Dr. Helen Chen had published her review on the National Music Review's website. Maya found it and read through it with growing disbelief. The critic had written about her performance with the kind of praise usually reserved for established virtuosos. She'd compared Maya's interpretation to famous recordings, discussed her technical precision, analyzed her emotional depth. She'd ended the review with: "Maya Torres is a name the classical music world should remember. Her story is a testament to the fact that genius doesn't require ideal circumstances to exist, only the chance to express itself."
Three days after the video went viral, Maya sat in a coffee shop three blocks from her apartment wearing sunglasses indoors like some kind of celebrity trying to hide. It felt ridiculous, but twice that morning, people had recognized her on the street. One had asked for a photo. Another had simply stared with wide eyes, whispering to their friend. Maya had never felt more exposed in her life.
Her phone, which she'd finally turned back on, sat on the table in front of her. The notifications had slowed down somewhat, but they hadn't stopped. She'd created a new email address just for professional inquiries, and already it had over 300 messages: talent agencies, record labels, event planners, universities wanting her to speak, companies wanting her to endorse their pianos or music software, even a few movie producers asking about the rights to her life story.
Her life story. She was 24 years old, and people wanted to make movies about her life.
The meeting she was about to have was with three people: James Woo, the concert promoter who'd been calling her daily; Angela Price, a talent agent from one of the biggest agencies in the country; and surprisingly, Dr. Martinez, the dean from the Riverside Conservatory of Music, her former school.
They arrived within minutes of each other, creating an awkward moment where they all tried to figure out the seating arrangements. James pulled out Maya's chair like they were at a fancy dinner. Angela immediately started organizing business cards and papers. Dr. Martinez, an older woman with kind eyes and silver hair, simply reached across the table and squeezed Maya's hand.
"It's good to see you again, Maya," she said, "though I wish it had been under different circumstances."
"You mean circumstances where I wasn't humiliated on camera for millions of people to see?" Maya tried to make it sound like a joke, but the bitterness came through anyway.
"I mean circumstances where you'd never left us in the first place," Dr. Martinez said gently. "But we'll get to that."
James jumped in first, his energy filling the small coffee shop. "Maya, I've put together a proposal for the next 6 months: three major concert hall performances, starting with the Riverside Symphony Hall next month; guest appearances on two morning shows and one late-night show; a profile in Time magazine—they've already reached out; and a potential recording contract with Commonwealth Classical, pending your live performances."
He slid a folder across the table. Maya opened it to find a detailed schedule—dates and venues and dollar amounts that made her head spin. The money alone was more than she'd make in 3 years at the Grand View estate.