“Because I wanted to.”
Enough.
Evelyn attended her high-school graduation.
Invited by Nia.
That surprised her.
They had not become intimate family friends.
They saw each other at foundation events.
Occasional lunches.
Evelyn sometimes attended performances.
Amaya sometimes sent her recordings with no explanation.
Once she sent:
This is bad. Do not compliment it.
Evelyn replied:
The middle drags.
Amaya responded:
RUDE.
Evelyn:
You gave instructions.
Amaya:
I RESCIND THEM.
Their relationship became possible only after neither treated the other as symbol.
At graduation, Evelyn sat behind the Reed family.
When Amaya crossed the stage, Nia screamed loudly enough to embarrass her daughter.
Marcus screamed louder.
Julian, now twenty-four, lifted a sign reading:
SHE STILL OWES ME $40.
Amaya nearly broke character laughing.
Afterward Evelyn gave her a small box.
Amaya immediately looked suspicious.
“You’re not supposed to buy me expensive things.”
“I know.”
Inside was a mechanical pencil.
Twenty dollars.
Amaya laughed.
“What is this?”
“For composition notes.”
“I use an iPad.”
“Of course you do.”
Evelyn sighed.
“Give it back.”
“No.”
Amaya held it.
“Thank you.”
No scholarship check.
No grand piano.
Good.
Evelyn had learned.
At college, Amaya encountered a new problem.
People knew the story.
Not the security story.
The gala story.
Ten-year-old genius.
Young Composer Award.
Standing ovation.
That version followed her.
Professors expected precocity.
Students assumed confidence.
When she struggled with counterpoint, she panicked.
A teacher named Dr. Priya Raman told her:
“You are not ten anymore.”
Amaya thought it was criticism.
Then Priya smiled.
“You are allowed to become a beginner again.”
That sentence changed her education.
She became obsessed with orchestration.
Then film scoring.
Then hated film scoring.
Then electronic music.
Then went back to piano.
Talent became less like destiny and more like work.
At twenty-one, she wrote a piece for orchestra and prepared piano titled “Open Door Policy.”
Rachel nearly choked when she saw the title.
“Is this about—”
“No.”
Amaya laughed.
“Not everything is about that night.”
“Good.”
It wasn’t.
The piece was about architecture.
Specifically doors that looked public but behaved private.
Not a metaphor originally.
Then maybe partly.
Art did that.
At twenty-three, Amaya graduated and spent two years teaching middle-school music while composing at night.
People were surprised.
“Why not perform full time?”
Because rent.
Because health insurance.
Because she liked teaching.
Because not every talented child needed to become a touring adult.
She lived in Hyde Park with a roommate who played bassoon badly after ten p.m.
She dated.