Gabe found a small spinet sitting in a corner, but turned to face the stage. It was a Gulbransen, and while it wasn’t exactly the German Steinway, the mark was serviceable. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, and then touched the ivory keys from middle C to two octaves above using his right-hand fingers. With his left fingers, he went from middle C to two octaves below. Then he played the accidental keys. The sound was about as expected from a small-bodied piano. Its tuning was true, although not all the notes were perfect. It would bother him. Anything that wasn’t musically perfect bothered him, but he had learned how to live with it. He rarely attended any live rock concerts other than thrash metal, where sound was bent and warped anyway, so who cared about pitch. Pop singers were the worst. Pro Tools notwithstanding, there were very few singers who hit the notes all the time.

He glanced at the music. It needed range. No doubt the choir would massacre it as Hannah predicted. He liked Hannah. She was friendly but low-key. She made conversation but steered away from anything personal. She had self-confidence without being arrogant.

There were twenty-three kids in the choir, lined up on the risers. As soon as the teacher started talking to them, he zoned out. Around five minutes later, Gabe realized that she was talking to him.

“Pardon?”

Mrs. Kent heaved a dramatic sigh. “I asked if you thought you could play the piece.”

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, sure.” Gabe smiled. “It’s not Rachmaninoff.”

Mrs. Kent eyed him. “You must be related to Hannah. You have the same sense of humor.”

Gabe smiled again but said nothing.

“We can start whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Then start.”

Gabe stifled a laugh. When he began the introduction, he saw the choir teacher’s eyes go wide. It was stupid that she was shocked. Why would he say he could play if he couldn’t? It was a motor skill—impossible to fake.

As rightly predicted by Hannah, the choir was awful; the off-key factor was especially prevalent in the soprano section. It was excruciatingly painful to his ear. Midway through the piece, he stopped playing. The teacher cut off the choir and asked him what was wrong.

“I don’t mean to be cheeky, but it’s a little high for your voices. Would you like me to take it down to E-flat? Or maybe down a full note to D. I don’t like turning songs in sharp keys into songs in flat keys. But that’s just me.”

Mrs. Kent stared at him. “You can do that?” Without waiting, she said, “I know. It’s not Rachmaninoff. Okay, give us a starting note.”