pieces from last week,” Lucy says, after Delia completes the major and minor scales. A yellow Labrador guide dog, Gracie, at her feet, Lucy sits in a brown wooden chair to the right of the piano bench. A Braille copy of the sheet music Delia will soon start playing rests on Lucy’s lap—an intermediate version of a Chopin piece, Prelude 4, Opus 28, somber and beautiful, and her favorite Chopin’s “Raindrops,” along with Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Behind her gray-tinted black plasticframed glasses, Lucy’s pea green eyes appear normal, though when
Delia and she are face-toface, gaps in Lucy’s irises resemble keyholes. Lucy nods in rhythm, her fingers following the Braille notation of the Chopin Prelude. “Focus…focus. You’re losing focus.” Lucy turns toward Delia. “Pay attention. Music is both craft and art,” Lucy says. “Try to feel it, let the wave of what you feel carry you forward.” “I do feel it!” Delia says. She’s always felt it. She embraces the solemn sounds of the Chopin Prelude; when she plays, her mother, who’s tipsy too much, her father, who works too much, people, school, the
world, everything around her vanishes, and only the tones that fill her with joy matter. Delia likes going to Lucy’s house for her lessons. Even with all the furniture against the walls, Lucy’s house feels homey and safe, and Delia wonders who the people are in the framed photos on Lucy’s shelves. She recognizes Lucy in a few of them. In one photo, Lucy, in a black cap and gown, stands next to a German shepherd guide dog and an older man and woman. Probably her parents. In another photo, Lucy and a cute guy, also with dark, curly hair like Lucy’s, both