Summoned by the doorbell, I stood up from my own practice at the piano to welcome one of my favorite students for her lesson. Ashley had started lessons with me when she was 13, and I'd enjoyed watching her grow into the beautiful, smart, charming 18-year-old high school senior she was today. She wasn't my most musically talented student, but what she lacked in natural gifts, she made up for in diligence.
I smiled as I caught a glimpse of her outfit through the door. During the winter, she was always thoroughly wrapped in thick sweaters and wool-trimmed boots. But as we now headed back to spring, her outfits were once again flirty. And she was at that age, and still had enough of a look of innocence about her, that she was still just able to get away with an outfit like this one.
"Hi, Ashley, come on in. How are you today?"
"I'm great, Miss Kristin. How are you?"
"I'm doing well, Ashley, thanks. Have a seat," I said, motioning to the piano bench, "let's get right at it today. Lots of work to do before the upcoming recital!"
As she sat down on the bench, as my many years of pianistic experience (well, not THAT many, I'm only 26) told me would happen, her oh-so-short pleated skirt rode to a dangerous level on her upper thigh. She seemed either unaware or unworried, and launched into her warm-up of scales and arpeggios. I smiled to myself at her innocence, and marveled at how much she had changed over the past year.
When she had worn this same adorable tennis outfit the summer before, she still looked like a cute little girl, a non-athlete posing in athletic attire purely for the teenage fashion statement. Now, slightly taller and much more developed, she was positively stunning. Her long, naturally blonde hair cascaded down past her shoulders and came to rest around her youthfully perky tits, which I guessed were now a C-cup.
Her perfectly tanned skin was on display beneath her short-sleeved, v-neck athletic top and short, pleated tennis skirt, both white with a lime-green stripe down the side. And as teenage girls will do, she of course had found matching shoes, and wore a matching lime-green tie in her hair. Perfection, high-school style.
"Let's hear that A-flat scale again, Ashley, you're still struggling with the fingering on that one."
"I know, sorry..."
A few more tries, and she had it. I then picked up her Debussy album and opened it to the prelude she was preparing for the recital, which was, so appropriately, 'The Girl With the Flaxen Hair'.
"Should I just play it, then?"
"Yes, please, Ashley. Play through it once, and we'll see what we need to work on today!"
As she started to play, I left the chair next to her, walked across the room and sat down on the sofa, attempting to simulate for her the experience of playing for an audience, as she would have to do in a few weeks at the recital. As I sat down, I glanced down the hallway to your office, and gave you a cheerful smile when I caught your eye.
You responded, as you often did, with a distracting gesture. It seemed to be a favorite hobby of yours, distracting me while I was teaching with naughty suggestions of what we might be doing together later. Sometimes, you'd whisper something truly filthy in my ear just before I walked into a lesson. On days when you weren't there with me, it might be a dirty text or two, timed to arrive just when I was in the middle of a lesson. This time, the distracting gesture was an homage to Ashley's newfound curves.
I frowned and nodded my head from right to left, pretending that I wanted you to stop. Ashley's playing quickly brought my attention back, however, as I realized how much work she still needed to do in order to be prepared for her performance. She was clearly struggling with her nerves, as she often did, her playing full of tension.
I let her finish, watched her hang her head in disappointment, before finally turning to look at me, her cheeks flush with embarrassment from the couple of mistakes she had made towards the end of the piece.
"Oh, Ashley, please don't be so hard on yourself. You still have two weeks to practice, and mainly, you just need to get those nerves out of your system, and relax!"
"I know, I know."
"Play it again," I said, getting up and walking back over to the piano as she started to play. She was calm and relaxed for a few measures, then began to tense up as she approached the first difficult passage. I put my hands gently on her shoulders, and she immediately responded by releasing the tension which had built up there. It was a frequent routine during her lessons, as I had learned early on that she had the same tendency I did at her age, which was to hold tension in her upper body while she was playing.
I left my hands on her shoulders throughout the piece this time, as a gentle reminder, and the performance went much more smoothly this time. She looked up at me with a broad smile after finishing, and I flushed as I looked down at her, reminded of you as I realized I was looking directly down at her cleavage. She didn't seem to notice, but I was embarrassed at my own behavior.
I pulled my hands quickly away. Then, feeling I needed to cover for this sudden awkwardness, I reached for one of Ashley's other books and opened it to the correct page.
"Let's work on the duet now," I said, with excessive formality, trying to cover for the breach of ethics that was probably completely lost on my innocent student.
As we started to play, I immediately noticed how much work Ashley had put in over the past week. I quickly forgot about my own embarrassment, and lost myself in the music. It was always such a pleasure to reach that moment when playing with a student suddenly felt like playing with a fellow musician. She was still young, and she still had a lot to learn, but she was starting to have those moments of true music-making.
After a few more minutes, I saw out of the corner of my eye that you had walked into the room, and I nodded in the affirmative when you motioned for my permission to sit down on the sofa and listen. It was always good for Ashley to practice playing in front of someone else.
When we reached the end of the piece, after a very musical and nearly flawless performance, I put my arm around Ashley and gave her a squeeze, congratulating her on her progress.
"That was really wonderful, Ashley! You've done such great work. I can't wait to play this with you on the recital."
She smiled back at me, glowing, and still unaware that you were in the room.
"Jacob, what did you think?"
Ashley practically jumped as she turned to look at you, and I couldn't help but notice as she simultaneously blushed and pulled down against the edges of her short skirt as you walked towards the piano, smiling at her. I knew she had a crush on you - hell, who didn't - but I'd never seen her react so strongly to your presence before. It didn't seem to matter to her that you were in your mid 40's; you were that perfect combination of hot and confident that always made the young girls swoon.
"Very impressive, ladies. Very impressive indeed."
"Now," I said, aware of the jealous desire to bring Ashley's attention back to me, "we still need to work on that Debussy, and your nerves."
Ashley's smile promptly disappeared, as I knew it would - she was always so hard on herself!
"Oh, don't go there, Ashley. Come on, let's keep a positive attitude. You have two more weeks to practice. Let's not spend any more time today worrying about wrong notes - let's focus on finding a way for you to let go of your nerves."
"Um, OK."
