Chapter 17: Showcase Morning
Showcase morning arrived with pale gold light slipping through the curtains and the whole apartment holding its breath. Ayana Brooks woke before her alarm, her heart already awake, and lay still for a moment listening to the building: a tap running somewhere, a door closing softly, the city beginning to stir. Today was the day she would walk into Meridian Hall, pick up her worn violin, and play "Song for Evelyn" in front of judges, a crowd, and cameras. The thought rose like a wave, and she met it the way Dr. Celia Foster had taught her — with one slow breath, then another.
She sat up and put her feet on the cool floor. Her routine, practised all week, carried her forward. She drank water, stretched her arms and shoulders, and opened her hands wide, then closed them gently, waking her fingers without hurrying them. She did not touch the violin yet. First came breakfast, because a body that had not eaten could not be trusted to stay steady. She made oatmeal with honey, the way Evelyn liked it, and set two bowls on the table.
Evelyn Brooks came into the kitchen in her best dress, a deep blue one she had pressed the night before, her hair pinned neatly and her shoes polished. She looked at Ayana and smiled, calm as a Sunday morning.
"Well," she said, "you look like a girl who slept."
"I did, mostly," Ayana said. "My brain tried to practise at three o'clock, but I told it to go back to sleep."
"Good for you," Evelyn said. "Brains need manners too."
They ate together without rushing, talking about small things on purpose: the weather, the neighbour's cat, the bus they would catch. Evelyn did not give a big speech. She gave something better — ordinary calm, served warm, in a familiar kitchen. When Ayana's spoon slowed and her eyes drifted toward the window, Evelyn reached across the table and covered her hand.
"Listen to me now," Evelyn said, her voice low and steady. "You do not have to be louder than anybody today. You do not have to prove you belong. You belong because you have done the work, and because that song is yours. Play it the way you play it for me in this kitchen. The hall is just a bigger kitchen."
Ayana felt her throat tighten, but she nodded and laughed a little. "A bigger kitchen with judges."
"Judges eat breakfast too," Evelyn said. "Probably oatmeal, if they have any sense."
After breakfast, Ayana dressed with care: a simple dark dress she had chosen weeks ago, comfortable shoes, her hair pulled back so nothing would fall across her face. She checked her violin case twice. The bow was secure. The rosin was in its small pouch. The case, taped at one corner, still clicked shut the way it always had. She lifted it by the handle and felt its familiar weight — not heavy, not light, just hers.
Jalen Ortiz arrived at the door with a paper cup of tea and a grin that tried to hide his own nerves. "You ready?" he asked.
"As ready as I get," Ayana said.
"Good," Jalen said. "Because the bus waits for no musician."
Mrs. Delia Grant was already waiting downstairs, holding a small bag with sandwiches and a bottle of water. "For after," she said firmly, pressing it into Jalen's hands. "She will be hungry, and hungry people make poor decisions. Eat first, celebrate second."
Evelyn took Ayana's arm as they stepped outside, and the morning air met them, cool and bright, smelling of rain-washed pavement and fresh bread from the bakery on the corner. Atlanta moved around them in its Saturday rhythm: shopkeepers rolling up shutters, a street musician tuning a guitar two blocks away, children chasing each other along the sidewalk. Ayana walked slowly on purpose, matching her steps to Evelyn's careful pace, feeling the ground under her shoes and the case in her hand.
As the bus turned toward the centre of town, Meridian Hall came into view: a handsome building with tall windows and banners announcing the Sloane Summer Showcase. People were already gathering outside, some with cameras, some with programmes, some simply curious. Ayana's stomach fluttered, but she kept breathing the way Celia had taught her — in slowly, out slowly, shoulders down.
"There it is," Jalen whispered.
"There it is," Ayana agreed.
They stepped off the bus together, and Evelyn squeezed Ayana's hand one more time before letting go, the way a mother bird might nudge a young bird toward the edge of a branch — not pushing, just present.
"Remember," Evelyn said, looking up at her granddaughter. "Bigger kitchen. Same song. Same you."
Ayana nodded, tightened her grip on her case, and walked toward the doors of Meridian Hall with her grandmother, her best friend, and her neighbour beside her. The morning had done its work. She was awake, fed, rested, and as ready as three minutes of music would ever allow her to be.