Chapter 16: The Week Before
The last week before the showcase began on a rainy Monday morning, with coffee warming the small apartment and a plan taped to the fridge. Ayana Brooks had written it in pencil on the back of an old envelope: practice, rest, appointments, sleep. Her grandmother, Evelyn Brooks, buttered toast at the table with the careful focus of someone who refused to be rushed, while buses sighed past outside and a neighbour's radio drifted up through the floorboards.
"You look like you're planning a battle," Evelyn said, sliding a plate toward her.
"I'm planning not to panic," Ayana answered, smiling. "There's a difference, I hope."
"There is," Evelyn said, laughing. "A battle is loud. A plan is quiet. You have always been better at quiet."
At the community college practice room, Dr. Celia Foster met Ayana with a nod, not a speech. She understood what this week was for. It was not for learning something new. It was for making what Ayana already knew steady enough to hold under bright lights, in front of strangers, with her heart beating too fast.
They worked in shorter sessions than before. Celia set a timer, and when it rang, Ayana put the bow down, even when she wanted one more run through the opening of "Song for Evelyn." Rest, Celia said, was part of playing. A tired hand gripped too hard, and a tired mind chased the notes instead of letting them arrive. So Ayana practised the opening until it felt like breathing, then stopped, and then watched the rain at the window for ten minutes, doing nothing at all.
"It feels strange," she admitted, rubbing her left wrist. "Like I'm leaving something unfinished."
"You are leaving room," Celia said. "The music needs room. So do you."
On Tuesday afternoon, Ayana went with Evelyn to a pre-operation appointment. The waiting room was bright, with a fish tank bubbling in the corner. Evelyn sat straight, her handbag on her lap, answering the nurse's questions in a clear voice. Ayana held the folder of forms and tried not to read worry into every word. Evelyn asked practical questions: how long, what to bring, when she could go home. She did not apologise for needing help.
On the bus home, Evelyn leaned back and closed her eyes. "Well, they were kind. That's something."
"And you were very bossy in the best way," Ayana said.
"I prefer thorough," Evelyn said, and they laughed quietly together.
On Wednesday, Jalen Ortiz brought soup from the coffee shop where he worked, and Mrs. Delia Grant arrived with cornbread, as if the apartment had sent out a silent invitation. The kitchen filled with steam and talk. Ayana told them plainly what she knew: The Monarchs would play, and then she would walk onstage alone. Delia nodded as if this were the most sensible plan in the world.
"You eat properly this week," Delia said, pointing a spoon at Ayana. "No skipping supper because you were practising."
"I will," Ayana promised. "Celia has me on a schedule. Practice, rest, food, sleep."
That night, Ayana learned the harder part of the week: protecting her sleep. Her mind wanted to replay the piece at midnight and imagine the hall, the judges, the crowd. She lay in the dark, listening to the building settle and to Evelyn's soft breathing in the next room. She practised slow breaths, shoulders down, hands open on the blanket. She did not pick up the violin after nine o'clock.
On Thursday, she practised with her eyes closed, trusting her fingers to find their places. When she finished, Celia simply said, "There it is." Ayana knew what she meant. The piece no longer sounded like something she was trying to prove. It sounded like something she knew by heart, the way she knew Evelyn's hum in the kitchen.
Friday brought a shorter appointment, and afterwards they stopped for ice cream, because Evelyn insisted that medical weeks required it. On a bench outside the shop, Evelyn squeezed Ayana's hand. "Whatever happens on Saturday, you have already done the work. Remember that when your knees start knocking."
"My knees do not knock," Ayana said.
"They will," Evelyn said cheerfully. "And you will play anyway. That's the whole secret, baby. The music goes on."
On Saturday, Ayana played the opening once, slowly, in the morning light, and then packed her violin away. The taped case clicked shut. She walked home through rain-washed streets, helped Evelyn fold laundry, and went to bed early. Before she slept, Evelyn brought her a glass of water and kissed her forehead, the way she had when Ayana was small and afraid of thunderstorms.
"Sleep well," Evelyn whispered. "The song will be there in the morning. It lives in you now."
Ayana closed her eyes, and for once her mind did not race ahead to the hall. The week before was ending, and she was ready — not because she had practised until she dropped, but because she had learned to rest, to breathe, and to trust the music she had built note by note.