See is the first rung. It’s in the middle, above the keyhole of the piano, and you place your right thumb there. Press down – a bit harder than that – until it makes sound. It’s said through your teeth, sung from your throat, and played from an ivory rectangle gleaming and polished white. The sound that you make with see glows.

My first teacher places my hand on the keys. My legs barely touch the ground. 

Sea.

Dee is the second rung. It’s just a bit after, and between dee and see is a black key. Dee is the first one in my piece that I have to play for a recital. I have to place my middle finger on it, and then my thumb has to hit a note below see. Dee is a note that I really like, and sometimes I hum it when I do my homework at the dining table. I put my pencil down and go to practice for my concert, middle finger on dee.   

The recital hall is smaller than I expected. I step up on the stage. I press down. 

Dee.

Eee is the start of a gap, the third rung. Between eee and the rung after it is a blank space with no black key. In the gap there is nothing, no sound, no motion. I ride in the red car we don’t own anymore, radio quietly playing at the front. Our upright piano is in a Uhaul truck somewhere behind us on the highway, and my piano teacher is miles behind us on the surface of the earth. 

A song comes on the radio. It’s “My Heart Will Go On”. 

Eee.

Eff is the end of the gap, the fourth rung. If you say it for too long, your lips will feel itchy, like how the sheets on my new bunk bed in this new house make me feel. The house – my mom says it’s an apartment – is so small, with no stairs and no attic. My new piano teacher’s name starts with eff. She gives me a song I have already learned.

She says to show her, and so I play it. She says that it’s bad; her eyes drill into my head and hands. 

Eff.

Jee is the fifth rung. When you play it with see, it sounds like the sun. I tell my teacher, but she tells me that my fingers are crooked and my hold is unsteady. She tells me to stop fooling around, and she gives me a new piece. It’s Beethoven’s Sonatina in jee Major, and it hurts my pinkies when I play it. I tell my teacher, but she says that it’s because I don’t practice enough.

So I practice, and my joints creak. I press down on a key. It’s slippery with tears. 

Jee.

Ae is the sixth rung. When I play it, it feels hollow. I press down and the sound is air, pushing against my ears. It passes through, then evaporates, and instead it’s filled with shouting – I can’t play this note, can’t play this scale, this piece is awkward, I can’t learn. I can’t hear. It’s all shouting, and the ladder is pain on my fingers, pain on my heart, pain on my ears and mind; it’s so loud. I don’t remember see being this loud, or dee or eee or eff or jee. 

An email from my mom to my piano teacher makes the sound stop. I don’t go to weekly lessons anymore.

Ae.

Bee is the seventh rung. When you play it, there is anticipation for completion. Shaking hands with this man, who teaches ladders on the second floor of a worn down church on 105th street is like speaking, singing, and playing bee. His grasp is warm. His words are soft. He tells me, when I play a note wrong, to keep going – complete the piece.

My finger slips, he tells me it’s okay. He says that I’m playing well.

Bee-

See. That’s the last rung, and my new piece – Clementi’s Sonatina in see Major – begins with it. I place my third finger on it and press down, then my fifth finger goes up to jee, my left presses down on see with it to create the sun. There’s a section later that has aes and effs played lightning fast, and it ends with dee. 

Atop the ladder is light and sound, atop the ladder is above the shouting and I sit, speaking and singing and playing.