"Maya Chen."
The woman wrote something on a piece of paper. "Piano?"
"Yes."
"Wait in the hall with the others. You will be called when it is your turn."
Maya thanked her and walked down a long corridor. At the end was a large hall with wooden benches along the walls. About thirty other people were already there, waiting. Most of them were young, like Maya. Some looked nervous. Some looked bored. Some were practicing fingering exercises in the air, their hands moving over invisible keys.
Maya found an empty spot on a bench near the corner and sat down. She placed her folder on her lap and looked around. The person next to her was a young man in an expensive suit; he was looking at his phone and did not even glance at her. Across the hall, two girls were talking in low voices. One of them looked at Maya and whispered something to her friend. They both laughed quietly.
Maya pretended not to notice. She was used to this. People often looked at her and made judgments: they saw her clothes, her background, her lack of money; they thought they knew everything about her from these things. But they did not know her story. They did not know what she had been through to get here.
Maya's family had come to America from China when she was seven years old. Her father had been a music teacher in their home country. He loved the piano more than anything. When Maya was very small, he would sit her on his lap and play songs for her. He taught her the names of the keys. He taught her simple melodies. He told her that music was a language that everyone in the world could understand.
When they came to America, life was hard. Her father could not find work as a music teacher; his certificates from China were not accepted here. So he took a job in a factory, working long hours for little money. But every night, when he came home tired and sore, he would still sit at their small piano and play.
That piano was the one thing of value they had brought from China. It was old and not very good, but to Maya's father, it was precious. He taught Maya to play on it. He gave her lessons every evening, no matter how tired he was. He said she had a gift. He said she could be great one day.
Then, when Maya was sixteen, her father got sick. The sickness was bad, and he could not work anymore. The medical bills were huge. Maya's mother worked three jobs to pay them, but it was not enough. They had to sell things: they sold the television; they sold the furniture. And finally, with tears in his eyes, Maya's father told them to sell the piano.
Maya remembered that day like it was yesterday. She remembered watching two men carry the piano out of their small apartment. She remembered her father sitting in his chair, looking out the window, saying nothing.
Six months later, her father died.