(Revised) Keeping A Straight Face | ✏️

Chapter 1

Taylor's POV

As I play the wrong note for the seventh time in a row, I wonder if smashing my head on the piano would be an acceptable concert piece. Surely, I could twist my tutor's arm and say it's abstract or some other bullshit? A reflection of the state of the world, or something?

Groaning, I force myself to try again. At this point, I don't even look at the music sheet in front of me — the notes are burned into the back of my eyelids, visible like the black spots in your vision after looking at a light for too long. Come on, Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran shouldn't be this hard. You've learned easier songs.

Just like the previous seven times, my finger presses on the wrong key, sending an out-of-place note into the air of the theatre room. The thought of tearing the pages up and slamming the piano cover on my fingers crosses my mind. What do I need fingers for, anyway? If I can't play this, then I'm clearly not as gifted as everyone else says I am.

Nope. Not going down that mental path. Come on, find something else. I can see Mindy's disapproving face expression from her stupid therapist chair, looking down on me with her stupid librarian-looking glasses. 'Remind yourself that you're worthy. If you focus on the bad, you're only going to see the bad.'

I fold the music sheet and put it away in my bag. The stagelights of the theatre catch on my analogue watch. I check the time. Where the hell is Darko?

Whatever, he's probably just running late.

Flicking through my notes, I look for something that I can actually play. My hand freezes as I find a scrunched-up piece. It slips out of the plastic sleeve with ease, despite it looking like it would tear at the slightest touch.

I thought I threw this away.

Placing the parchment on the wooden lectern in front of me, I smile, hearing the hand-written tune play in my head. There's a wonky bar line at the beginning, some notes fill out more space on the lines than they should, and the treble clef looks more like an ampersand, but I still understand what my high-school self was trying to write. Note to self — your handwriting still looks this bad and you need to work on it.

Mindy, you're about to be so proud of me.

With a soft crack in my knuckles, I place the pads of my fingers on the instrument's worn-down keys. I adjust myself on the backless leather stool I'm sitting on and assume the position. Eyes on the parchment, I take a small breath.

My hands move together like ballroom dancers, my fingers tapping the black and white slabs in perfect sequence. They stretch apart as they fly from key to key, the blends of bass and treble notes enveloping me like a toasty, unexpected but welcome hug. A familiar warmth runs down my spine; right here, right now, there is nothing else in the world except me and this grand piano.

Instinctively, my throat starts to hum the notes of the lyrics written underneath the notes. My fingers pick up in tempo. I shut my eyes and start to sing.

Before I can belt out a whole line, the door to the theatre swings open. My voice and fingers halt as familiar-sounding footsteps make their way toward me.

"Hey," Darko says, a smile on his lips. Christ, about time.

Walking towards me through the aisle of chairs dominating the theatre, he holds the top of his backpack by his side, the adjustment straps dragging along the velvet-red carpet floor. I arch an eyebrow as he disappears backstage, before quickly reappearing with a chair in tow at the stage entrance.

"Glad you've decided to grace me with your presence. Anything either made of or covered in carbs in that backpack of yours?"

Chuckling, he pats his backpack, a sly grin forming at the corner of his mouth. "Am I stupid? Of course there is. Chocolate or chips?"