There were days the grief arrived sideways. A woman on the bus wore Imani's shade of lipstick and Aaliyah missed the stop for the center and had to walk back, furious at herself. A television in a store window played a piano in a movie, glossy and unreal, and Aaliyah felt both hunger and scorn, which was confusing, so she stood on the sidewalk until the scorn and the hunger agreed to walk her home. At night she sometimes dreamed the duplex wall with the pale rectangle filling back in, the wood returning, and woke up angry that dreams were allowed to make promises mornings had to break.
Miss Anita did not indulge the dreams and did not mock them. Once, when Aaliyah's hands shook and the gray song went soggy with feeling, she closed the book.
"Water," she said. "Then tell me, in a sentence, what you were trying to make me feel."
"That I miss her."
"I already know that. The whole basement knows that. It is not news. News would be you playing the rhythm she wrote in pencil even while you miss her. Can you do a smaller, braver thing?"
"I can try."
"Trying is the right size. Playing perfectly so I'll pity you is the wrong size. Again from measure nine. Slower. And unclench your jaw. The jaw is not a finger. It does not get a part."