Chapter Text
My name is Maya Kathleen Bishop, but if you’ve read any music magazine in the last decade, you probably already know that. People love throwing around the word "prodigy" when they talk about me, classical music’s golden child, the next Mozart, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before. Sure, I’ve been playing piano since before I could form complete sentences, but who hasn’t?
Apparently, my mom swears I started playing Chopin by ear when I was four. I don’t remember it, but hey, that’s the story she tells everyone. Makes for great dinner party conversations, especially when I’m awkwardly sitting there, pretending I didn’t just hear her say I was basically born with a Steinway under my tiny baby hands. It’s exhausting, being this talented, but I guess someone has to do it, right?
By the time I was six, I had already outgrown my piano teacher. Bless her heart, Mrs. Walter was sweet, but the woman had the patience of a saint and the musical imagination of a brick. I was politely asked to seek more "advanced instruction" after I corrected her for the millionth time during my lesson. Apparently, you’re not supposed to tell your teacher that they’ve been playing Bach incorrectly for thirty years. Who knew?
Fast forward a few years, and I was basically running the classical music scene. First prize in every competition, standing ovations at every performance. If you can name an award, I’ve probably won it, and if you can’t, well, that’s because I haven’t gotten to it yet. Carnegie Hall, Berlin Philharmonic, you name it, I’ve played there, dazzling critics and making old men cry in tuxedos. The only thing I haven’t done yet is float off the stage after a performance, but give me time. I’m working on that one.
The thing is, everyone loves to ask me about my “gift,” like I was handed magical fingers by a mystical piano fairy one day. It's like Yes and No answered, yes babe, I can make sure I have the magic fingers your need, and No I just practice a lot. But sure, let’s go with the "musical prodigy" angle if it makes for a better headline.
They’ll print anything if you say it with a straight face and that kind of smile. I’ve mastered that smile, you know the one, the oh-shit-I’m-just-so-lucky-to-be-here look. Meanwhile, I’m mentally composing my next concerto and counting how many times I’ve heard the word “genius” in the last five minutes.
I’ve had the pleasure of being interviewed by every famous journalist in the industry. They ask the same questions, over and over. “Maya, what’s it like being so young and yet so accomplished?” Well, it’s a real burden carrying the weight of classical music’s future on my shoulders. I mean, sure, I could have just gone to high school like a normal person, worried about SATs, how to ask my crush to go out on a date, but instead, I was playing “Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3” at Lincoln Center. So, yeah, I guess you could say it’s been... a bit different.
And then there’s the inevitable question about how I “stay grounded.” Spoiler alert: I don’t. I float about three feet above the ground at all times. Haven’t touched grass maybe since I got my first award. Like come on, Seriously, though, staying grounded when you’re constantly being told you’re the best is a little hard and so tricky.
I mean, tell me how do you stay humble when your face is across magazines, websites, and you’ve got orchestras tripping over themselves to book you? Exactly. You don’t. So yeah, I’m a bit of a perfectionist, and okay, maybe I’m not the most approachable person in the world.
But would you be if your whole life revolved around nailing every single performance? Didn’t think so.
People like to imagine that my life is all full of excitement, luxury, and extravagance. Guess what? Spoiler alert again: it’s not. Sure, the applause is great, but nobody sees the hours of practice, the nights spent staring at sheet music until the notes blur together, how to deal with Repetitive Strain Injuries, a classic injury for a pianist. These occur due to overuse of the hands and wrists, because I couldn't stop to find the perfect notes to finish my masterpiece. I needed 6 months to recover from that and canceled some of my shows. Classical music is cutthroat, and I’m not just talking about the competition.
You miss one note in a performance, and suddenly your career’s a joke. No pressure, right?
But I can’t complain too much. The accolades are nice, the applause is... fine. Plus, nothing beats watching a room full of critics squirm in their seats when I hit the final note of a performance. That’s why I do it, after all for the Perfection, the applause that will bring me over the moon, for the chance to remind everyone that, yes, I’m still the best. And no, I’m not planning on stopping any time soon.
You’re welcome, world.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I've got another concert to write about.
I was in my studio room, my sacred place, writing note by note to my next masterpiece. When all of sudden, the door to my studio burst open. Only one person in the world dares to do that, and it’s the same person I’ve stupidly allowed to get away with it.
Oh, I'm in trouble .
I can tell from her expression that I'm really in serious trouble, and I know the reason. She tossed a clipboard on my beloved Steinway & Son piano. Like, seriously? This piano's practically royalty was founded in 1853, no less!, and here it was, violated by a measly clipboard.
Who dares to hurt my "Baby B"? Yes, that's her name ”Baby B”. It's more than an instrument to me. It's my confidante, my emotional outlet, and someone just put a clipboard on top of it disrespectfully. She knows exactly that’s a cardinal sin in this place.
Oh, this means war.
I close my eyes, trying to not raise my voice too much, but I can't because this Steinway & Sons piano is my baby, and no one, like even this person can touch my baby "A Clipboard? On my Steinway & Sons ? That's like putting a knife to my heart you know that!" I carefully removed the clipboard, my eyes scanning my “Baby B” for any scratches, and gave her my deadly look.
And here's where the war began
“Bishop, can you, for once, stop being a diva?"
I'm trying to open my mouth to answer that, that yes I'm a "Diva" at least that’s how the Media wrote about me. But before I could say anything, she raised her fingers and clamped her fingers over her lips, a clear signal to me to be quiet.
"No, Bishop, I'm not finished yet... not a word." She raised her index finger and shook it side to side, a clear 'no' gesture. “Let me finish this one. Yes, I know you are a Prodigy, Genius, Diva etcetera." and she continued, I know exactly from her voice she’s trying to calm herself.
