1991 
Fontaine, Louisiana

If I'm going to be playing Le Courant, I can't just play the music. I have to be it. I have to become one with the current and bring myself to its depths just so that I can understand it the same way the composer did.

My mother has little faith in me, and it stings to admit this. It's because I've chosen one of the most difficult late-Romantic Era pieces, composed in 1891. Labarre-Dupre rates it a level 9, and according to her, I might not be performance-ready. She didn't even tackle it until she was well into her forties, but I'm determined. I'm determined to play it because I want to make a damn statement to the jury.

I am here and ready to make her mark on the world and get out of the shadow of her famous pianist mother. And what better place to do it than the Nicholas Leblanc Emerging Pianists Competition? I want to play Le Courant. It is what got me to fall in love with playing the piano all over again.

I need to get away from Lake Pontchartrain and stop meditating. I've been here long enough. If there's one thing I love about the Northshore, it's that the scenery here is divine enough to make you forget all your troubles. But I cannot forget everything.

I turn around and see my good friend Henry Leblanc walking up the path to where I'm sitting at the ledge of the seawall. He's wearing dark navy-blue slacks, his loafers, and a light blue button-down shirt. He waves to me as he approaches with a furrowed brow.

"You're still meditating?" he asks, smiling. "I thought you would be halfway to the conservatory by now. Your mom was pacing around the place, thinking that you're bailing."

I roll my eyes and shake my head. "My mom is just worried about the piece I chose for round one. Especially considering it's composed by Nicholas Leblanc himself."

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his dark-blonde hair. "I mean, Le Courant is difficult. I heard that Maurizio Pollini cried when he had to sight-read it for the first time. When one of the greatest pianists of the 20th century cries, you know it's hard."

"I know," I say. "But I've waited my whole life for this. And Pollini? Well, I did send him a letter asking him for pointers. He wrote me one thing - 'run away as far as you can and play something else. Your mother is a wealth of knowledge in that department. And of course you'd have opinions, Henry. You're related to Leblanc."

He shrugs. "My great-uncle's piece is brutal. But you? You are insanely talented, Corrie." His eyes soften as he looks at me, then my hands. "I'm just wondering if you should have chosen something safer for the first round. For your hands."

"I don't care, Henry." I smile, looking up at him with determination in my eyes. "My hands, my choice. Let's go."

"Don't forget, Corrie. Once I step inside the music hall, But remember, the moment I step in this place it's competition time and I'm afraid I have to act like I don't know you."

"I know," I say, sighing. "It's the name of the game. You have to represent the Leblanc family by being involved in the competition, Mr. Member of the Council." I nudge his arm with my shoulder.

"I'm serious," he says, frowning. "If the jury sees us palling around, you could get disqualified. I don't..." He shakes his head, shuffling his feet. "I don't want you to lose your place here. You've worked too hard for this."

"I'll act like a complete stranger to you, I promise. My name's Corrie Frederick. What's yours?"

He laughs as his eyes wrinkle. "Mr. Leblanc. Remember that." He points his finger at me. "Mr. Leblanc. Don't forget, okay?"

We take our first steps toward the sidewalk of the Fontaine Lakefront, passing rows of oaks and beautifully maintained purple hyacinths that sway with the lake breeze. I suppose by now Henry has decided to stay silent, but instead of his voice, I hear the music of this small town right outside the limits of Mandeville, and it's helping me to stay grounded. I know I can play. I will stay strong.

As I close my eyes, I see my footsteps that sound like dark bubbles emerging from under my feet and then disintegrate with the sound of my heels, breaking them with every step I take. My synesthesia becomes stronger than usual when I'm on edge. My senses cross over and turn something like the sound of birds chirping into tiny balls of dark-purple. Or Henry's slight humming of Le Courant looks like a honey-yellow beam of light.

My insides turn to cotton as I realize we've made the turn onto the street where the performance hall is, past the row of oak trees that bend over us, providing a roof of thick, leafy branches. I swallow hard against my dry throat. I didn't think that seeing the music hall would make me feel like this.

And then the thoughts come swirling in my mind. The voice of my mother from the last time I ever played on that stage and embarrassed her image. She never let me live that one down. Even now. I stand there at the paved path, frozen as I see the pine trees in the distance. I can't bring myself to look at the conservatory.

