He opened the program from the recital check-in table and found his name. Hers was two places below it. Beside the title was the composer’s name in smaller print.
Cécile Chaminade — Mélancolie
Mélancolie. He read it again. He had never heard the title before. But he knew the piece immediately.
It was the one he heard through the studio door every week.
“What’re you looking at?”
A boy from the same studio came up behind him. He closed the program.
“The order.”
“You’re still a while away.”
“Yeah.”
The boy ran a finger down the program until he found his own name, then wandered off toward some other students. He opened the program again. Mélancolie. He mouthed the word quietly.
After his own performance, he sat near the back of the auditorium. The teacher had told everyone to stay until the end. Several students played. Applause rose after each piece.
Then her name was announced. She walked out from the side of the stage. Her hair looked the way it usually did, except for a red ribbon pinned to one side. She bowed once to the audience and sat at the piano.
He knew the piece from the first note. It sounded slower here than it did in the studio. When she reached the passage the teacher always made her repeat, he sat up a little straighter. She didn’t stop.
The last note faded before the applause began. She stood and bowed. The red ribbon moved with her. By the time the recital ended, the lobby near the entrance was crowded.
Some students left with their families. Others were taking pictures with the teacher. He picked up his bag and stepped outside. She was a little way ahead, talking with another girl from the studio.
The boy who had spoken to him earlier was there too.
“You going toward the station?” the boy asked him.
“Yeah.”
“Then we’re all going the same way.”
The other girl looked at her.
“You too?”
“For part of it.”
The four of them started walking. He walked beside the other boy. She was slightly ahead with the girl. They seemed to be talking about school.
He couldn’t make out the words. At the light, all four of them stopped side by side. He looked over. She was still wearing the red ribbon.
The light changed. They started walking again.
“Hey.”
His voice came out louder than he meant it to. She turned.
“Yeah?”
“The piece you played today.”
“Oh.”
“So that’s called Mélancolie.”
“You didn’t know?”
“I knew the piece. I’ve heard you play it a bunch of times at the studio.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I just saw the title for the first time today.”
“Chaminade.”
“Yeah. I saw it in the program.”
The two ahead of them got farther away. She didn’t speed up.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah.”
This time she answered right away.
“My mom liked it.”
He looked at her.
“Did she play piano too?”
“No. She used to play the recording at home all the time.”
“Oh.”
“She listened to the same CD over and over. I ended up memorizing it, so I asked my teacher if I could play it.”
“Is it hard?”
“At first I thought it wasn’t. Then I tried actually playing it.”
“Your teacher always stopped you in the same place.”
She looked at him.
“You were listening?”
“I’m always sitting there waiting.”
“She kept fixing that part.”
“You didn’t stop today.”
“I couldn’t exactly stop in the middle of the recital.”
The other two were waiting for them at the corner. When they caught up, the four of them walked together again. The girl beside her almost touched the ribbon, then pulled her hand back.
“I’ve never seen that before.”
“This?”
She touched it herself.
“It was my mom’s.”
“Did you borrow it?”
She shook her head.
“She doesn’t use it anymore.”
The girl went quiet for a second.
“Oh.”
They kept walking. He stayed beside her.
“It was your mom’s?”
“Yeah.”
She kept her eyes ahead.
“She used to wear it a lot. She died when I was in middle school.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
“It was a while ago.”
She touched the ribbon again.
“I thought she might like it if I wore it today.”
The boy ahead turned around.
“This way, right?”
“Yeah.”
They turned the corner together. Near the station, the other girl left first. The other boy headed in a different direction. She pointed toward the street across from them.
“I’m this way.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“No tutoring today?”
The second the words were out, he wished he hadn’t said them. She looked up at him.
“Did your teacher tell you?”
“Before. She said you always have to leave fast.”
“Oh.”
She smiled.
“She tells everybody everything.”
“I took today off.”
“Because of the recital?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to have to run somewhere afterward.”
She stepped back.
“See you.”
“Yeah.”
“Later.”
“Later.”
She started walking. After a few steps, he called after her.
“Your ribbon.”
She turned.
“What?”
“It looked good.”
She smiled.
“Thanks.”
She lifted one hand and kept walking down the other side of the street. He watched her go, then headed the other way. The folded recital program was still in his bag.