"I'm trying so hard to find someone to replace me, but honestly, it seems like searching for a unicorn that can also brew the perfect cup of tea, read a partiture sheet, and magically appear when you need them." She finally lost her patience and almost screamed in frustration.
So everyone, please meet my soon-to-be-ex-assistant, the longest assistant that works for me. Well I'm hard to please and she's the one who can bear with me. She is perfect, smart, can make a good coffee, can make a good joke on my hardest day, and the most important one is knowing my weaknesses so well. Ladies and gentlemen please welcome Victoria Hughes or Vic.
But poor Vic, she was in a panic mode about finding her replacement, and it’s been a month, no one that she references can pass “Maya Bishop Standard”, and that means she can’t resign yet, till she gets her replacement.
On top of that, in 4 months I will have a tour all over the world, and I will need an assistant to help me deal with all of my needs, my schedule, my dress, my suit, my tea or coffee, my sheets, my breakfast and bla bla bla.
"Tell me again Vic, Why did you decide to quit? Leave me alone at this crucial time, you know exactly how important this show is, right?" I tried so hard to give her my puppy eyes, hoping she would take pity on me.
Vic huffed, rolling her eyes. “Bish, we've been over this!” Vic ran her hands through her hair. “I can't go on your world tour. My dad needs me here. I can’t bring him to your tour all over the world. His condition isn't allowing him to do that, and I want to be by his side at least until his condition gets better. Can you please try to be a little less selfish?” Her voice cracked at the end.
"And you know exactly that I can go anytime, right? But I stayed and helped you find my replacement because I owe you a lot." She held her head to the ceiling, hoping to keep her tears from falling.
I nodded my head. I never asked her to repay me for helping her father with medication, but she insisted. And with the tight schedule preparing for my show, it would be helpful if she could stay to find and train her replacement.
"I've tried everything! I've even put out a HELP WANTED. Big Compensation, work with a diva, and chance to travel around the world ad in the newspaper for a superhuman assistant. But you, BISHOP! Throwing all of them in a second." Her voice sounded so desperate and mixed with anger, and I could see the tears beginning to fall.
I raised an eyebrow. 'Well, maybe the superhuman aliens will send us one. They're always looking for new worlds to conquer." I gave her my best smile, trying to ease the situation.
Vic rolled her eyes. “Oh, great. Just what I need, an alien overlord telling me how to make my bed." Vic moved closer to me, to draw my attention “Bish, the last assistant, she's only been here for 48 hours! I gave her a 30-page document detailing your every weird habit.” she pointed her finger to the clipboard that was already on the floor now. “And you expect her to keep up?” Vic paced back and forth, clearly exasperated. “Two days, Bish!”.
Vic's rising voice definitely got my attention, “Isn't my fault, they messed with everything, my tea, my coffee, my dress, my suits, and the worst part they even touched my Steinway & Sons, My Baby B! Are you sure you put that on your 30-page list of rules? And you blamed me? I just want someone exactly like you, or maybe you can clone yourself?”. I grinned at her, showing my perfectly white teeth to her.
Vic gave me a look and snapped her fingers, signaling me to get more serious and focus on her. Suddenly she gave me her smile number one, that is showing in her face. Here comes Vic Hughes' brilliant idea. Clearly not planning to back down and give up she took a deep breath and starting to sharing her idea
"Okay, Bish. Here's the deal. You will give this new assistant seven days. Try to hold on to your next assistant for at least that long before firing them." Vic enthusiastically continued her idea. "And you will need to inform me of all their mistakes within 48 hours, so I can give them input or train them to be better. And if they fail, you can get a new assistant again.”
I scoffed and tossed my pen onto the music sheet. "Seven days? Vic, that's an eternity. I can already tell when someone isn’t going to work out in 12 hours. I mean, if they can’t keep up with me, what’s the point?" I furrowed my eyebrows and gave her my 'I'm-Maya-Bishop-serious-look’ and you better give me what I want. Then, I crossed my arms like a shield to protect myself. We were basically having a staring contest, trying to see who could look more unimpressed.
Vic’s eyes narrowed, and I could see the frustration on her face "Bish, if you don’t try, I’m walking out, and I’ll leave you to go on your world tour with no assistant. You know how disastrous that’ll be. You won't last a day. Who’s going to handle your schedule, your press meetings, or make sure you have your favorite brand of tea on stage?"
She paused, then added, "Please try, and try to reduce your IMPOSSIBLE UNICORN STANDARD again, and ask me to fire them without any good reason, I'm gone for good. Seriously, no more another chance Bish"
I opened my mouth to argue but then closed it again, realizing she had a point. She won. Managing all those things would only hassle me and reduce my practice time.
Fine, I grumble, rolling my eyes. “But if they can’t follow the thirty-page document you left, it’s not my fault. Perfection is a myth, but striving for it is a reality Vic, and you really need to teach them how to make a great tea and coffee deal?" I extended my hand for a handshake.
Vic raised an eyebrow, and finally gave me her smile "DEAL!, Oh, don’t worry, Bish. I’ll make sure to find someone who can handle you and your IMPOSSIBLENESS. Just, please, give them a chance. Seven days! that's all I ask?" she shook our hand to seal the deal.
I let out a long, exaggerated sigh, "Alright” I finally replied, the word barely escaping my lips. “Seven days. But if they touch my Baby B again, I’ll throw them out. I’m calling the aliens to handle it. I hear they’re efficient."
Finally I can hear Vic laughing, the tension easing just a bit between us "Maya Bishop You’re impossible. But at least you're my kind of impossible."
As she turned to leave, she threw one last look over her shoulder. "Seven days, Bish. Don’t blow it." She gave me her last warning look before closing my studio room.
As she left, I started questioning myself. Seven days. How hard could it be?