Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

piece I would play at Performance Weekend this year, and now, I was one of six special students selected to work with Michael Sutton!
    Your revenge has become a double edge sword with the sharper end pressing toward you, Grandmother Cutler.
    "Please give Richard the schedules of your other classes, your required classes," Michael Sutton said, forcing me out of my hateful thoughts, "so we can plan out your private lessons. We will meet only once a week as a group. The rest of the time, I will work alone with each of you," he finished, his gaze resting on me for such a long moment that I got nervous and had to look away.
    After I gave Richard my schedule, I started out. Two of the other music teachers had come in to speak with Michael, but he looked away from them and nodded and smiled at me as I started toward the doorway. I smiled back, my heart racing. Then, I tripped over one of my sneaker laces that had come loose and fell forward, catching myself just before falling on my face.
    "Are you all right?" Michael called and started toward me.
    "Yes," I said quickly and ran out, feeling like a complete fool. The blood had rushed into my face and I was so flushed and embarrassed, I couldn't wait to get away.
    Trisha was waiting for me in the lobby.
    "You made it, didn't you? I knew you would. You're going to have to tell me every little detail about every moment of your private lessons," she ordered. "I want to know everything he says to you."
    "Oh Trisha, he probably thinks I'm just a little idiot. I nearly fell on my face just now while I was gaping at him stupidly on my way out!" I cried.
    "Really? How exciting. See, something's happened already," she said. How she could amaze me with the way she could twist and turn things around. All I could do is laugh and go along with her.
    Later that day, I had to return to the school for my summer hour lesson with Madame Steichen. I told her about my being chosen to be in Michael Sutton's class, but she didn't seem too happy about it. We had gotten on friendly enough terms so that I felt I could ask her why she had smirked when I told her.
    "He is not classical," she said. "He is not a true artist; he is a-performer."
    "I don't understand the difference, Madame Steichen," I said.
    "You will, my dear Dawn. Someday, you will," she predicted and insisted we not waste a moment more of her precious time discussing nonsense.
     
    After my lesson with Madame Steichen, I gathered up my sheet music and started out slowly, thinking that since I had plenty of time to get back to the apartment house before dinner, there was no point in rushing. Anyway, I felt like enjoying the remainder of the warm, late August afternoon. A cool breeze off the East River caressed my face. Above me, milk-white, tiny clouds looked like little puffs of whip cream dripped over a frosting of deep blue sky. I sat on one of the wooden benches and closed my eyes to breathe in the scent of roses and marigolds and pansies. The perfumed air and warm sunlight took me back to happy, carefree thoughts. I saw myself as a little girl, skipping rope and singing one of the rope skipping songs I had learned from girls a few years older.
    "My mother, your mother, lives across the way, two fourteen, East Broadway. Every night they have a fight and this is what they say . . ."
    I couldn't help but laugh at the memories now.
    "Must be a very funny thought," I heard someone say and opened my eyes to see Michael Sutton standing in front of me and looking down at me with a slight smile over his lips. He carried a slim, leather briefcase in his right hand.
    "Oh, I . . ."
    "You don't have to explain," he said, laughing. "I don't mean to intrude."
    "Oh, it's not an intrusion," I sputtered. "I was just startled."
    He nodded and held his briefcase with two hands before him.
    "So how was your piano lesson today?" he asked. I was surprised that he remembered my schedule so well.
    "I think it went all right, although Madame Steichen is very frugal when it comes to compliments. She believes a true artist doesn't need to have others tell her when she is doing well; she knows it herself, instinctively."
    "Poppycock," Michael Sutton said, leaning toward me. "Everyone needs to be stroked, to be told he or she is doing well. We all have egos that have to be petted like little kittens. When you do well, I will let you know; and when you don't, I will let you know that, too."
    He straightened up again and looked back down the pathway. I held my