Maya's heart jumped. Five minutes. In five minutes, she would walk onto the most famous stage in the world.
Lynn hugged her one more time. "You can do this. I know you can."
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you, too, Maya. Now go show them what you can do."
Dr. Holloway escorted Lynn to her seat in the audience—in the front row, exactly where he had promised she would be. Maya watched them go, then turned to face the stage.
She walked to the edge of the curtain and looked out at the piano. It was a Steinway concert grand, the finest instrument money could buy, polished to a mirror shine under the stage lights. In a few moments, she would be sitting at that piano, playing for thousands of people.
The fear rose up in her chest, cold and tight. Her hands started to shake. Her breath came in short, rapid gasps.
This is too big, a voice in her head said. You are not ready. You are just a girl from Detroit who taught herself to play on a cardboard keyboard. You do not belong here.
Maya closed her eyes. She thought about what Dr. Holloway had told her: Go back to the place where the music lives. The place where your father taught you to play. She pictured their small apartment in China, the old piano in the corner, her father sitting beside her, his hands guiding hers over the keys. She could almost hear his voice: Do not think about the people watching. Think only about the music. Let the music speak for you.
Maya opened her eyes. The fear was still there, but it was quieter now, more distant.
She took the photograph of her father and walked onto the stage.
The audience fell silent as she appeared. Thousands of eyes turned toward her. Cameras flashed. People whispered to each other. Maya could see the front row now: could see her mother's face, tear-streaked but smiling; could see Dr. Holloway sitting beside her, his expression calm and confident.