After that, Maya had no piano to practice on, but she did not stop. She found a church near her home that had an old piano in a back room. The pastor was a kind man; he said Maya could come and play for one hour every Sunday after the service. It was not much, but it was something.
Maya also went to the library. She borrowed books about music theory, about famous composers, about piano technique. She watched videos online, studying how great pianists moved their hands, how they expressed emotion through the keys. And at night, when she could not sleep, she would lie in bed and practice on a keyboard she had drawn on a piece of cardboard. She would move her fingers over the silent keys, hearing the music only in her mind.
For three years, this was her life: working at a diner during the day to help her mother pay the bills, practicing at the church on Sundays, studying alone at night, waiting for a chance that might never come.
And now, that chance was here.
Maya sat in the hall of the Harrison Academy, holding her folder of worn sheet music, and waited for her name to be called. The minutes passed slowly. One by one, the other people were called into the audition room. Some came out smiling. Some came out with tears in their eyes. Some came out with no expression at all. Maya watched them all. She tried to stay calm.
She tried to remember what her father had told her long ago, when she was nervous before her first recital: "Do not think about the people watching you," he had said. "Think only about the music. Let the music speak for you. Let it tell your story."
Finally, after two hours of waiting, a man in a black suit appeared at the door.
"Maya Chen," he called out.
Maya stood up. Her legs felt weak, but she made herself walk forward. She followed the man through a set of double doors and into a large room with high ceilings and tall windows. At the far end of the room was a grand piano. It was the most beautiful piano Maya had ever seen. It was black and shining, and it looked like it cost more money than her family had ever had.
In front of the piano was a long table. Three people sat behind it; they were the judges. Two of them were women, one young and one older. The third was a man with gray hair and a stern face. Maya would later learn that his name was Dr. Richard Holloway, and he was one of the most respected piano teachers in the country. But right now, she knew nothing about him. She only saw his cold eyes looking at her, judging her, deciding who she was before she had played a single note.
Maya walked to the piano and sat down on the bench. She placed her folder of music on the stand. She took a deep breath, and then she began to play.
Maya's fingers touched the keys, and the first notes filled the room. She had chosen to play a piece by Chopin, one of her father's favorites. It was called the Nocturne in E-flat major, and it was a piece full of beauty and sadness. Maya had practiced it hundreds of times on the old church piano; she knew every note by heart.
She played the opening bars with care. Her fingers moved smoothly over the black and white keys. The music rose into the air, soft and gentle like a whisper.