Jenny Hu

Requiem - Honorable Mention (Grades 9-10)

Our silhouettes are tangled in Jason’s bed at the Grand Hotel, one block and twenty-four stories away from the auditorium where we will perform tomorrow. Outside, the icy Moscow air is arranging itself into battalions of snowflakes. His heartbeat thrums warm against me.
On the nightstand, his phone streams Tchaikovsky’s Sonata in B minor, No. 4. Notes
sweep and fall in the dark; fragile strains and delicate, melancholy arpeggios. Tchaikovsky composed the piece based on a Greek tragedy, the tale of Medea’s jealousy and eventual insanity.
My father—his teacher—nicknamed it the Medea Sonata. It is Jason’s secret weapon, the piece that will always win.
“My sonata is stunning, isn’t it?” His breath stirs at my cheek.
“It’s brilliant.” I snake my fingers lower down his hip. “Like it was written for you.”
But he does not speak. The faint city lights slink through the slit in the curtains and snag on his golden lashes. His eyes are shut. His mind is worlds and worlds away from me. I rest my head against his bare chest and listen to his pulse count waltz beats until I too disappear.
—
I rise early the next morning, washing away any trace of slumber with a mug of tasteless herbal tea. I haven’t had coffee since I began traveling to compete in international piano competitions. The caffeine doesn’t mix well with the medications my father gives me.

Requiem / 2
Jason is in his own room, dressing and preparing for his program today. Last night he told me, in order to make finals, in order to win, he would sacrifice his unborn children. He would gouge out his eyes. Would give up his left arm.
I do not blame him. Musicians whisper about the honor of playing on the most
prestigious stage in the world, as if the name itself holds too much weight to be said out loud. When my father once won this same competition, he wept at the prospect of performing solo in the Great Hall of the Tchaikovsky Conservatory. I too would kill for such a wish, one that now feels close enough to touch. All the critics are delighted by the thought of the Tchaikovsky Competition becoming a family tradition.
My rehearsal is at 7:42 a.m. I will perform at 4:29 p.m., the first to play for the jury, the first to give them my fate. I pick up my sheet music from the nightstand with shaking fingers. It turns to dust in my hands. My heartbeat aches in my ears, my shoulders, my ankles. The tea did nothing to soothe me, drawing knots in my empty stomach. It is barely past six a.m., and already
my mouth has gone sour and numb, body longing for respite.
My chest heaves as I dig the bottle of alprazolam out of my purse, pouring two flat tablets into my palm. I drop them into my mouth, watching tiny specks of powder fall from my hand.
They twirl in slow motion and spin through the air like snow. I wonder if it is snowing outside. It would be so lovely if it snowed.
The hallway is muted as I leave my room, reds melting brown and blues slipping black.
Time drips like sweet honey through an hourglass, amber and gold. I hear refrains of my pieces everywhere. The sweeping, nostalgic opening of Balakirev’s “Fantasiestück” follows the steps of a tall gentleman passing by. Scarlatti’s delicate Pastorale in C traces the slender columns in the

Requiem / 3
lobby. As I walk out the gilded doors, Griffes’ “The White Peacock” leaves a haunting melody in my wake.
And then there is the Medea Sonata. Like a death shroud, I cannot shake it from my back.
The rebellious arpeggios mingle with the white flakes sprinkling down around me. Lovely.
I put in my earbuds, drowning out the noisy street with the sounds of Bach, but still the sonata will not leave me. Inside my knit mittens, my fingers curl into the shapes of
Tchaikovsky’s bitter opening chords. Diamonds and snowflakes gather in my hair. I am dreaming in legato. Medea is alive, and I am but one beat within her pulsing heart.

Guilt slaps me awake like a blast of hot air. Medea is Jason’s sonata, Jason’s prize. I was
the one who’d snuck the priceless original Tchaikovsky score into his hands, proof of my love for him. The piece is worth more than an eternity of kisses. The music is worth more than life itself.
I cannot steal his sonata.
—
My rehearsal goes well. I sit at the piano and it is exquisite, every key a spark. It is not
the Great Hall, not the Tchaikovsky Conservatory, but the touch is impeccable nonetheless, soft
as starlight. Dynamic voices leap from the notes. My pieces flow like water through my hands. I find Jason’s practice room after I finish, taking a seat at the upright piano. He isn’t here yet so I sort through his sheet music for him, stacking the scores neatly atop each other. He never plays without his sheet music waiting for him backstage. A superstition, ritual. All performers have a secret routine, and he is no exception.

Requiem / 4
The Medea Sonata is tucked neatly in a baby blue folder, safe from the world. I pull it out and run my fingers over it, the dark notes pricking my skin. It is an old friend. I knew the music long before he did.
I shove the papers back into the folder when I hear Jason’s footsteps approaching through the open door. But I can hear him speaking, and I hesitate at the anger in his voice. Some sudden instinct drives me to duck into the tiny storage closet, pressing my back against the dusty brooms and buckets. The music in my head grows cold, fraught with minor harmonies.
“I can’t do that,” he is saying as he walks in. His voice is barely a whisper, but it is fierce.
“That’s just cruel. Not to mention illegal.”
“She’s your main competition,” my father’s voice says, and I jump, fear knotting my
lungs. I peer out from the slit between the door and the wall. Jason is on the phone, call switched to speaker. But I can hear my father so clearly, it’s like he’s standing just outside.
“She’s in love with me,” Jason says.
“Do you want to win or not?” my father asks.
“Yes, of course, but—” Jason goes silent. My heart beats hard enough to choke me.
“This is for your own good, son. It’s just melatonin in her water. She won’t die.”
“Do you know what you’re asking me to do? She’s your daughter!”
“Jason. Be logical.”
He hesitates again. “It’s not like drugging her will make me play better.”
“Are you really willing to lose to that girl?”
“No, but—”
“Do it, or find a new teacher. I don’t keep students who won’t take directions.”

