Before I Go

Lisa is one of my favorite students. She is ten and painfully dramatic.

This week, we learned about a new time signature. She was having trouble feeling the pulse of three beats in a measure, so I asked her to count out loud.

Looking shocked, she took her hands off the piano, stared at me with an open mouth, and then wailed, "But my life is already horrible!" She went limp and collapsed headfirst onto the keyboard. Imagine about thirteen half-steps suddenly ringing out from beneath the wailing head of a ten-year-old.

Wincing, I said, "Lisa, it's not the end of the world. In fact, I will count with you. Okay, ready? Here we go: one, two, three, one, two three....." And she slowly and defiantly sat back up and started participating.

She has also discovered that her electronic keyboard can make some really fun sounds, and after she successfully completed the counting exercise, she hit a button that filled the room with the sound of applause and cheers. She stood up, grinning, and took a few bows.

Ever the calm, fun-hating piano teacher, I said, "Sit back down, Lisa, and let's go to your next book."

I am always impressed with her knack for exaggeration. I can relate to this, a little. Or a lot. I think the ability to reasonably stretch a story is part of what makes stories so interesting. I mean, come on, did she really hit thirteen keys? I don't know, I didn't count, but she may have. So I have come to expect her reactions to be a little bigger, a little louder, a little stranger than what is essentially true. After all, I have the same affliction.

At her lesson last week, I had asked her to open her Performance Book to page something or other. She slowly and deliberately opened the book to the aforementioned page, set it on the piano, and then looked at me from beneath a droopy head of hair.

"I didn't practice this page," she said, sadly. She said it completely shamelessly, but she had the look of a girl who just lost her puppy.

Accustomed to her pouty reaction to the concept of "practicing," I sighed. "Lisa," I said, "You know you are supposed to practice every day. Otherwise it makes it really hard for us to make any progress. I might as well stay at home."

She nodded, solemnly.

"So why didn't you practice?" I asked her.

"I spent the entire week in the hospital!" She said this with wild, wide hand gestures.

"The entire week in the hospital?" I repeated. "Wow, that sounds really serious. Are you sure you should be having a piano lesson right now?"

Most kids would say something like, "No way, I shouldn't be having a piano lesson right now," and then dart off to play a video game or something. But Lisa?

She sighed and looked at me with her big, round, tragic eyes. "I just....I just want to have one more, before I go."