"Mostly?" Dr. Holloway raised one eyebrow.
"My father gave me lessons when I was young. But he passed away three years ago. Since then, I have studied on my own."
Dr. Holloway made a sound that was almost like a laugh, but not a kind one. "I see," he said. "And where do you practice?"
"At a church. They let me use their piano on Sundays."
"On Sundays?" Dr. Holloway repeated. "Once a week?"
"Yes."
Dr. Holloway looked at the other judges. He shook his head slowly.
"Miss Chen," he said. "This academy is one of the finest music schools in the world. Our students practice for many hours every single day. They have studied with the best teachers. They have performed in concerts and competitions. They have dedicated their entire lives to their art." He paused and looked directly at Maya. "What you are doing is admirable, I suppose. Teaching yourself with books and videos, practicing once a week at a church... but this is not a place for street performers or hobbyists. This is a serious institution. The level of skill required here is far beyond what you have shown us today."
Maya felt her face grow hot. Her hands were shaking slightly. She wanted to say something, to defend herself, but the words would not come.
"My advice to you," Dr. Holloway continued, "is to find something more suitable for your level. Perhaps a community choir. Or maybe some local group that performs at events. Something simple. Something you can handle."
The younger woman judge looked away; she seemed embarrassed. The older woman was staring at the table, saying nothing.
Maya sat at the piano, frozen. She had expected that getting into this school would be difficult. She had expected to face tough judges and hard questions. But she had not expected this: she had not expected to be dismissed after thirty seconds; she had not expected to be told that she was not good enough to even try.
A voice inside her said: Stand up. Walk away. Accept it. Go home and forget about this place.