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Meghan is closest, her back to me as she grips the edge of the Yamaha and Liam runs around her feet.“What are you doing?”“Getting the house ready for pictures. The photographer will be here tomorrow, and we need to clear the junk out first.”She’s bracing herself against my piano. She’s talking about clearing the junk from this house. And Kyle holds an ax.“Before you do, can I take a look in the bench? I think I left something there.”My cousins eye me curiously, but don’t say anything. I trace the Hot Wheels marks my brother etched along the bench. They’re different now. A cut, jagged, deep, and short — the mark of a moment instead of a lifetime — crosses a car path. From there, a singular wine stain bleeds through one winding scratch like the answer to a maze. I think of Grandma Nancy one last time. The people around me are so much more important than the scratches we leave behind. I didn’t believe her then. I didn’t even believe her yesterday. But I do now.The tarnished gold hinge clicks into place one last time, but it’s empty inside. There’s nothing on the piano, either. My heart runs marathons inside of me as sweat beads along my forehead and under my arms. I was too scared to see wine stains all over those pages, so I hadn’t looked. “Have you seen any music? Handwritten? I need it. For a project.”Meghan glances at her brother, then toward the door. She looks everywhere but me until it’s awkward. “Did you leave it on the piano by chance?” My answer must be all over my face, because she rushes to keep talking. “It was stained. The notes were nearly impossible to read, so I — ”“You recycled it.” I can find it in a pile of papers. It will be okay. Wrinkled and stained, but okay. For a second, I let myself breathe. But halfway through my exhale I look at Meghan again.Meghan lets go of the piano and comes to me, tucking a stray hair behind my ear like I’m a child. I guess I technically am. “The fire was burning.” In the fireplace near the piano. Which is a lot closer than the recycling bins in the garage. “It was unsalvageable, Adaya. I don’t think you could have played it anyway.”“I could have tried.” I mean it, too. I could have built something from the notes that remained and played somet

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hing that belonged to both of us. Like Grayson suggested. But I never made a copy. I never even took a picture of it. And I was far from having it memorized.One more ruined plan in a list too long to track. I guess the best thing I can do right now is choose to mourn it. “Let me take that last corner.”So, we do. Meghan and Kyle and Micah and I lug the piano to the sliding glass door an inch at a time, all of us out of breath. My arms ache. My cuts sting. I’m hardly strong enough to carry even this corner of the Yamaha, but this was my fault. I can shoulder some of the pain that comes with fixing it. Finally, we shove it outside, let it fall against the slush. It makes noise as it lands, but nothing I’d dare to call music. I look at it for a second. My whole life, I had counted on this piano being mine as soon as I grew up. Grandma had promised. Dad had promised. And when Mom and I moved back to California, it was the first thing I’d asked: if I could still get the piano when I had a place of my own. She said we’d try.I am frozen beside the Yamaha even as Kyle pushes past me with the scratched-up bench. The waterlogging is more obvious with the piano on its side. I see the paths it followed through the keys like veins. Like a melody in a play-along video.But I’m also ready to say goodbye. “Can I take a turn with the ax?”“Are you sure?” Dad says. I didn’t know he was there, watching from the open door, but it shouldn’t surprise me. Him on the sidelines, watching but never doing.I initiated the destruction. At least the ax will turn it into firewood. The Yamaha will bring us warmth one last time. “I’m sure.”Meghan hands it to me and I raise it above the piano lying on its side, the gold letters a target to focus on. I shove the blade right into the A that smeared with the wine, and even though it isn’t helpful for getting the firewood, it feels like the most helpful thing I’ve done since I got here.I leave the ax where it is and walk away. My audition is tomorrow. I have no song to play and no piano to play it on and yet, somehow, I’m not worried. It’s high time I learned how to handle some improv.<a href="https://readmedium.com/chapter-36-2776eefcdf16">Click here</a> to continue the story!</article></body>

Accidental Notes: A Novel

Chapter 35

A Melting Storm

Accidental Notes, a novel. Cover by Rochelle Deans via Canva.

Not sure what this story is? The synopsis is available here.

Catch up on chapter 34 here.

Grayson’s rubbing his chin when I turn around to look at him. “Ouch.”

“I need to get back to my grandmother’s house. Right now.”

He leans back, working his jaw a little more. “Ah. That explains the ramming into me.”

“Of course it doesn’t. I’m sorry.” I stand and gather myself. This time when I smooth out the wrinkles in my clothes, it’s because he made it necessary.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Deeply.” I want him to hold my hand and tell me everything will be all right and know all the places we need to look. “But you being there will only distract me. We’ve proven that much. It’s a quick trip. Wait for me. I’ll be back to practice soon. I forgot to bring the music.”

