This is a story about a piano.

*    *    *

It’s cold outside the day the piano gets moved in.

The delivery men roll it down the empty hallways, their joking voices and the squeak of the wheels echoing too loud off the wood paneled walls. They place the upright in its new home, tucked into the corner of the commons in the east wing — wipe a rag across the grain to clear off the dust and they’re gone, and it’s quiet again.

———

Fall term starts the next week, and suddenly the corridors are noisy with the sound of dress shoes pattering against the stone floor. Uniformed boys trickle in and out of the common room throughout the day. Some get in a few minutes’ studying, others take a moment to relax.

In the evening, the room fills with boys who shed their blazers and loosen their ties. They settle into the soft leather of the couches, the wing-backed chairs, and catch up with each other in voices louder than they dare use during school hours. Two sit on the piano bench and play a game of cards. When one leans dramatically back against the upright after a particularly good hand, the piano creaks and tinkles perhaps a bit more than it ought.

But the boys don’t notice, and soon they, too, are gone.

———

“Hey, cut it out — I can’t even hear myself think with you playing that thing.”

“Oh, sorry.”

The cover flips back down over the keys and the warmth leaves the bench.

———

“… and these are the commons. There’s actually a few of them, but this is the one that gets the most use.”

Two boys enter the room then, one bright as he gestures to the room with a grand sweep of his arm. The other keeps a step behind, a tentativeness about him as he takes in his surroundings with wide eyes.

“This is also where the Warblers hold council meetings,” the first boy, the older one, continues.

“The Warblers?” the second chimes, angling his head towards the other though his eyes are on the windows.

“That’s our a cappella group here at Dalton,” boy one explains, a proud smile crossing his lips. “We compete at show choir competitions, as well as putting on performances for and around the school.”

Boy two turns to face the first, his brow pulling together a bit. “Is that … do people think that’s — cool, here? Show choir?” For a moment the boy seems to think he came across as insulting. His hand reaches up to tangle in his hair, but he drops it when his fingers run over the gelled curls there. 

The older boy grins, clearly not put off by the question. “Yeah, we’re kind of like, like rock stars.”

“I’ll have to catch a performance sometime, then,” the second murmurs as he walks to the piano. His hands smooth gently over the grain of the wood, his eyes shimmering.

“Do you play?”

“Oh,” his hand recoils, “no, uh, not really.” He goes quickly to the couch and sinks down into the leather, pulling his bag onto his lap. His eyes study his hands, and there’s something sad in them.

The other comes to sit down beside him, a comforting hand coming to clasp the younger boy’s shoulder.

“Look, Blaine, I know a new school is hard to adjust to, but you’ll fit in perfectly. And we’re only a week into the term, so it’s not like you’re behind.” A pause. The second, Blaine, glances up to meet the first’s eyes. “Plus, there are plenty of other freshmen who aren’t familiar with Dalton yet. Talk to them, make friends, and you can always come to me if you’re having trouble. I’ll help you out.”

Blaine smiles, but it looks worn, a little melancholy. “Thank you, David, for the tour and everything else. I really appreciate it.”

David smiles back, warmer. “Don’t mention it. Now come on, there’s more to see.” David stands and hastens to the door. Blaine rises from the sofa, casting one long glance back at the piano before following David out.

With the room empty, the piano strikes a quiet note of its own accord.

Blaine.

———

It’s over a week before he returns to the room.

Blaine, dark curls a bit messy and his eyes tired, comes in late one Thursday evening and tosses his bag to the leather armchair just inside the wide-open double doors. He makes a bee line for the piano — practically runs at it, leaps on the bench like it’s a three-course meal and he hasn’t eaten in a solid week.  

He settles onto the little bench, rubbing his hands together before flipping up the cover on the keys. His honey eyes are hungry for the black and white, and the softest of excited tremors runs through stretched-tight strings. Blaine’s fingers come to middle C position and he takes a deep breath. Then a melody comes tapping out of his hands, dancing across the keys — but he falters, slipping up and second guessing the chords.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? 

But Blaine works, he doesn’t give up, and soon the sound is smooth and pretty and his eyes aren’t so sad. He doesn’t look as lonely, and neither does the piano.

———

October rolls around quickly and Blaine’s been in and out of the common room as much as his own dorm room. Sometimes he plays, sometime he just sits and frowns at the keys and talks to himself, to the piano as much as anyone. 

“Sometimes I think it’d be easier, you know? No, I know it would be. But I look at them and I just don’t feel it, I don’t feel the same way.”

“We were so stupid. We could have waited inside.”

“And I just get so mad at the worst times. Like today, in class, I saw their faces in my head and the scar over my ribs started hurting and I just got so angry. I’d give anything for that night to have never happened.”