Requiem / 5

“I—okay. Okay.” Jason hangs up, breathing hard.
My chest heaves with silent sobs. You, my sweet-tongued liar. You said you loved me.
Footsteps sound once more and the door clicks shut. I stumble out of the closet and fury racks my body until I fall to my knees. You and my father. Conspiring against me. I will not take your drugged water. I will not sleep. I will not lose to you.
Have you been taunting me? Saying I threw myself at you? That I was so desperate for
your love, I gave you my masterpiece. My magnum opus. My Medea.

The piece was mine first. Now it will be mine again.
—
I change into my dress in the performers’ bathroom, zipping up the elaborate red lace and adjusting how it cascades over my waist. The dress had been a surprise for Jason. He always loved when I wore red. It is too late now to find a dress that will not make me think of him.
Again my nerves are burning, blood rushing through every inch of me. I can barely hold still. It takes me three tries to pin up my flyaway bangs and tuck them into my ponytail. I hate that my body won’t listen to me, that I can’t stop myself from reverting to my father’s solution.
A pill sits in my palm like a dying star. I roll it between my thumb and my index finger, forcing deep breaths. I’m so tired of performing when I’m not myself, of an imposter taking my place onstage. I’m so tired of playing note after note after note and feeling nothing.
Suddenly I stand. The pill is in the toilet before I can stop myself, disappearing in a flush of water. My lungs are contracting too quickly, my heart afire. My skin is cold and damp. I have made a mistake. I have made a mistake.

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As I snatch up the bottle of alprazolam from the counter, twisting open the lid, I catch the eye of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her gaze is dark as night, hair arranged haphazardly, lips the same crimson as her dress. The color of rubies among diamonds, of blood in the snow.
With shaking hands, I slip the pills back into my purse.
—
It is three thirty, and I am ready. I head for my own practice room and other contestants’ gazes leave imprints on me as they pass. Their eyes mark my skin, black and blue bruises spreading over me. They are not afraid, but they ought to be. I will have the gold. Medea will guarantee it.
The sonata had been Jason’s secret weapon and we all knew it. Tchaikovsky’s most
difficult and most beautiful work, rediscovered by my father in an old Russian library for himself to perform. But his wrists were too strained from age and use, rusted hinges on a cellar door. So against his will, I played it instead, learned how Medea breathed and lived and loved. I knew every bar, every measure, every note. And then Jason came. He made it his own, his path to victory.
But without it, without me, he is nothing.
—
I stride onto the stage promptly at 4:29, my dress trailing fires behind me. He is not in the audience, probably practicing for his own performance. Or looking for his sheet music, maybe. I saw his shadow in the corners of my gaze, the shape of his body flitting between the dark and the light as we prepared for the competition to begin. He called out to me twice but I did not stop. I cannot risk anything going wrong.

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After all, this is the Semifinal Round of the Tchaikovsky Competition, the biggest contest of my life, and of his. The air is thrumming with energy, prestissimo. I put my right hand to my left wrist and realize that my pulse is frantic.
“Mira Lim,” the announcer calls, and I bow to the judges. Meet each of their gazes, smile for the packed audience and the flashing cameras in the back. Once I sit down, there will be no more photography. No more smiles. Just me and the music.
Slowly, slowly, I take my seat—my throne. The ivory keys are glinting before me, a
galaxy at my fingertips. The piano is the night sky.

I draw constellations on the keyboard and Medea comes to life.
—
He corners me after I exit backstage, face contorted in distress. I smirk. He doesn’t know yet that I changed my program, that I played the sonata.
“Have you seen my music?” he asks. Frantic.
“I don’t know, Jason.”
He presses his hands to his temples. “This is a disaster.”
“It’ll be alright. Everything will be fine.”
“Mira, you know I need my music to play.”
“I can’t help you,” I say. “But I know who can.”
“Who? Oh my God, you’re a lifesaver.”
I breathe in, out. My hands find the resolve to pull the alprazolam from my purse and
shove it at him. “My father. Take his advice. This usually helps with nerves.”

Requiem / 8

—
The darkness is velvet as I slip into the auditorium. I have exchanged my dress for a
sweater and jeans, but I feel too conspicuous. Everyone is watching me. Their eyes crawl up my spine and send tremors through my back. I stuff my hand into my purse for my pills, before too late I remember I gave them to him.
As the pianist begins to play Chopin’s “The Storm,” I sink into a seat and close my eyes.
The performance is over, but the tension will not leave me. The stiffness in my veins, the pounding in my heart, the knots in my stomach—they only intensify. Once again I shove my hands in my purse when I realize they are shaking.
This time they find the Medea Sonata. I pull it out as quietly as I can, the firmness of the sheet music steadying against my skin. The paper is old and yellowed, marked with pencil dashes and ink stains. Tchaikovsky’s original score. It is breathtaking.
I think of the snow on the streets of Moscow, tumbling in rapid white flakes, prisms
falling from the sky. The sheet music wrinkles from the tightness of my grip, and I picture it torn into tiny shreds, falling, falling, falling. A million notes drawing paper arpeggios. My fingers will catch the melodies, the broken chords, and I will make them into something new and beautiful and complete. Something all my own.
When the performer finishes, I stand and leave the auditorium. The usher nods at me and I nod back. My steps are symphonies. He is up next, but I do not stay to hear him play.
—
Outside, scattered pieces of the sonata join the light flurries, dancing among the
snowflakes. When I look into the night, I can see the stars.