The stage hers, the audience hers, the narrative hers to control. You see, there's a reason conservatories exist. A reason we spend years, decades studying. It's not elitism. It's excellence.
It's maintaining standards in an art form that requires not just talent, but education, cultural literacy, historical context, nods from the audience, murmurs of agreement. These were people who believed in hierarchies, in earned privilege, in the idea that success came from merit, not accidents of birth. Someone who learns by ear, Victoria continued, might be able to reproduce melodies. They might have a good ear for pitch, but do they understand harmonic structure? Do they understand why Rachmaninoff wrote the prelude in C minor the way he did?
The depression he was fighting, the critics he was answering. Can they understand Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody without knowing the history of the Roma people? Without understanding the political context? She turned to Yale. Do you even know what a rhapsody is?
The form, the tradition. Yale knew. His father had taught him. Late nights explaining as he played. The way jazz and classical weren't so different.
Both conversations, both ways of saying something true. But Yale didn't answer. Just sat. Just waited. Of course you don't, Victoria concluded.
And that's not your fault. You're 16. You're from a neighborhood that doesn't have access to these resources. You probably went to underfunded public schools. You're doing the best you can with what you have.
The patronizing tone, the assumption, the way she spoke about him like he wasn't there, like he couldn't hear every coded word. How old did you say he was? Someone asked. 16, Victoria repeated. And already convinced he belongs on the same stage as trained professionals.
"It is actually quite sad. Someone should have been honest with him earlier, before he wasted years chasing something impossible." Sophie Mitchell tried again. This doesn't seem Victoria's look. Cold. Final.
Sophie sat back. Complicit through silence. Yale's breathing stayed controlled. Meditative. The way Bill taught him.
When the world gets loud, you get quiet. When they push, you root. When they try to make you small, you remember who you are. A memory. His mother's voice.
Warm, Southern, and real. "Baby, you do not have to prove anything to anybody. But if you choose to make it count, take it all."
Victoria went on. "Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit is one of the most technically demanding works in the repertoire. Could you play it by ear? Even if you heard it enough times, could you understand its symbolism, the poetry behind it, and the Romantic tradition from which it emerged? No. Understanding requires an education you have not had and may never be able to access." The twist of the knife dressed up as concern, as honest assessment, as truthtelling. These instruments, she gestured to the Steinway, cost more than most cars. They require years of training to play properly.
They're not toys. They're not for experimenting. They're serious instruments for serious musicians from serious backgrounds. Yale's left hand moved slightly, finding the bass notes, muscle memory, the low E, the F, the G, his father's territory, the foundation. Yes.