"Corrie," Henry's voice interrupts my thoughts. "Everything okay?"

My stomach lurches as I see the cold Gothic structure in the distance. I can't help it. Looking at the place? It brings such sweet memories but then memories of my mother. Fontaine Conservatory, my old stomping grounds. The only conservatory in Louisiana. And also where I lost my scholarship. And my best friend, but forget him. He turned out to be a bully anyway.

Henry takes my hand and leads me up to the main door of the music hall. It has not changed since probably its construction in 1899. Seeing it brings me back to old days, but there's also that sadness inside my chest, knotted up and the color of midnight-blue. I look back toward the edge of the street and see the tiniest part of Lake Pontchartrain, hoping that seeing the water would give me some peace of mind.

"Why aren't you going up?" Henry asks, arching a brow. "Don't chicken out."

"I don't know if I can do this, Henry," I say as my voice trembles. "I can't."

"Hey," Henry says, placing both of his hands on my shoulders as he looks at me with such an intense earnestness that I can only call it his serious no-nonsense face. "You've got me. I'm here. I'll be there the entire time, Corrie. Forget the jury. Forget it all. It's you and the —"

"Forget what?" A female voice interrupts our conversation.

My mother. I take in a jagged breath tasting of stale oil and despair. She sashays up to the steps and gives me a smile, then looks over at Henry, nodding at him in recognition. She's wearing a brightly colored, floral gown that cascades down to the ground, leaving a small train behind her. She's got her book, Jane Eyre, in her arms. Her long gray hair is wild and unkempt, but somehow presentable. Of course, she would bring her favorite book. Anything would be better than paying attention to people beneath her.

"I don't know, Mom," I say. "Why did you bring a book?"

"In case I get bored, of course. Corrie," she glances over at me and her half smile turns into a sharp frown. "Have you changed your mind on Le Courant?"

"I'm playing it, Mom." For a moment, I imagine myself on that stage, losing myself in all those C sharp minor arpeggios that remind me a little of Ravel's Un barque sur l'ocean.

"I suppose Maurizio himself couldn't stop you." She flares her nostrils, lips flattened.

I can't stop now, looking at her. If I play something easier, then what will happen to the message I'm trying to tell the jury? I can hold my own against the juggernaut that is my mother.

"Suit yourself," she sighs, shaking her head. "If your hands bleed tonight, don't blame me. I tried to reason with you. Should have played a Chopin Etude. Even his Winter Wind is child's play compared to the Leblanc piece. Remember that when your hands bleed, Corinne."

My mother's voice is distant, far away, as she brushes past me with her gray button-down dress, her hair breezing with the warm gust of air that follows her.

"She won't ever have faith in me." I inhale sharply against the sting in my chest. "It's been like this my entire life, Henry. I can even reach 10ths and that's not good enough for her." I try not to cry in front of him.

"But I have faith in you." He puts his hands over my shoulders, looking at me dead in the eyes. "I know the piece is hard, but I believe you can do it. I've heard you play it for me and it was incredible." His eyes soften as he smiles at me. "You can do this, Corrie."

I know deep down that Henry is right. I know the way she works, and I know what she expects of me, ever since I took my first breath. She has known me. All of me. And if I mess up, I'll never hear the end of it. It'll be the conservatory scholarship fiasco all over again.

"Whatever happens, happens," I say. "I'm just glad I can count on a friend like you, Henry."

He nods, smiles, then puts his arm around me.

"Go and show everyone that you can play my great-uncle's music. Level 9's got nothing on you." He winks. "I'll be cheering you on."

I can do this. I'm going to play the Leblanc come hell or high water — and no one, not even my mother, Pollini, nor the ghost of Leblanc himself, will stop me from playing this piece.

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The green room near the auditorium is full of people, and I spy some familiar faces from college. I just don't know how to blend in now. I know they're all whispering about me and pointing. I hear scholarship lost all over the room from some of the people I knew except for one of the girls I remember from my piano studio from Dr. Isabelle Samuels. Grace Broussard.

"Grace, it's been so long since I've seen you," I say, sitting next to her on the faded leather couch. "How's life? Get that Juilliard degree?"

