She zipped it back up. Across the room, Madison whispered something to the boy next to her. They both glanced at Amara, then looked away quickly. A man in an expensive suit entered the lounge. Madison's father.
He carried two Starbucks cups and handed one to his daughter. "Thanks, Daddy." Madison took a sip, then frowned. "Why is she here?" Her father followed her gaze. When he saw Amara, his expression didn't change much, just a small tightening around his mouth. He leaned down and said something too quiet for Amara to hear.
But Amara had gotten good at reading lips. She's here to show contrast, sweetie, so people like you shine brighter. Madison nodded slowly like that made perfect sense. Amara's jaw tightened. She looked down at her guitar case, running her finger along the duct tape patch near the handle.
Her grandmother's voice came back to her, clear as if she were sitting right beside her. When they try to shrink you, baby, you grow twice as big. Amara closed her eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet. Not yet.
The noise of the lounge faded. Amara wasn't in that cold, bright room anymore. She was 10 years old, sitting on a piano bench that was too tall for her feet to touch the ground. The apartment in Harlem was small one-bedroom, a kitchen where the faucet dripped no matter how tight you turned it, and a living room barely big enough for the upright piano her grandmother refused to get rid of. "Again," Loretta Hayes said.
Amara's small fingers found the keys. She played the opening of Amazing Grace, but her grandmother stopped her after four bars. You're playing the notes. I need you to play the song. Loretta sat down beside her, her hands weathered strong, always warm, covering Amara's.
Music isn't just sound, baby. It's a language. And like any language, it can say things words can't. "Like what?" "Like I'm here. Like I matter.
Like you can't erase me." Loretta pressed down on middle C, letting it ring. Our people used music to survive things that should have killed us. slave songs, spirituals, gospel, blues. Every note was a weapon. Amara looked up at her grandmother. "Against what?" "Against anyone who tries to make you small.
The memory shifted. Now Amara was 12. Her grandmother stood at the stove stirring a pot of soup that smelled like heaven. The kitchen light was warm and yellow. Grandma H.
Why didn't you ever get famous? You're better than people on the radio. Loretta laughed softly. Fame isn't the same as success, baby. But you went to Juilliard.
You told me that's like the best music school in the world. It is. So why didn't you? I did what mattered. Loretta turned from the stove wooden spoon still in her hand.