Sweat poured down my back as humiliation spread up the back of my neck, creeping over my head and flooding my face with hot disgust. I looked at Casey, holding my fingers paralyzed over the piano keys; they were unable to perform for the first time in their long, nimble lives.
“What is this?” I pointed to the single page of sheet music he placed before me.
“It’s a lead sheet?” he answered, his eyebrows raised in polite surprise at my ignorance.
I nodded, realizing I’d asked one too many stupid questions in front of the others who stood silently shifting from one sneakered foot to the other, instruments in hand, waiting to resume practice.
This would be an exceptionally long night.
I’ve always been drawn to the piano like a moth to flame. At the ripe old age of 7, I began lessons in classical piano, continuing for nine years. As an adult I found ways to remain active with the piano, which is challenging if one chooses not to pursue music performance or teaching music. Twelve years ago, I moved back to my hometown of Penn Yan with my precious piano in tow. My neighbors were subjected to my Chopin and Bach renditions floating through my open windows the following summer. One day, after we’d killed our lawnmower engines so we could chat, one neighbor asked if I’d be interested in playing with a local jazz group. She explained they were looking for “someone on keyboards,” and I figured, why........