She shrugs, frowning as she keeps her eyes on the gray carpeted floor. "I had a piano injury that nearly ruined me. I didn't complete my degree. I'm trying to get back into this world now that my hands have healed."

And it's the elephant in the room. I know she wants to ask me what I've been doing with my life since the scholarship loss. Well, the truth is, I was an art teacher for years at private school in Covington, a large town north of here. I spent years painting but not happy with it. I didn't feel complete. Not like I did when I would play the piano.

"I heard you're back in the music world now," she says, smiling. "That's got to be so freeing. I remember how obsessed you were with music. What are you playing for round one? I'm doing Mozart. Safe, I know. " She chuckles and shifts in her seat, her black gown slightly sparkling in the pale fluorescence.

Should I tell her? I know she'll probably widen her eyes and say what everyone else is saying, but Henry told me he believes in me, and honestly, just hearing that from him makes me sure of myself, even just a little bit.

"Le Courant."

She smiles, her eyes widening like I thought they would. "You are crazy. But girl, you're my kind of crazy. I just wish I could hear it. I hate being stuck in this green room when the others are playing. I'm contestant 48. Go figure."

"I'm glad that I know at least someone here," she says with a smile.

The door opens and for a moment, I half-expect it to be Henry coming in with his clipboard in his hand to announce the next two contestants to come follow him, but it isn't. It's someone else. The entire room falls into a tight hush.

"That guy looks familiar," Grace says, leaning in to whisper at me.

The guy she's talking about stands by the wall close to the door. I swear that he's looking right at me with a small smirk on his face. But why? I shift in my seat to avoid his gaze, but I still feel it even when I know he's not paying any attention to me.

Grace is right about there being something familiar about him. He's handsome and dressed up in a tuxedo with a dark-red cummerbund. He's giving me a half smile while he tilts his head, eyeing up and down. I feel too exposed now. I can't let myself be this seen.

I have to focus on something else. My music. I can't let this guy derail me.

His presence is dark-red, like spikes in my mind's eye. It's like an assault on my senses. But there is something familiar in that redness, a pulsating pattern that I've felt before, but where? I blink back the sensation, trying to right myself with the sounds of everyone whispering in the room. I can tell by everything that they're wondering who he is, too. Instead of studying him, I think of the husky gray whisps of rustling paper. The orange-yellow of the man with extremely curly hair, humming in the corner while conducting in four. It's moments like this where the fire-glow warmth of earthy tones helps me ground myself. After all, synesthesia can both be a blessing and a curse.

The door opens and now Henry walks in with his clipboard and keeps his head down.
"Contestants twelve and thirteen? You're up next. Follow me to the side door, thank you."

I want so badly to talk to Henry but I know that doing so would jeopardize my stance in the competition. I keep my mouth quiet as me and the other guy follow him to the side door of the auditorium. I hear the pianist from the wall and I turn to goo. Utter goo. This person is already fantastic. I won't be able to measure up.

"You will stay here for the duration of this contestant's performance. Wait three minutes after the contestant leaves as the jury tallies their scores."

"Yes, sir," I say with a nod. It's weird addressing Henry that way but it has to be. I don't want to ruin anything and I know he doesn't either.

Henry leaves and I'm left alone with dark-red cummerbund guy. AKA Contestant Twelve. He glances over me, his chocolate-brown eyes narrowed and almost curled in disgust. Why does he look so familiar? I want to speak to him but I know if I do, he'll only rattle me. I don't know about his vibe. Talking to him would mean the end for me.

The music stops and the contestant leaves shortly after. In a way, I'm glad I'm not contestant twelve. I get a few minutes to gather myself and mentally prepare for this opportunity.

The three minutes came by so quickly because the other guy walks in the auditorium and I close my eyes, feeling the tightness in my heart. It's also the first time I've ever seen my heart from my chest. My hands are clammy and I am continually wiping them. Come on, dude. Play already. You've not played a single note yet.

And then I hear the notes. At first I almost don't believe it. I've grown so accustomed to hearing the sextuplets and the insanely difficult polyrhythms above that. No. Why me? Why?

He's playing Le Courant.

And he's good. Like Pollini good.

Shit.

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