“Emily! I’m heading to work, Sweetie,” Emily’s dad called as he stood at the front door adjusting his jacket. “Practice your piano piece while I’m gone. There is some leftover stew for lunch in the fridge; just heat it up. I love you!” He walked out of the house and drove away in his rusty Toyota, waving to Emily until he rounded the corner. 

    Emily had no desire to play piano. Although she enjoyed piano in general and had played for years, the song she had written for the recital seemed dull to her. However, she could not change it now given that the recital was the very next day. 

    So instead she walked into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Emily plopped down on her bed, picked up her book on mythology from the nightstand, and flipped open to a chapter where a bookmark marked where she had left off. As she read, she became absorbed in the chapter describing Zeus, the king of the gods and ruler of the sky. 

    Several minutes later, Emily heard a muffled voice coming from the living room, where the piano sat.

     “Didn’t you hear your father? Play your music!” the voice shouted in a thick Austrian accent. Emily was paralyzed. She dropped her book onto the carpeted floor. She stood up on trembling knees and tiptoed to her door, putting her ear to the wood. Was the voice a figment of her imagination? “What are you waiting for, lazybones?” the voice repeated, louder. “Come on! You don’t have all day, Kid!”

    Emily obeyed the churlish command, sprinting into the living room. As she entered, she looked around for the source of the disembodied voice. Aside from Emily, there was no sign of anyone else. The only contents of the room were a wall of books, two time-worn floral-printed chairs, a sofa that was discolored from many years of use, a baby grand piano, and on the back of the piano, a bust of the famous pianist Ludwig van Beethoven.

    Emily walked across the creaky floorboards, eyes peeled for anyone hiding behind the furniture. Still, there was still no indication of anyone but her. Could the person have run to another part of the house? Pondering who could have been speaking to her, Emily seated herself on the piano bench. 

    “I’m still waiting,” the voice sneered. Emily shrieked in surprise. She peeked over the music rest and saw the bust of Beethoven facing her. It had unruly wavy hair framing its sour features. Little chips of plaster had broken away from age. To Emily’s astonishment, its plaster lips were moving as it spoke.

    “Why are you staring at me?” the bust barked, narrowing its eyes. “Didn’t your mommy and daddy teach you that it’s rude to stare?” 

    Emily’s eyes grew wide as she stuttered, “Y-you’re alive?”

    Beethoven glared at her. “Do I look dead? Do I sound dead?” he scowled. Sure I’m a statue, but I’ve got genuine life in my body.” He looked down at the slab of plaster on which he sat. “Well, what I have of my body. Now play your song!”

    Emily growled and clenched her jaw in irritation but obeyed. Her composition was a long, dull piece with a slow rhythm.

    Beethoven interrupted the song with a holler. “You call that music? It sounds like a deranged donkey.”

     “Well, I can’t do much else than practice it. I can’t learn a brand new song in time, Beethoven. The recital is tomorrow,” Emily stated.

    “That’s Sir Beethoven to you, kid,” Beethoven snarled. He spent a moment thinking of a solution. “What if you didn’t have to learn a new song? I suppose, if you truly are desperate, you could revise the version you have into a better piece.”

    Emily nodded slowly and raised her eyebrows. “I’m listening.”

    “What about,” Beethoven began, closing his eyes in thought, “speeding up the song and adding more dynamics. Try doing that, Emmy.”

    Emily groaned. “It’s Emily, not Emmy.”  Disbelieving Beethoven’s advice would change the song’s quality, she begrudgingly began to play her song, this time with a faster tempo and crescendos and decrescendos. To Emily’s surprise, the song sounded slightly better with Beethoven’s suggestions. 

    “Better, I suppose,” Beethoven grumbled. He then added, “Although you did hit a wrong note at the beginning.”

    Emily rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. It’s fine. Just tell me what to do next.”

    Beethoven stared at the ceiling in contemplation. “You should change the key of the piece. The key of A major is so tacky. Change it to C sharp major.”

    “Ugh,” Emily moaned, “C sharp is too hard. Why can’t I stick with my original key? It sounds fine.”

    “ ‘Fine’ won’t get you famous. You want to be a showstopper? Play it my way,” he growled. 

    Emily snorted and crossed her arms. “Whatever.” She cheerlessly played her piece in C sharp. Reluctantly, Emily had to admit that the song sounded better in C sharp, but she was not about to admit it out loud. Emily muttered, “How do you even know this sounds better? Aren’t you deaf?”

    Beethoven stuck his chin out petulantly. “Just because I’m deaf, doesn’t mean I don’t know what it sounds like! Now cut out that section of music, the one after those crescendos.”

    “What?” Emily gasped. “I worked forever on that section. No way am I cutting that out!” She calculated in her head and cried, “That would basically eliminate half the song!”

    “That’s the point. Too long of a song and you’ll bore your audience to death,” Beethoven argued. He paused and silently pondered for a moment. “If you’ve really got your heart dead set on writing a long song, add in a couple measures from my famous Fur Elise. That’ll give the audience something to enjoy.”

    Emily angrily pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m not going to make the song all about you. I wrote it.” She took several calming breaths to keep from snapping. “Fine. I’ll cut out that portion. But I won’t cut out any more.” Emily played the shortened song several times, making the music considerably better.

    Beethoven nodded. “Alright. The song is finally bearable. Just play the song one last time, Emily.” Emily obeyed and played the revised song. “Play it once more.” Emily, again, obeyed. She played the song twenty-five times, each time with more irritation. Over and over she played, her tingling hands begging for a break. 

    “You’ve still got something wrong with your song,” Beethoven pondered, a crease forming between his eyebrows, “Play the song again.”

    Emily began to whine at the top of her lungs. “You said that forty-seven times ago! It sounds good. I’m done.”

Beethoven muttered, “When I was your age, I wouldn’t give up so easily. I was a piano virtuoso.” 

     “But I’m not like you!” Emily hissed. “You’re just another old dead guy that played piano. I’m a real person with a real body, real commitments, and real friends. You’re just a lousy bust that sits on the back of the piano all day.”