Appointments Amid Pandemic

1. Preparation

I have a piano recital to attend, so I’m spending hours beforehand staring at black on white on black. I’m not allowed my sheet music during the recital, so I need to imprint those blacks and whites and movements before I leave. That balance was terrible. Again. My fingers stumbled. I can’t stumble, I have a piano recital to attend, and I’m not ready. And I don’t want to—I can’t—leave the house—I haven’t left the neighborhood in months!Do you know how many germs are on a piano keyboard? I don’t, but I know it’s a lot. Just think. Grimy fingers all over the piano, touching and pressing again and again, who knows where they’ve been. I can’t wear gloves because they’ll slip and they’re clumsy. The studio doesn’t even use alcohol wipes because alcohol ruins the keys. They probably don’t even clean it in the slightest! I’ll be going into a COVID-19 hotbed, don’t you see?The notes are so exacting. I can never play measure 63 evenly, and don’t even get me started on the pedals. Pedals are usually so easy, just add them on and move on. Ba-da-da smooth yes. But then when middle pedals are added, when you need to extend the left but not the right hand, when you need to hold all three pedals at once, there’s nothing in the world more bothersome.I’ll be fine, I tell myself. I’ve practiced the pedals, left hand in measure 63 is quiet so they can’t tell it’s not even in the least, and mom’s made so many face masks that we could probably open a shop selling them. We’ve got hand sanitizer in the car, there’s no need to worry.

2. (Not) worrying

I don’t worry, of course not. After all, it’s just a little recital, what could go wrong with that? Even if I miss some notes, it’s not the end of the world, and neither is being a bit sick—I’ve been sick plenty! I’m combing my hair because it really needs a comb, not at all because I’m stressed or anything. And the excessive amount of hair combed out? That’s absolutely normal, not the result of anxiety. That’d be simply ridiculous, after all, and I’m many things but I’m not that ridiculous. I think perhaps mom is driving too fast—we just passed that jeep when there really was no need. She should really slow down, even if we might arrive a bit late. After all, those recitals rarely ever start on time. In fact, if we slow down so much that we miss it entirely, that’s not the end of the world, either. My teacher will understand that the traffic was terrible, so mom, if you would, you can—shoot, she’s pulling up to the studio.

3. (Not) the next Beethoven

Our next performer is Sophie Liu. Oh no. Not already!Black on white on black. It’s not that hard. Ba-da-da I know this ba-da-da. Why is she standing so close? I’m sure she can look at my hands from afar. Will I get away with quieter, lighter, less germ-infected touches? I’m already using the damper pedal so surely she won’t notice. I’m sure that’s not six feet, it’s probably not even three. Please back away a bit, the CDC guidelines say you must! And don’t breathe down my neck, please don’t, I don’t want your saliva anywhere on me, I think I have a cough coming on, I can’t breathe! what’s the next note? Why can’t I find it? I’ll have to go back and replay those two pages, and god I’m stumbling, why can’t I stop stumbling!I almost don’t curtsy at the end because that showing was so poor it doesn’t deserve the recognition. I doubt I’ll be able to look my teacher in her eye next class. This is a disaster.

4. Still (not) worrying

Now I will just be going home, and I will most certainly not sit on edge for two weeks straight wondering if I’m sick now, if I’ll infect my parents, if they’ll di—no. Not worrying at all, not in the least.—all so I could attend a disaster.