Ellie is eager to meet me at the door to the piano studio, a pamphlet in hand. Her mother, Mrs. Kuo, is behind her and gives me a nod in greeting.

Ellie’s an only child. I don’t think her dad is around anymore, or at least, I’ve never seen him drop off or pick up Ellie at all in the past year we’ve shared a teacher. Often Ellie lets me in, checking to see if I’m lurking outside the door. We’ll sit in the waiting area, and she’ll show me her drawings while Mrs. Kuo asks Mrs. Nguyen clarifying questions about Ellie’s lesson. It’s different from my mother, whose involvement stops at making sure we have our butts planted on the piano bench. As long as it sounds like we were playing, she doesn’t care what we’re working on.

Ellie beams up at me and pushes the pamphlet into my hand before darting back to the safe space beside her mother.

“Ellie!” Mrs. Kuo scolds. “Speak to Ruby 姊姊 with your words, please!” She gives me an apologetic look as she nudges Ellie forward.

“Ruby 姊,” Ellie squeaks, calling me big sister as is typical, even though we’re not related. Just like I would call any woman Mrs. Kuo’s age “auntie” in Chinese if addressing her directly. “Can you come?”

The flyer in my hand is for the Chinatown Mid-Autumn Festival. Cartoon dumplings smile under an equally happy, round moon with rosy pink cheeks. Sponsored by the Formosa Friendship Association. The name of the association sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t know why.

Mrs. Kuo tsks. “Ellie’s art will be on display in Chinatown this weekend. She wanted to make sure you were invited.”

“Thank you, Ellie!” I tell the little girl directly, even though she’s clinging to her mother’s leg again. “I’ll try my best to come.” She grins at me, in her adorable gap-toothed way.

“There you are, Ruby. I’m ready for you.” Mrs. Nguyen is at the door now, gesturing for me to come in. Ellie and I wave goodbye as I follow Mrs. Nguyen inside.

Our lessons are usually in the biggest room in the back, which fits an upright piano and a small Yamaha baby grand. I run through the familiar routines of the warm-up on the grand piano to start. For the next hour, we work on technique and precision. The Bach has been a piece I’ve been working on for a while, and it is time to perfect the details, like ensuring one section sounds brighter and clearer or working on maintaining the tempo on a particularly challenging run. But it’s the Romantic-era pieces that continue to frustrate me, the ones I desperately wanted to master. They’re the type of music that asks you to draw out something deep from that well inside of yourself, to challenge the music head-on, force it to submit to your will or risk being consumed by it.

I finish the hour mentally exhausted, the tightness in my left shoulder twinging as it does occasionally to remind me that I’m still not fully relaxing into the music like I had hoped to by now. At the end of the lesson, Mrs. Nguyen brings up the question that I’ve been dreading.

“Have you given any thought to whether you’re going to play at any festivals this upcoming year?” We spoke about it during the summer, when I told her I wasn’t quite ready yet.

“Your mother told me from the beginning that your goal is to get your ARCT certificate, but I can feel your love for playing, and I wonder…” Her voice trails off. Ma wants the certificate because it’s a tangible thing. A line on the college application to prove that I’ve met a certain achievement. But I don’t care about that.

I used to love performing, but now the thought of playing in front of all those people makes my hands clammy, my heart race, and Mrs. Nguyen must have noticed my panic, because she pats my arm with sympathy.

“I know performance can be daunting for many, but I feel that you have real potential, Ruby. If you would like to pursue it.” Mrs. Nguyen looks so sincere that it makes me want to tell her what I haven’t had the courage to tell my parents yet. I want to try out for that Young Artist program again. I want to see if I do have that potential, that commitment to this dream always swirling around at the back of my mind. To study music for real.

“I…I’m not sure yet,” I choke out, and my piano teacher’s expression falls. She reaches for the pile of papers beside her, and taps it on the table.

“You can keep thinking about it,” she tells me, not unkindly. “There’s a deadline coming up for the Kiwanis Festival in the spring if you want to put your name in soon. Performing in front of people will really help with preparation for the diploma exam.”

Frustration wells up inside me, and I resist the urge to snap at her. I want to perform at the festival, but I don’t want to be trapped up there, frozen.

“There’s also this banquet coming up at the end of the year. Here in Chinatown.” Mrs. Nguyen hands me a card. SEEKING YOUTH PERFORMERS! “I heard about it from another music teacher. They’re looking for talented young people to perform at the closing banquet for this festival. The proceeds are going back to the community.”

“I’ll take a look,” I say, shoving it into my bag to be soon forgotten. I’ve been to Kiwanis before. It’s ample opportunity for parents to brag to one another about whether their children won in their class or in their age group. But a no-name banquet? Forget it. My parents would tell me not to bother.

