The Night Before

Before

Addie's fingers moved across the blanket like it was a piano.

Da-da-da-dum. Da-da-da-dum.

She played the whole piece right there in bed, every note perfect, her fingers pressing into the soft fabric while moonlight made a rectangle on her bedroom floor. She'd practiced that song so many times she could play it with her eyes closed. She could play it standing on one foot. She could probably play it while eating a sandwich, though her piano teacher, Mrs. Huang, would absolutely not allow that.

Addie rolled over and looked at the clock. 9:47.

She rolled the other way. She squeezed her eyes shut.

She opened them.

9:48.

"Ugh," Addie said to no one.

Tomorrow was the recital. Tomorrow at two o'clock in the afternoon, she would walk across the stage at the Greenfield Community Center, sit down on the bench in front of a big shiny grand piano, and play her piece in front of every single person in the audience. Her mom would be there. Her dad would be there. Her grandma would be there. Her little brother, Theo, would be there, and he would probably be picking his nose, but he would still be there.

Addie's stomach did a slow, uncomfortable flip.

She knew the piece. She knew it. "Moonlight Garden" by somebody whose last name she could never remember. She'd played it forty-one times this week. She'd counted. Forty-one times without a single mistake.

So why did her stomach feel like it was full of frogs?

Addie sat up in bed. She grabbed Rabbit, her stuffed bunny who was missing one eye and most of his left ear, and held him in her lap.

"I'm not even scared," she told Rabbit.

Rabbit stared at her with his one remaining eye, and he did not look convinced.

"I'm not."

She flopped back down. The ceiling had a tiny crack in it shaped like a river, and she followed it with her eyes from one wall almost to the light fixture in the middle. She'd followed that crack a thousand times. It never went anywhere new.

Her brain, though — her brain was going everywhere.

What if I forget the beginning?

She wouldn't forget the beginning. She never forgot the beginning.

What if my fingers slip?

Her fingers didn't slip. Her fingers were great.

What if I get up there and I just... sit? What if I sit on the bench and my hands won't move and everyone stares at me and it's so quiet you can hear Theo picking his nose?

"Okay, stop," Addie whispered.

She got out of bed. Her feet found her slippers — the ones with the foxes on them — and she padded down the hall to the kitchen. The house was quiet and dark except for the little light above the stove that her mom always left on.

Addie poured herself a glass of water and sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen table was where she did her homework, where she ate pancakes on Saturday mornings, where she'd spilled an entire bowl of tomato soup last Tuesday. It was a good table. A calm table.

She drummed her fingers on it softly.

Da-da-da-dum.

"Can't sleep?"

Addie jumped so hard she almost knocked over her water. Her dad was standing in the doorway in his old college T-shirt, his hair sticking up on one side like a wave.

"No," Addie admitted.

Her dad sat down across from her. He didn't say anything right away. He just sat there, and that was one of the things Addie liked best about her dad. He was good at just sitting.

"My stomach feels weird," Addie said.

"Weird how?"

"Like frogs."

Her dad nodded slowly. "Frogs."

"Like there are frogs jumping around in there. Even though I know my piece. I know it so well, Dad. I played it forty-one times this week."

"Forty-one," her dad said. "That's a lot of times."

"So I shouldn't feel like this. It doesn't make any sense. If I know it, why do I feel like this?"

Her dad leaned back in his chair. He was quiet for a moment, and Addie could hear the refrigerator humming its low, steady hum.

"You know what I remember about the frogs?" he said.

"What frogs?"

"The stomach frogs. I used to get them before every baseball game in high school. Every single one. Even senior year, when I'd played about a million games."

Addie stared at him. "You did?"

"Oh yeah. Big ones. Like bullfrogs."

"Mine are more like tree frogs," Addie said.

"Well, tree frogs are pretty jumpy."

"They really are."

Her dad smiled. Then he reached across the table and put his hand on top of hers, very gently, the way you'd set down something you didn't want to break.

"You've done the work, Addie."

"I know."

"So tomorrow, all you have to do is sit down and play."

Addie thought about that. Just sit down and play. It sounded so simple when he said it. Like sitting down to eat pancakes. Like sitting down to do homework. Just... sit down.

"What if I mess up?" she said, and her voice came out smaller than she wanted it to.

Her dad squeezed her hand. "Then you'll keep playing."

Addie looked down at her water glass. A tiny bubble was stuck to the inside, just hovering there, not going up, not going down.

"Mrs. Huang says if you make a mistake, you just keep going and most people won't even notice."

"Mrs. Huang is a smart woman."

"She also says posture is the foundation of everything, but I think that might be a little extreme."

Her dad laughed. It was a quiet, kitchen-at-nighttime kind of laugh, and it made the frogs in Addie's stomach settle down just a little. Not all the way. But a little.

She took a long drink of water. She held Rabbit tighter — she hadn't even realized she'd brought him with her. Then she stood up and pushed in her chair, because her mom was always reminding her to push in her chair, and she figured she might as well practice being the kind of person who remembered things like that.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Were you good? At baseball?"

Her dad thought about it. "Some games I was good. Some games I was okay. One game I struck out three times and then tripped over my own feet running back to the dugout."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. My friend Kyle never let me forget it."

Addie grinned. Then she walked around the table and hugged her dad, pressing her face into his old college T-shirt that smelled like laundry detergent and a little bit like toast.

"Goodnight, Addie," he said into the top of her head.

"Goodnight."

She walked back down the hall. The house was still quiet. The moonlight rectangle was still on her floor. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin and set Rabbit on the pillow next to her.

The frogs were still there. She could feel them, small and jumpy, hopping around in her belly. But they felt a little smaller now. More like those tiny frogs you find near creeks in the summer, the ones that fit on the tip of your finger.

Addie put her hands on top of the blanket.

Da-da-da-dum. Da-da-da-dum.

Perfect. Every note.

She closed her eyes.

Tomorrow at two o'clock, she would walk across that stage. She would sit down on the bench. She would put her hands on the keys of that big shiny grand piano.

And she would play.

Addie's fingers went still. Her breathing got slow and even. Rabbit watched over her with his one good eye. And outside, the moon kept shining, steady and patient, like it had nowhere else to be.