Locked in

I will never live this down. It’s simply impossible. It’s much too funny, and the least bit scandalous, which makes for the best teasing in the world. Really, I’ve gotten enough digs about my motorcycle-riding piano maestro already. And now this…
Perhaps I’d better just tell you. Why, and subject myself to more kidding? While I’d like to spare myself the inevitable exaggeration of the hearsay storyteller, the real reason is that if anybody’s going to tell this story, it’s going to be me.
I’d been busy polishing up my neglected repertoire before my teacher came, as cramming for Mozart sonatas and Ravel duets took up most of my practice time during the past few weeks. We had a wonderful, focused lesson, and we continued working even when Sara came in to pay my teacher for my September lessons. She closed the door quietly as she left, being careful not to distract us.
After over an hour of intensely re-working my Italian Concerto, my teacher nodded a “Bravissima!” and turned to go. He stopped short when the door refused to budge. As he pushed harder, I laughed. I’d been through this before. I sheepishly explained that the door locked itself if closed firmly, and rapped confidently. I fully expected that one of my classmates studying in the lounge would hear my distress signal and come release us from the chapel, as had always happened in the past when I had locked myself in. Little did I know that they had all gone off in a body about fifteen minutes before to pick up train tickets and dinner. The lounge was deserted. Dead silent. Empty.
We gave up pounding on the door after a few minutes of futile effort. I thought about hollering out the window, but I decided that we weren’t that desperate yet. I rummaged in my purse, only to discover that my cell phone was in my room, a mere twenty feet away. On the other side of the bolted door, of course. Nor did I have any of my friends numbers memorized. Fortunately, my teacher did have his cell and was able to call Sara, who called Dr. Webb, who had to leave her meeting with President Hartford to come back to the palazzo to let us out.
When he eventually stopped laughing, my teacher took the unexpected opportunity to play through the last two movements of the concerto. I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention; I was listening for some sign of deliverance rather than to J.S. Bach’s joyful flamboyance.
I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to hear the little jingle of Dr. Webb’s sliver bracelets. I couldn’t help but knock on the door again, even though I was sure she knew of our predicament because I could hear her laughing even as she came up the stairs. “This is the funniest thing that’s happened in a very, very long time,” she told us. I was laughing too hard to concur.
I ran into Dr. Hartford later that evening. Of course, the first thing she said was, “So what’s this I hear about you being “locked” in with your piano teacher? Oh, that’s just terrible!”
If italics could kill…