“See you next week.” She gives it up for now, even though I know she wants to convince me to sign up.

I shuffle out of the studio, feeling lost. I tug my hair free from my ponytail, letting it fall loose on my shoulders, but it doesn’t ease the pressure growing in my head. The knowledge that eventually I will have to play in front of strangers. My anxiety grows, expands, like the knotted hair I try to untangle with my fingers unsuccessfully. I imagine the hair winding its way around my organs, forcing itself up my throat, choking me from the inside out.

How can I even hope to become a musician if the thought of performing grips me with so much fear?

After Mr. Brandt said he was retiring, my mother was determined to find a teacher that would help me finish the final piano diploma so that all the money she spent on my piano lessons wouldn’t go to waste. She used some of her connections to get me an audition in front of the Tanakas, a teaching couple famous for their eccentricities and unconventional methods, but also known for producing prodigies.

I attended one of their “workshops” for students as an audition. The first time I ever met them, I was told to play a piece that I was working on before a roomful of strangers. I chose a Mendelssohn piece, Song without Words in A flat major. I thought I played it well, as sweet and lyrical as it was intended to be. But after I finished playing, Mr. Tanaka turned to the students and told them to critique my performance.

I stood there and was eviscerated. I was ripped apart, from the tension in my body to my clawed hands to my stunted expression to my technical flaws. Each of the students were eager to offer their opinions, one after another. I could barely answer when Mrs. Tanaka asked me what other piece I was working on, and I sobbed as I fumbled my way through the Rachmaninoff. The tears still streamed down my face when they continued the critiques, and their words followed me to the curb when I called my parents to come and pick me up.

You’re not ready for performance.

These workshops are for people who are dedicated.

You’re better off with more… lenient instruction.

This isn’t for you.

“That was absolutely embarrassing.” My mother’s face was red, furious, when she returned to the car after speaking with the Tanakas. Even when I tried to explain to her, she wouldn’t listen. “What will I tell Ms. Shriver, who vouched for you?”

“You’ll practice some more, and then we’ll bring you back,” Baba declared.

All my life, I’ve done what they wanted me to do. Got good grades. Played hours of piano. Took care of Denny and Tina when asked. I begged them to find another teacher for me. I tried to tell them I wasn’t going back there, but they wouldn’t listen. They were informed the Tanakas were the best, and they had already told all their friends it was only a matter of time before I was accepted. I wouldn’t budge even after they tried to guilt me, then threatened to take away all my privileges.

It was my one act of rebellion. I was tired of being good. Good didn’t mean that they paid attention to what I said. Good didn’t mean they cared about me more than they cared about losing face in front of their friends. They yelled a lot. I cried a lot. I wasn’t allowed to go out for most of the summer. Until one day I had enough of them not taking my refusal seriously, and I picked up Baba’s cast-iron teapot from the shelf and threw it at the kitchen window. It punched a hole and sent a network of cracks throughout the entire pane. The wind blew in and filled the house, scattered all of Baba’s papers stacked on the window seat to the floor. I screamed I wouldn’t do it. I screamed I would give up piano and waste all their money. I screamed until I woke up somewhere else, my throat aching and my voice hoarse. I had cried so hard I lost sense of time. The only thing I remember was Denny’s and Tina’s horrified faces as they watched from the family room.

We never spoke about that day after. It was brushed under the rug, like any other argument. Pretend it never happened until it’s true.

Soon after Ma took the job at Westview. It was easier to agree to move schools, even though I wanted to stay. I had “won” the fight about getting a different piano teacher, and I was too tired to argue about anything else.

I notice Tina sitting there on the edge of the broken fountain. She stares down at her feet, swinging them back and forth. She’s just a little kid, I realize. My parents want to shape her too, force her into their expectations of what a Good Girl should be, and I can’t have them do that. Squeeze her so tightly into a mold that she might shatter, just like our back kitchen window. Just like I did.

“Ready?” I speak up when I approach, and she jumps, startled.

“Yes, 姊,” she says with a small smile, and then wrinkles her nose.

“Did you forget you were mad at me?” I can’t help but tease her, even though I know the chances are fifty-fifty whether she’ll be amused or bat me away.

She sticks out her tongue at me, then laughs. “I guess I’m not mad at you anymore.” She gives me a hesitant one-armed hug, and I squeeze her shoulder in turn.

We ride the bus sitting side by side. Her head on my shoulder, dozing, while the buildings fly by, the setting sun reflecting against the windows of the towers of the Vancouver skyline. Everything forgiven.