Last Means You’re Best
When had it all started? Was it five or six years ago? How many Easter dresses past — nylons, crepes, cottons; in blues — always in blues. I guess this is my 6th one, only I can’t remember. Let’s see, there was . . . what, what was my first piece?
Aragonaise by Jules Massenet. . . . . Roselyn Pheiffer
The Program listed her name last.
“Last means you’re the best, Rose,” her father had said.
It certainly looked nice at the end. She had been close to the end a few times, but never last. Even Karen was before her. Karen, who always played pretty little songs about birds and things.
“Well, I deserve it. One whole year of Aragonaise.”
“Rose, tell your teacher I want you to learn how to play Massenet’s Aragonaise. It’s hard to play, but you can learn it.”
Over and over she had practiced that piece. The notes always came out wrong. Her hands were too small, or the chords were too big — anyway it was a hard piece. She kept playing and it had started to get better. At least she was playing the right notes.
“I think you’re ready to memorize this. I want you to play it in the recital.”
Why had she always been terrible at memorizing? Every time she felt a mistake coming she would make one. She couldn’t stop them. She always depended on feeling her way through. The trick was not to think about it.
“Don’t make any mistakes, Rosie. I don’t care how you play it, but no mistakes. Your mother and I are proud of you — six recitals and never a mistake.”
Well, Karen was good. She’s always good. Only one mistake.
Two more people and it’s my turn. I hate being last. I’d rather be first, then I could get up there right away and get it over with. No waiting.
What was the first dress like? It had been blue, or course, and covered with ruffles. She had played . . .
“Mrs. Edmond, I don’t want to be in the recital this year. I can’t remember my piece. I know I’ll be awful. Could I bring the music up with me? I promise I won’t look at it.”
The second dress had been a cotton print. Such pretty blue flowers. The song she had played was about a boat. Something in French. It was an easy one to get through. And easy to forget.
“Rose, sweety, it’s time for you. Now remember, no mistakes.”
If I could only remember what that first piece was. Something about windmills or something.
The bench was cold. Her hands were sweating. The ivory keys were clean. You’d think that the bench would be warm, or the keys dirty or something.
“No Rosie, you have to play this piece and you can’t use your music. You want to make everyone happy, don’t you?”
The music flowed through the room. Light triplets of clear color.
Last year she had wanted a red dress. One with pink and blue flowers on it. But Papa had said it was too old for her. She had played a song about bees which everyone liked except for her.
“I’m giving you a great honor, Rose. I’m going to let you go last this year.”
She had a deep blue velvet dress. As her arms stretched across the keys, her dress began to itch.
“You’ll look lovely, Rose. You’ll be the best one there.”
It was almost over. another blue dress would be out of the way. Next year she would get one that she liked.
The last note was wrong. She looked up in surprise.
“It’s a G-chord, dear.”
She tried again, her hand came down, but the sound was wrong.
“I can’t remember.”
She had no idea what a G-chord was. She had made a mistake. She was last, and the chord just wasn’t right.
“I’m sorry, but I forget.”
She stood up from the bench. Her eyes wet with tears. The velvet was crushed and wrinkled in lines across her hips. She looked from her father to her dress and ran from the room.