Trent Ellison noticed her instantly. A smudge of dirt against his flawless masterpiece of an evening.
"Get your filthy hands off that piano," Trent barked, his voice slicing through the polite chatter of the gala.
Phoebe did not flinch. She looked up at the towering man in the custom navy suit. "If you allow me, I can play."
Trent scoffed, looking her up and down. "Play? You look like a filthy rat that just crawled out of a dumpster."
"Security, get this trash out," a woman in a gold dress hissed. "She is making a mess of this place."
"I am not asking for money," Phoebe said, her voice steady, her eyes locked on the ivory keys. "Just one song, please."
Trent paused. He looked at the empty piano, the source of his quiet humiliation all evening, and then at the homeless teenager. A cruel smile touched his lips.
"Fine," Trent announced loudly, ensuring the crowd could hear. "Let the homeless girl embarrass herself."
Around the terrace, two hundred guests pulled out their phones. Some laughed, some whispered, and not a single person stood up to defend her.
Phoebe sat on the velvet-cushioned bench. It was softer than the wooden pew at St. Augustine's, grander than anything she had ever touched. She slipped her backpack off her shoulder and placed it gently on the stone floor. She closed her eyes.
She didn't think about the phones recording her. She didn't think about the 2004 Honda Civic, the cold nights on Kensington Avenue, or the sneer on Trent Ellison's face.
She thought about Clara. She remembered her mother’s hands floating above the keys, asking permission. Phoebe lifted her own dirt-smudged hands, hovering them over the pristine Steinway.