The part I liked to practice best w

The part I liked to practice best was the fancy curtsy: right foot out, touch the rose on the carpet with a
pointed foot, sweep to the side, bend left leg, look up, and smile.
My parents invited all the couples from their social club to witness my debut. Auntie Lindo and Uncle Tin
were there. Waverly and her two older brothers had also come. The first two rows were filled with children
either younger or older than I was. The littlest ones got to go first. They recited simple nursery rhymes,
squawked out tunes on miniature violins, and twirled hula hoops in pink ballet tutus, and when they bowed
or curtsied, the audience would sigh in unison, "Awww, and then clap enthusiastically.
When my turn came, I was very confident. I remember my childish excitement. It was as if I knew, without
a doubt, that the prodigy side of me really did exist. I had no fear whatsoever, no nervousness. I remember
thinking, This is it! This is it! I looked out over the audience, at my mother's blank face, my father's yawn,
Auntie Lindo's stiff-lipped smile, Waverly's sulky expression. I had on a white dress, layered with sheets of
lace, and a pink bow in my Peter Pan haircut. As I sat down, I envisioned people jumping to their feet and
Ed Sullivan rushing up to introduce me to everyone on TV.
And I started to play. Everything was so beautiful. I was so caught up in how lovely I looked that I wasn't
worried about how I would sound. So I was surprised when I hit the first wrong note. And then I hit another
and another. A chill started at the top of my head and began to trickle down. Yet I couldn't stop playing, as
though my hands were bewitched. I kept thinking my fingers would adjust themselves back, like a train
switching to the right track. I played this strange jumble through to the end, the sour notes staying with me
all the way.
When I stood up, I discovered my legs were shaking. Maybe I had just been nervous, and the audience, like
Old Chong had seen me go through the right motions and had not heard anything wrong at all. I swept my
right foot out, went down on my knee, looked up, and smiled. The room was quiet, except for Old Chong,
who was beaming and shouting "Bravo! Bravo! Well done!" By then I saw my mother's face, her stricken
face. The audience clapped weakly, and I walked back to my chair, with my whole face quivering as I tried
not to cry, I heard a little boy whisper loudly to his mother. "That was awful," and mother whispered "Well,
she certainly tried."
And now I realized how many people were in the audience - the whole world, it seemed. I was aware of
eyes burning into my back. I felt the shame of my mother and father as they sat stiffly through the rest of
the show.
We could have escaped during intermission. Pride and some strange sense of honor must have anchored my
parents to their chairs. And so we watched it all. The eighteen-year-old boy with a fake moustache who did
a magic show and juggled flaming hoops while riding a unicycle. The breasted girl with white make up
who sang an aria from Madame Butterfly and got an honorable mention. And the eleven-year-old boy who
was first prize playing a tricky violin song that sounded like a busy bee.
After the show the Hsus, the Jongs, and the St. Clairs, from the Joy Luck Club, came up to my mother and
father.
"Lots of talented kids," Auntie Lindo said vaguely, smiling broadly. "That was somethin' else," my father
said, and I wondered if he was referring to me in a humorous way, or whether he even remembered what I
had done.
Waverly looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. "You aren't a genius like me," she said matter-of-factly.
And if I hadn't felt so bad, I would have pulled her braids and punched her stomach.
But my mother's expression was what devastated me: a quiet, blank look that said she had lost everything. I
felt the same way, and everybody seemed now to be coming up, like gawkers at the scene of an accident to
see what parts were actually missing.
When we got on the bus to go home, my father was humming the busy-bee tune and my mother kept silent.
I kept thinking she wanted to wait until we got home before shouting at me. But when my father unlocked
the door to our apartment, my mother walked in and went straight to the back, into the bedroom. No
accusations, No blame. And in a way, I felt disappointed. I had been waiting for her to start shouting, so
that I could shout back and cry and blame her for all my misery.
I had assumed that my talent-show fiasco meant that I would never have to play the piano again. But two
days later, after school, my mother came out of the kitchen and saw me watching TV.
"Four clock," she reminded me, as if it were any other day. I was stunned, as though she were ask