The digital piano arrived on a rainy Thursday in two enormous boxes carried by a delivery driver who looked relieved when Sarah confirmed they did not live on the third floor. Mrs. Alvarez came over to supervise assembly even though the instructions were clear. The dining table moved against the far wall.
The bookcase went into Eli’s bedroom. By seven-thirty that evening, eighty-eight weighted keys stood where a mismatched lamp and basket of mail had been for years. Eli sat down but did not play immediately. He touched middle C with one finger as if confirming the instrument would answer him.
Then he played a scale. Then another. Then a chord progression he had learned when he was seven. Sarah leaned against the kitchen doorway while Mrs.
Alvarez pretended to inspect the sustain pedal so nobody had to acknowledge the tears in her eyes. “Headphones after nine,” Sarah said finally. Eli grinned. “I know.”
“Schoolwork before practice if you have assignments.” “I know.” “And you are not playing six hours a day because you suddenly have access.” Mrs.
Alvarez pointed at him. “Listen to your mother. For once.” The fellowship began in January.
Eli’s teacher was Daniel Cho, a thirty-nine-year-old pianist who performed chamber music professionally and taught three days a week at Hartwell. He had a calm face, precise hands, and none of Mrs. Alvarez’s theatrical threats, which initially made Eli unsure whether he was being corrected strongly enough. Daniel’s teaching style was quieter and more forensic.
He could listen to four measures and identify exactly where Eli’s left thumb had become tense. During the first lesson, Daniel asked him to play a C-major scale. Eli did. Daniel asked him to play it again slower.