Page 58 of Fostering Chemistry
“Unless you think we can fit a third person in here.”
Okay, that was pretty funny. “What do I have to do?”
He tapped a key that was on the far left side of the keyboard. “Just press that one when I tell you to.”
Gingerly, I pressed down on the key he indicated. The keys looked nothing like the cheap plastic ones on an electric keyboard one of my foster parents had had.
There wasn’t any sound.
“Harder,” he ordered
“Oh.” It was a nice low note. I played it again. “How’s that?”
“You’ve got natural talent,” he said dryly, and I laughed.
“So when do I press it?”
“I’ll tell you.”
He put his hands on the keys and hit a dramatic chord that filled the room and made the bench underneath us vibrate. It was followed by more notes, his fingers graceful and curved as they danced across the keys.
It sounded amazing. Like a full orchestra, but it was just him.
“Now,” he said.
It took me a second to realize it was time to play my note. I hit it, holding it down. And then the song resumed.
Mesmerized, I watched his hands fly across the keys, until he said “now” again. This time, I hit my note quicker—and unless I was mistaken, in time with the music.
It was a dramatic piece that sent shivers down my spine. And although I was only playing one note on cue, it did feel like a duet. Like for the first time in my life, I was part of music making.
Cody continued playing, and I didn’t get to hit my note again. But it was fascinating to watch the expressive way his hands moved. His fingers were strong and nimble. And his body was warm where it was pressed against mine.
I could have sat there for hours. But then the piece ended, the last notes fading out as they echoed around the little room.
“Wow. That was amazing,” I said.
He grinned wryly. “Thanks to your contribution.”
“Who composed that?”
“Rachmaninoff.”
“Gesundheit.”
He shook his head, perhaps amused in spite of himself?
“All right, I need to practice for real.” He nudged me with his hip, and I slid two inches down the bench.
“I guess I’ll go to the library until my shift at the coffee house starts.”
Cody nodded absently as he flipped through some sheet music in his bag.
“Thanks,” I said. “I enjoyed that.”
He nodded again, not looking at me, and I frowned. He sure could create beautiful music, but getting him to participate in a conversation was a bit like pulling teeth.
I grabbed my bag and got to my feet, standing in the small space between the piano and the door. “Well, bye.”
