A MATTER OF PRACTICE.

A 14 YEAR OLD GIRL AND HER MOTHER AND A BOY AND A SCHOOL IN 1962

You must practice, Yochana's mother says, you need to have the Schubert off better. Yochana moves her thin fingers over the keyboard, eyeing the music-sheet on the piano stand. Her mother walks behind her, eyes on her fingers' movement. Angela said some boy pays you attention, the mother says, focusing on the fingers, how they seem too stiff. What boy? Yochana says, pausing her playing, please to stop, eyeing her mother, thinking on the boy Benedict, the kiss he gave her on the cheek. Angela spoke of some boy at school in your class, the mother says, and play on, your fingers are stiff while playing. There is no boy, Yochana says, lying, but trying to do a professional job at it, but not that good as her eyes give her away, proceeding to get her fingers playing over the keyboard once again, bring the Schubert back to life. Then Angela is either mistaken or lying are you saying? Her mother says. Yochana says nothing, wondering how much Angela had said, and how much pressure Mother put her on the poor girl. I've told you about boys, you have no time yet for boys, not while at school at any rate, and it then needs to be the right boy, and I cannot see there being that kind of boy at that school, the mother says slowly, but with emphasis on the word -right boy-, and still the firmness in the way of speech. Yochana comes to the end of the Schubert piece and puts her hands in her lap. She sits stiff. She hears her mother breathing, pacing behind her. Still too stiff in playing, she says, and this boy and I assume there is a boy or Angela would not have mentioned one and I do hope you are not taking to the art of deception, Yochana, as you do not have that skill to any great degree. Yochana turns and looks at her mother. Just a boy in class and it's nothing, she says, never going to mention the kiss on the cheek, she thinks, eyeing her mother's eyes. And what is he up to, this boy? Nothing, just a boy in class who stare sat me. And why does he stare at you? Have you been encouraging the boy to stare? Yochana shakes her head. Her dark hair moves from side to side. Of course not, she says, seeing Benedict near her in her mind. So why does he stare? the mother asks, leaning over Yochana, her hands each side of the piano-stall on which Yochana sits. Maybe he likes to stare at me. Don't be flippant, the mother says, Angela says he seems too friendly with you. Too friendly? Yochana senses herself blush and tries to add distraction by turning and playing a few bars of Beethoven, he's just a boy who stares and jokes. Then discourage him, the mother says firmly, or I will write to the Head and complain. I do discourage him as best I can, she lies, bringing the Beethoven along fiercely. A slap drives her hands from the keyboard and into her lap where she digs them deep between her thin thighs. Don't try and distract me my girl or you will  be pushing me to my limits and you know what that means, the mother says. Yochana looks down at the keyboard, senses the sting of pain on her hands. She nods. I will ask Angela to keep an eye on this boy and you it seems. Angela and her big mouth, Yochana muses, looking at the motionless keyboard, black and white keys. She sees Benedict kissing her again on her cheek just out of the blue that day. It was sudden. Smack on the cheek. Damp, warm. He standing there smiling. She stirred up, but pretending not to be. Understand me? Her mother says, turning Yochana around to face her, gazing into her daughters eyes, through the thin wired framed glasses. Yes, I understand, she says, trying not to look at her mother, attempting to hide her tears coming, the sting of hands. Then go to your room and focus on the English work, otherwise you will get behind with that and you will need that if you are to make anything of yourself at that school, her mother says, standing back allowing room for her daughter to rise up from the piano stall and move. Yochana walks away from the piano looking away from her mother, her eyes watery. And remember, girl, you are only fourteen not twenty one, still a child, the mother says at her daughter disappearing back. Yochana says nothing, but walks out of the music room and up the stairs, one foot climbing after the other in a slow determined fashion. She knows what her mother is implying. She remembers how strict her mother can be. She walks to her room, opens the door and enters, closing the door behind her and leans against it. Tears fill her eyes. Angela's big mouth. No doubt innocently said. Mother pushing it. Squeezing all she could out of the dim girl until it had all she needed. I'll see Angela and have a word. Keep it quiet. Mouth shut. Or I'm for it, I'll tell her, Yochana  says to herself, moving away from the door and picking up the English grammar and lies on the bed. That sort of boy. That kind of school. Was Benedict that kind of boy? What kind was he? She didn't know. Not her mother's idea of a right type of boy. Kiss on the cheek. She felt her cheek where she recalls he kissed her. Fingers feel there. The sting in her hand is still there as she moves her fingers. She puts the English grammar book beside her on the bed and closes her eyes, pushing out tears. She places a hand to her cheek. Rubs it. Takes the fingers from her cheek and puts the fingertips to her lips and kisses, then slowly blows the invisible kisses towards the window, hoping to God her mother doesn't see the invisible kisses flyby and go.