And the piano listens. The piano is Blaine’s friend.

———

Once he comes in in the middle of the day, during his break.

The piano keys tremble anxiously, but Blaine just throws a look over at the upright and then throws himself onto the couch — catapults right over the arm and sinks into the leather, his bag still slung across his shoulder. He’s snoring lightly within minutes and the piano doesn’t question it much.

———

Another week later finds Blaine back on the bench, messing around at lunch time. He’s got a sandwich sitting on his thigh that he stops to take a bite of every now and then, juice to wash it down next to him. His fingers don’t play much of a tune, striking chords that don’t string together well and he seems happy enough.

It’s Monday, and he’d gone home over the weekend. The upright knows because he usually comes in on Sunday mornings while most everyone else is at the chapel. 

Soon Blaine finds a slow melody and carries in for a minute, humming along without paying much attention to what he’s playing. His voice picks up and fills the empty room.

Hey Dad, look at me
Think back, and talk to me Did I grow up according to plan?

His brow pulls together, but Blaine still seems a bit distracted. He goes back to humming for the rest of the verse, for the first chorus.

And now I try hard to make it
I just want to make you proud
I’m never gonna be good enough for you

Fingers falter over the notes and a single tear slides down his cheek.

Nothing’s gonna change the things that you said
And nothing’s gonna make this right again
Please don’t turn your back
I can’t believe it’s hard just to talk to you
But you don’t understand

He launches into the chorus at full voice and thanks whatever god he believes in today that everyone else is at lunch and they can’t hear him. He’s crying in earnest now, but his voice doesn’t break — not yet. Not until the last line.

I’m sorry I can’t be perfect

The last note hangs in the air then Blaine stands up abruptly, the piano bench screeching backwards. He leaves within another moment, not a second glance given to his abandoned lunch.

The piano tinkles out a few plaintive notes.

———

He’s better in mid-November. 

It’s a Wednesday evening and the common room is full. Blaine is on the couch with some of the other boys. They joke around like regular teenagers, and the piano is happy in its aloneness for once. 

Blaine’s smiling.

But soon the room is quieting down as the hour wears on. A few leave, their beds calling them, and Blaine’s standing to stretch and run a hand through curls that have long since broken free of their gel. The piano doesn’t mind that it won’t be played tonight — Blaine’s happy.

But then Blaine is pulling his tie off and crossing to the upright. He sits and plucks out a quiet song, something old and familiar. He glances around surreptitiously, and the piano knowingly keeps quiet beneath his touch.

“Hey Blaine, play a bit louder, will you? I can’t hear you at all,” one of the boys from the couch turns to say.

Blaine perks up, a grin stretching his lips wide and it’s real and he strikes the keys harder. The piano obliges his hands eagerly.

———

Everyone’s been gone for winter break and it’s their first morning back.

The piano thrills when, an hour before classes begin, Blaine comes walking into the room. He smiles brightly and sets his bag down, sliding on the bench. His eyes are alive today and his hands are warm despite the chill in the air. 

It’s been quiet for too long but soon the room is filled with the same old sounds of music, and Blaine’s voice rises to meet it. 

He doesn’t notice the other boy leaning against the door frame, watching with his thumb hooked into the strap of his book bag. It’s the same one that was here the first time Blaine came to this room, and he’s got the warm smile back again.

There’s a lull in the tune as Blaine pauses to check the time from an old pocket watch. David announces himself with a quiet cough, and Blaine spins around so quickly he almost falls off the bench. His surprise turns into a sheepish smile when he sees who it is in the room with him. 

“I thought you said you couldn’t play?” David asks, stepping into the room more fully.

Blaine chuckles and glances down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. “I’ve been getting better,” he says.

“Well, you’ve got a superb voice.” 

Blaine shakes his head, starting in on a denial before David cuts him off.

“Blaine, I’m serious, you really do. The Warblers could use a tenor with your talent,” the older boy says.

The younger’s surprise is evident. “You — you really think so?”

David’s smile is wide and warm as ever. “Of course, Blaine, have you heard yourself?” He glances at his own wristwatch and then back to Blaine. “Listen, there’s a meeting this afternoon at four. Why don’t you stop by, see what we’re all about — and if you think it’s something you might enjoy, we can set up an audition.”

Blaine considers for a moment, his eyes finding the ivory keys and then he nods. “I can do that.”

“Great, I’ll see you then!” David hurries off with a jovial wave.

Alone again, Blaine turns back to the piano and picks his song back up.

Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo
Here comes the sun and I say
It’s all right

*    *    *

But mostly, it’s a story about a boy.