Free Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) by J. L. White

know.”
    “Okay,” I say nodding. I take another deep breath and force myself to settle my nerves. I’m in this now, I may as well try to get through it the best that I can.
    I scan the program again. Erik is about a quarter of the way down the list. I’m about a third of the way from the end. A thin man with balding hair but a distinguished presence goes up on the stage to welcome the audience and performers. After a surprisingly long acknowledgement of sponsors and helpers, the first performer is introduced and away we go.
    There’s no getting out now.
    The first player is an adorable little girl I’d noticed during the preliminaries. She’s wearing a pink poufy dress and a big bow in her hair. She can’t be more than nine. She plays a surprisingly simple rendition and the audience claps when she’s done. I don’t know why I was expecting something more, but then, she’s only nine.
    The next performer is young, too, around twelve I’d guess, and he plays a more complicated number, but I suppose he’s still showing his age. The third pianist looks to be closer to our age, and I straighten in my seat expectantly. It’s time to hear what the people my own age can do. His piece is certainly the most complex I’ve heard yet, but not near as complicated as I would have expected. Okay. So maybe I’m not the only seventeen-year-old beginner here after all.
    The player right before Erik is also our age, and plays a piece closer to the complexity I expected to hear going into this. It’s at least as complicated as the pieces we’re playing, and truly sounds lovely. When he finishes, I lean over to Erik during the applause and whisper, “He’s not as good as you.”
    Erik gives me a self-effacing grin, but it’s true. I think he probably knows it. He’s more than once accused me of not knowing my own talents, but whether that’s true or not, I could never make the same accusation to Erik. His ear is too good for him to have any doubts about the quality of the music he creates.
    It’s his turn at last, and as he gets on stage and settles in, I feel a swoop of nerves on his behalf. When he begins to play, I’m reminded of the first time I spied him through the windows of his house. He sounds brilliant, as he always does, but viewing him on stage adds an aura to the magic, just like watching him from afar did that day.
    After listening to the other performers, and now listening to him, I know for certain what I’ve long suspected: Erik is in a class all his own.
    Far, far above the rest of us.
    It’s the thing I love best about him.
    When he finishes I leap to my feet, clapping enthusiastically. I’m not the only one. The audience rises in spurts. Maybe we’re not supposed to give standing ovations at competitions, but I don’t care. He faces the audience with a handsome smile, bows elegantly, and leaves a stage that feels far, far too small for the music he just played.
    When he joins me, he’s just Erik again, but that aura of greatness is still lingering about a bit. I’m in awe of him and want to give him a kiss right here in front of everybody, but I settle for smiling at him and saying, “That was fantastic!”
    He smiles and takes my hand in his, giving it a squeeze.
    As the program marches on—ever closer to my own name on the page—my nerves are growing, but I’m a little distracted by what I’m hearing. With only a few exceptions, the pianists our age aren’t playing pieces nearly as advanced as what Erik and I chose.
    After the latest such performance, I lean into him and say, “These songs aren’t as hard as I thought they’d be.”
    He looks at me, a half smile on his face. “You’re starting to see where you fit into the bigger picture, aren’t you?”
    I look back to the stage. I don’t know about this. If I could’ve played a simpler piece I would have. I’m regretting playing something so complicated. Doesn’t that just give me more opportunities to mess up? Why did he pick