But something was wrong. Maya could feel the eyes of the judges on her. She could feel their doubt. The older woman was writing something on a piece of paper. The younger woman was looking at her phone under the table. And Dr. Holloway, the man with the stern face, was leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. He was not listening. Not really.
Maya tried to focus on the music. She tried to remember her father's words: "Let the music speak for you." But it was hard. The grand piano felt strange under her fingers. It was so different from the old piano at the church: the keys were smoother; the sound was richer. She was not used to it.
She made a small mistake. Her finger hit a wrong note. It was tiny, barely noticeable.
But Dr. Holloway noticed.
"Stop," he said.
The word cut through the music like a knife. Maya's hands froze over the keys. She looked up at the judges' table. Dr. Holloway was holding up one hand, his face showing no emotion.
"That is enough," he said. "Thank you."
Maya did not understand. She had only played for about thirty seconds; the piece was not even close to finished.
"I am sorry—" she said.
"I said that is enough," Dr. Holloway repeated. "We have heard what we need to hear."
The older woman next to him looked uncomfortable. She leaned over and whispered something to him, but Dr. Holloway shook his head.
"Miss Chen," he said, looking at his notes. "Where did you study?"
"I taught myself," Maya said. "Mostly."