Mr. Rodriguez sat down behind his desk, but he didn’t look stern or angry. He looked curious, maybe even concerned.
“Lily,” he began gently, “you’re not in any trouble. I want you to know that right away. I asked you here because what I heard in that classroom was truly remarkable. I’ve been a principal for 20 years, and I’ve never heard a student play like that.”
Lily didn’t know what to say, so she stayed quiet.
“Can you tell me where you learned to play?” he asked.
Lily looked down at her hands. They were the hands that had just played Chopin. Small hands, worn hands, hands that used to be smoother back when she could practice every day.
“My mom taught me,” she said softly.
“Your mother must be a wonderful teacher,” Mr. Rodriguez said warmly.
Lily’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked hard, trying to keep them from falling.
“She was.”
The word hung in the air between them. Was. Past tense.
Mr. Rodriguez understood immediately, and his expression shifted to one of deep sympathy.