He looks like he can’t decide what to say, but it doesn’t take him long to think of something. “You walked all the way over to practice, but didn’t bring the music with you?”

A blush spreads across my face, even though I should be used to the feeling for him now. Even though I know he knows it. “I guess I had other things on my mind.”

“Well, then. See you soon.” He walks to the door and opens it the rest of the way. I insert myself into his open arms for a hug, one I know I’m going to need. Already there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Then I’m down the stairs and past his parents, tugging on my boots and trudging through the slush and mud of a melting storm.

Family is back at Grandma’s house again. I can tell by the cars lining the driveway, and right now I’m grateful. The more people I have to ask, the better. Hopefully one of them will have an answer. Once inside, I go straight for the family room and the piano. Three of my cousins surround it. Meghan is closest, her back to me as she grips the edge of the Yamaha and Liam runs around her feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting the house ready for pictures. The photographer will be here tomorrow, and we need to clear the junk out first.”

She’s bracing herself against my piano. She’s talking about clearing the junk from this house. And Kyle holds an ax.

“Before you do, can I take a look in the bench? I think I left something there.”

My cousins eye me curiously, but don’t say anything. I trace the Hot Wheels marks my brother etched along the bench. They’re different now. A cut, jagged, deep, and short — the mark of a moment instead of a lifetime — crosses a car path. From there, a singular wine stain bleeds through one winding scratch like the answer to a maze. I think of Grandma Nancy one last time. The people around me are so much more important than the scratches we leave behind. I didn’t believe her then. I didn’t even believe her yesterday. But I do now.

The tarnished gold hinge clicks into place one last time, but it’s empty inside. There’s nothing on the piano, either. My heart runs marathons inside of me as sweat beads along my forehead and under my arms. I was too scared to see wine stains all over those pages, so I hadn’t looked. “Have you seen any music? Handwritten? I need it. For a project.”

Meghan glances at her brother, then toward the door. She looks everywhere but me until it’s awkward. “Did you leave it on the piano by chance?” My answer must be all over my face, because she rushes to keep talking. “It was stained. The notes were nearly impossible to read, so I — ”

“You recycled it.” I can find it in a pile of papers. It will be okay. Wrinkled and stained, but okay. For a second, I let myself breathe. But halfway through my exhale I look at Meghan again.

Meghan lets go of the piano and comes to me, tucking a stray hair behind my ear like I’m a child. I guess I technically am. “The fire was burning.” In the fireplace near the piano. Which is a lot closer than the recycling bins in the garage. “It was unsalvageable, Adaya. I don’t think you could have played it anyway.”

“I could have tried.” I mean it, too. I could have built something from the notes that remained and played something that belonged to both of us. Like Grayson suggested. But I never made a copy. I never even took a picture of it. And I was far from having it memorized.

One more ruined plan in a list too long to track. I guess the best thing I can do right now is choose to mourn it. “Let me take that last corner.”

So, we do. Meghan and Kyle and Micah and I lug the piano to the sliding glass door an inch at a time, all of us out of breath. My arms ache. My cuts sting. I’m hardly strong enough to carry even this corner of the Yamaha, but this was my fault. I can shoulder some of the pain that comes with fixing it. Finally, we shove it outside, let it fall against the slush. It makes noise as it lands, but nothing I’d dare to call music. I look at it for a second. My whole life, I had counted on this piano being mine as soon as I grew up. Grandma had promised. Dad had promised. And when Mom and I moved back to California, it was the first thing I’d asked: if I could still get the piano when I had a place of my own. She said we’d try.

I am frozen beside the Yamaha even as Kyle pushes past me with the scratched-up bench. The waterlogging is more obvious with the piano on its side. I see the paths it followed through the keys like veins. Like a melody in a play-along video.

But I’m also ready to say goodbye. “Can I take a turn with the ax?”

“Are you sure?” Dad says. I didn’t know he was there, watching from the open door, but it shouldn’t surprise me. Him on the sidelines, watching but never doing.

I initiated the destruction. At least the ax will turn it into firewood. The Yamaha will bring us warmth one last time. “I’m sure.”

Meghan hands it to me and I raise it above the piano lying on its side, the gold letters a target to focus on. I shove the blade right into the A that smeared with the wine, and even though it isn’t helpful for getting the firewood, it feels like the most helpful thing I’ve done since I got here.

I leave the ax where it is and walk away. My audition is tomorrow. I have no song to play and no piano to play it on and yet, somehow, I’m not worried. It’s high time I learned how to handle some improv.

Click here to continue the story!