitorial uniform standing in the balcony where he clearly didn't belong. Harrington's face went through a rapid series of expressions. Surprise, confusion, and finally cold amusement. I'm sorry. Who are you? Marcus Williams.
Sir. His voice didn't shake even though his knees felt weak. And I'd like to accept your challenge.