Amaya moved toward the upright piano.
“When the train leaves downtown, there’s a part where you can see buildings and then suddenly there’s more sky.”
She sat.
Played four measures.
Evelyn listened.
Amaya pointed.
“This is buildings.”
Then played another passage.
“This is when it opens.”
Evelyn stared.
“What are the high notes?”
“People looking out the windows.”
Marcus smiled.
“She changes that answer.”
Amaya turned.
“No, I don’t.”
“Last month they were lights.”
“People’s lights.”
“Convenient.”
Amaya rolled her eyes.
Evelyn laughed.
The sound surprised everyone.
The conversation lasted forty-five minutes.
No magical bonding.
Evelyn did not ask Amaya to forgive her.
Amaya did not.
Before leaving, Evelyn stood near the piano.
“May I ask you something?”
Amaya nodded.
“Why ‘The Quiet Between Trains’?”
The girl thought.
“Because after one train leaves, the next one isn’t there yet.”
“Yes.”
“And people think the important part is the trains.”
“But sometimes there’s a little quiet before the next one.”
Evelyn looked at her.
“That sounds like something an adult helped you say.”
Amaya grinned.
“Mr. Carter helped with the title.”
“Thought so.”
Amaya laughed.
Good.
Children were allowed to be children even while talented.
Evelyn left.
No hug.
No photograph.
No social-media post.
Better.
Amaya’s life did not transform after the gala.
That was important.
She did not become instantly famous.
No record contract.
No television appearance.
A local arts magazine wrote a small feature about the Young Composer Award, but Rachel made sure the security incident remained private because the Reed family requested it.
Amaya attended school Monday.
Her math homework was incomplete.
Her teacher did not care that she had received a standing ovation from four hundred adults.
She lost recess for missing two assignments.
Nia considered this justice.
Amaya disagreed.
She continued piano lessons.
Continued composing.
Also quit violin after six months because she hated holding it under her chin.
Leonard told her quitting one instrument was not moral failure.
She started percussion instead.
Then quit that too.
At eleven, she wrote a terrible piece involving hand claps and a metal mixing bowl.
Leonard kept the recording to humble her later.
Talent did not move in a straight line.
Neither did Evelyn.
For several months she became overly cautious around Black children at events.
That created a different kind of awkwardness.
She would begin conversations, overthink every sentence, then sound artificial.
Celeste Morgan noticed at a scholarship reception.
“You are terrifying that child.”
Evelyn looked toward a thirteen-year-old saxophonist who had just escaped their conversation.
“I was being nice.”
“You asked him four times whether he felt welcome.”
“I wanted him to.”
“He wanted cookies.”
Evelyn stared.
Celeste smiled.
“Stop turning every Black person into a test of your growth.”
Evelyn sighed.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Currently.”
Celeste took a cookie.
“Talk normally.”
“What is normally?”
“That is your problem.”
They laughed.