Mayday by Jonathan Friesen Page A

piece.
    The recital hall inside St. Vincent’s Church was enormous. Surrounded by stained glass and with benches to seat thousands, I felt small and out of place. Thirty beginning-piano students and their families huddled on the first few pews, staring at the large Steinway in the hall’s center.
    Mom and Dad were there, and I remember the prerecital moments well. Mom worked the crowd, plastering on the smile I saw only outside our house. Dad sat quietly at my side.
    â€œAre you nervous, Coraline?”
    I pressed into his shoulder and looked up into his face. His eyes were soft. “I think I would be, too. This is a really big room, and there are a lot of strangers here. But I believe in you.”
    The recital began. I was the second-to-last performer, which meant my anxiety had twenty-eight songs to germinate, take root, and grow. During that time, Dolly Harper and Jon Testman nailed Mary’s lamb. Spot on. Not a mistake.
    â€œAnd now.” My teacher rose and yawned. “May I introduce Coraline Raine, playing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’”
    Obligatory clapping began, and I glanced at my parents. Mom pursed her lips, Dad smiled, and I slid off the end of the pew, marched toward the Steinway.
    â€œDead girl walking!”
    No, I didn’t actually hear that, but I felt it and every gaze that bored a hole in my back. I reached the piano, plopped onto the bench, and tried to breath.
    Start. Start.
    My legs swung so hard they kicked the piano.
    â€œCrow!” Mom hissed from the audience. “Sit still and play.”
    I peeked around the big hall. I peeked at my piano teacher, shifting in her seat. I peeked at Mom, and her clenched teeth, and her closed eyes. Finally, I peeked at Dad, at his gentle face. I lifted my hands, placed them on the keys, and played.
    Seven notes.
    Blank. I went blank. As my last note faded into silence, I started to rock. My eyes stung, and I started again.
    â€œMary Had a Little Lamb . . .”
    I slowly bowed my head and closed my eyes. I couldn’t move. I was dying in front of everyone. And it was no small death.
    Then: arms. They rounded my shoulder. I opened my eyes as Dad played a lovely introduction to my song. He paused and whispered, “I hate recitals. Will you play with me?”
    I relaxed, and together we played it right through. No mistakes. The crowd thundered in applause.
    â€œI love you, Dad.”
    â€œI love you, too.”
    He left us the next morning.
    I stared out that bus window, at Shane’s faint reflection. It was true, my classmates wanted to see Jasmine dead, but they didn’t know Death like I did. It’s one thing to get all excited about it in the abstract. Quite another to see it real. There’s a hideous silence to Death. It’s not loud, or video-game exciting. It’s quiet and weighty, and it steals your words.
    Like the silence immediately following a car crash. Like the silence of a botched piano recital.
    Sarcastic laughter floated back from the girls in front of me, and I slumped in my seat. Not two days into my walkabout, and already I had added attempted murder to Crow’s world. Not exactly my goal.
    â€œIs this seat taken?”
    I peeked up at Addy.
    â€œNo. Please, sit.”
    She eased herself down. “I saw you get off with Crow this morning.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI haven’t seen you before.” Her eyes were large and welcoming.
    I’d been waiting so long for this chance, and now, alone with Addy, I had nothing to say.
    â€œYou know,” Addy said, “she’s really great.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œCrow.” Addy folded her hands. “My teacher told me what happened today, and, well, I just don’t want you to get freaked out about it. She’s such a great sister; she’s my sister, you know. And she doesn’t have too many friends. I’d hate to see her lose one she just met.”
    I blinked, unbelieving.