"I said, fine. I'll play."
Maya's voice was stronger this time, though it still trembled slightly.
Applause broke out, but it wasn't the respectful applause given to performers. It was the amused applause people give to something they find entertaining in an unexpected way, like when a child tries to do something grown-up—patronizing and belittling.
Maya set down the tray she'd been holding and began walking toward the piano. Each step felt like she was walking through mud. The distance from where she stood to the piano couldn't have been more than 30 feet, but it felt like miles. Every eye in the room was on her. She could hear whispers, giggles, the clink of glasses as people settled in to watch the show.
"This should be interesting," she heard someone say.
"I hope she knows more than chopsticks," another voice joked, followed by laughter.
As she approached the piano, Maya's mind was racing. Part of her was screaming to turn around and walk out with whatever dignity she had left. But another part, a part she'd tried to bury for 2 years, was stirring to life. That part remembered what it felt like to sit at a piano and lose herself in the music. That part remembered the power of a perfect performance, the thrill of hitting every note exactly right, the way a difficult passage could send electricity through your entire body when you finally mastered it.
She reached the piano bench and stood there for a moment, her hand resting on the polished wood. The Steinway grand piano was beautiful, the kind of instrument she used to dream about owning. Its black surface gleamed under the lights, perfectly maintained, tuned to perfection. She could see her reflection in its polished surface, and for a moment she barely recognized herself.
Behind her, someone called out, "Play 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'!"
The comment was met with roaring laughter. Others joined in with their own suggestions, each more mocking than the last.
"How about 'Happy Birthday'?"