Piano Lessons
“Your heart’s not in it, Ruby. I can tell.” Jill scolds me for the umpteenth time.
I reposition my fingers and put them in motion, starting on “Für Elise” again. My movements stall, my fingers unwilling to move further. Why am I still coming here, anyway? It was never entirely my own idea to take piano lessons. It was Amber who spurred me on. And Amber is long gone.
“What’s the matter?” Jill—I haven’t been allowed to call her Mrs. Banks since my first class with her—perches on the edge of the bench I’m sitting on. “Amber?”
At times, my lessons with Jill resemble therapy sessions more than anything else. She charges less than a shrink, so I’ll take it.
“Her f*******: relationship status went from ‘single’ to ‘it’s complicated’. It’s been eating at me. What does it mean? I
