CHAPTER 9

From the Lighthouse Window

Everyone hits a couple of wrong notes; keep playing your

song.

My parents made me take piano lessons when I was young. It wasn’t a

discussion. They said it would be good for me—kind of like spinach for
my fingers. Once a week, an ancient woman in a pastel cardigan would sit
next to me at the piano with perfect posture, looking over my shoulder as
I fumbled over the keys. She always seemed to be wearing a frown, as if
it was tattooed on her face. Every sour note was made worse by her
scowls, grimaces, and disapproving grunts. Sometimes I would miss
notes on purpose, just to see her wrinkled face fold up like origami.
After six months of practicing, it was time for my first recital. There
would be two of us playing that night: Greg and me. Greg went to my
elementary school and had the same stuffy piano teacher I had. We were
going to play the same tune. Even though I had been practicing for much
longer, I knew he’d end up playing the song better. Greg was the kind of
kid who was good at everything. He was the most talented and confident
guy at the elementary school and somehow commanded a room when he
entered it. He played sports, did math, gave speeches, traded corn futures,
rebuilt engines—and he was only nine.
Greg arrived at the recital in a tux with monogrammed sleeves and a
creased handkerchief in his pocket. He sat up straight at the piano, flipped
his tails behind him, and elegantly played a song called “From the
Lighthouse Window.” He played so flawlessly I thought he must be the
magical offspring of Beethoven and Elton John. His fingers were