The Burning of the Palace at Versailles (or, Butterfly) [REWRITING]

Chapter 10 - One Bad Day

"Do you want me to go to one of the practice rooms?" he asked. Whenever the students needed to practice alone, the teacher would have them go to a private practice room to be alone with a keyboard, their music sheets, and their own nervousness. Angela looked at her watch. "Do what you'd like to do," she said. "I trust you."

And Colt knew with that statement that he couldn't let her down. He couldn't let any of them down. He took his sheet music off the stand and put it in his folder before standing. "Thank you, ma'am," he said and left the room. Colt closed the door behind him. The hallway with the practice room was dark. The building had once been a warehouse before Angela turned it into a music studio, and she thought the darkness added to a creative ambiance. Usually, Colt agreed with everything his mentor said. But now, Colt found the darkness strangling. He resisted the urge to turn around and walk out the door. But then he would have nowhere to go, and quitting wasn't something allowed in the Reyes family. He lowered his head— in what, defeat? Was he defeated? No. It was a bad day. That's all it was, a bad day. He took in a deep breath and listened to his heartbeat and began to walk. He times the beating of his steps to his heartbeat. It was a military thing, walking to a beat. In drills, there were songs the soldiers would sing to keep pace. At home, his father would whistle. But in the music studio, there was only loud, angry silence. After all, why should there be silence in a place where music happens?

As if inspired by Colt's thoughts, a voice sang out. It was a girl's voice, the voice of a girl who has reached adolescence. She was in one of the rooms, Colt didn't know which one. She was singing in Italian, a language Colt had always found beautiful even if he couldn't understand it.

Colt was so entranced by the music as he walked that he didn't realize the figure coming down the hallway toward him as his pace of walking changed. He only realized someone else was there when they crashed into one another. Colt jumped back, startled.

It was a man, a little taller than Colt himself, which was surprising and unusual. He was also much older, so Colt dropped his gaze to the floor out of respect. Other than that and the dark hoodie the man was wearing, Colt couldn't make out much of his appearance. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. His face was burning with embarrassment. He hoped the darkness hid his blush.

The man cleared his throat. He had been startled, too. "It's all right, son," the man said. His voice suggested middle age, which was unusual for the music studio. Maybe he was a parent of a student. The man gave Colt a once-over. Colt kept his eyes lowered. "No harm done." The man continued on his way down the hallway to the exit.

Colt waited until the exit door opened and closed shut until he got to his practice room, this time not keeping any sort of beat at all.

The days until the recital were a rush and a blur. Colt lied to his teachers and skipped three classes to go and practice his pieces. His parents would be furious if they ever found out. It turned out that lesson had been just a bad day. He could play fine the next day, the piece coming to him easily, as it should when one has been playing a piece for over a year. So yes, it was one bad day in a pool of many good days. But, as Angela pointed out while they were getting ready for the recital: "I think the problem is your confidence."

Colt swallowed heavily at that. The suit he was wearing was tight around his throat, and he was worried his cold sweat was already seeping through. "What do you mean?"

"Colt," she said with a sigh. "I've known you a long time." That was true. Colt's father had been stationed in Colorado when Colt was six years old, and he had been attending her school since then.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"And yet, I can't remember a time when you've ever had confidence in your abilities. You're my best student, but you're so humble you think you're the worst."

Colt wasn't so sure he thought that. He never compared himself to his classmates. It was never a game of comparison for him; never a point of contention. There was no use in having a competition between any of them. Reality wasn't Colt against the world. He wasn't fighting against anything— an odd position for a soldier to be in, probably, but true. He wasn't the best or the worst student. He was just him. Just Colt. And sometimes he was enough. Sometimes he wasn't.

Colt played the pieces perfectly at the recital. People clapped for him when he went to the piano, and they clapped even harder when he finished and bowed. His family looked happy. His mother took pictures. He closed his eyes when his classmates played, choosing to only listen to them instead of watching them. That was perfect. That was the vision.

Afterward, when people were standing, putting their programs into their purses, and reviewing their home videos on their cameras, Colt's parents said they wanted to speak to Angela. Their eyes were shining. It was a beautiful sight, he thought, how proud they were at that moment. He wanted them to stay like that forever. If they could stay right there, in that old warehouse that was turned into a music studio, what could he do? Bring pride to his parents forever? Yes, probably. He watched his parents walk away to Angela, who was wearing a white dress that shimmered with every movement. Colt's fingers began to tingle, a small electric shock that made its way up and down his arms. He wanted to play. He had to go play. He checked to make sure no one was watching him and he slipped out of the room with a small family with a little boy who had played the violin. The itching in his fingers continued, desperate. He needed a keyboard.

The lights had been turned on in the hallway for once, lighting up even the corners. Colt went to each of the practice rooms, turning the doorknob to see if it was unlocked. The first door was locked, as was the second. However, the third door opened with a quick squeak, and the lights were on. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his giddiness contained. He went in, shutting the door behind him and locking it.

But he wasn't alone.

A figure was hunched over the piano, fingers casually and clumsily pressing down the ivory keys. He turned and looked at Colt. With a shock, Colt recognized the man from the other day, the one he had run into.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Colt knew he should excuse himself for the intrusion and leave. But there was something cold in the man's eyes, something that kept him paralyzed and standing there in that small room with one light over the piano.

"Hello," the man said.

Colt didn't remember what happened next. But he could take a guess.