Note to reader: I drew on my own performing experiences along with those of thirty years of teaching piano students to create this tongue-in-cheek piece about a fictional boy playing in a fictional annual piano recital.
How to Perform in a Piano Recital
First, make believe you’re asleep when your mother comes to wake you, pulling the blanket over your head to disappear. That way you can pretend it’s not the first Sunday of June, and the annual piano recital isn’t going to happen.
After your mother drags you toward the shower, sit at the breakfast table and keep your gaze longingly out the window watching Bobby next door as he runs around the yard with this dog Baxter, laughing as he throws him sticks to fetch, which Baxter never returns, instead just lies down to chew, holding the stick up in the air like it’s a prize to be admired.
Don’t each much breakfast, just push your food around on the plate, even if it’s your favorite French toast, which you know your mom has made special, for you. Don’t look her in the eye. Mumble, “I’m not hungry,” when she asks what’s wrong, and touch your tummy. Ignore the look that passes between your parents, knowing their little smile means they’re thinking you have recital nerves.
After breakfast, turn on the TV. Protest when your father turns it off and points to the black beast waiting in the corner. Sit at the keys and noodle, pretending you can’t remember where Middle C is, until your mother, holding back an exasperated sigh, walks over and places three pieces of music on the piano in the order you’ll be playing them: “Soldier’s March,” “Swans on a Lake,” and “Bumblebee Boogie.”
Play through each piece once, in a hurry, skipping over mistakes. Ignore your father’s cleared throat, finish the run-through, and scoot off the bench. When your father closes the newspaper and calls you back, telling you to play through each piece slowly, oblige him with great drama by playing ridiculously slow with space between each note. Be rewarded with his smile. “Much better,” he says.
An hour before you have to leave, let your mother find you sprawled on your bed with your Lego mechanics shop disassembled. When she pulls out your recital clothes—a new white polo shirt, khaki pants, and penny loafers—make a face behind her back. Get dressed quickly and skip brushing your teeth. When she sends you back to the bathroom, stick your tongue out in the mirror, spraying toothpaste on its surface.
In the car, ignore your dry mouth and scratch at the tag at the back of your neck on your new shirt. Put the music on the seat next to you so your sweaty fingers don’t smudge the notes. You’ll need them to be clear. Don’t say anything to your parents as your stare out the window and think about the table full of desserts in the church hall afterward. Pretend your stomach isn’t growling.
At the church, make a big deal of not being able to get your seatbelt unfastened and let your father lean in to help you, inhaling the smell of his aftershave and studying his smooth, brown hair, just like yours. Shrug away from your mom’s hands as she smooths your collar and neatens your tucked-in shirt. Run off to talk to Scott, the only other boy playing today.
In your seat, squirm as you listen to the students before you. Feel like you’re going to throw up as you listen to the audience loudly applaud prissy Melinda’s performance of “The Entertainer.” Realize you’re next. Give your mother a deadly look as you stand up, promising yourself you will finally insist on no more piano lessons next fall. You will have a tantrum, throw your body on the floor and kick your legs, before the first lesson in September with Mrs. Huntington. See the whole scene in your mind as you approach the piano. Duck your head to hide your secret smile.
Give Mrs. Huntington, standing at an even larger black beast than the one at home, a weak smile and let your eyes slide away from her as you sit down and arrange your music. When your pages fall to the floor, ignore the friendly, quiet laughter of the parents and the snickers from the kids as your face burns.
Begin playing your first piece. Notice how different these smooth keys feel compared to the ivory ones at home, the ones with the cracks and a surface keeps your fingers on the keys. Your fingers seem to slide off these keys faster than you can control them for “Soldier’s March,” making the children playing soldier sound like they’re running, not marching. When you finish, have no memory of what you just played. Listen to the first measures of “Swans on a Lake” and notice the missed notes that turn the happy, gliding avians into battling birds.
Take a deep breath before the last piece, “Bumblebee Boogie,” the only one you like even a little bit. Be glad you’re almost done. Be surprised at how your fingers seem to know exactly what to do, how your left hand sounds solid and confident, and how your right hand is joining in at the right time. Look down at your hands and for a moment have the sensation of watching someone else’s hands. Think, that kid sounds good.
When finished, grab your music off the piano, forget the bow, practiced a bazillion times with Mrs. Huntington, and run back to your seat through the wave of sound that surrounds you. See your father and mother smile and hear their congratulations. Notice the special look in your mother’s eyes, feel your father’s hand on your shoulder, and hear his “Well done, son.” Let the heat in your face drain as you sneak glances at the other kids still waiting to go.
Imagine the moist brownies on the dessert table and how good they’ll taste. Think about what piece you’ll play next year.
