by Veronica Kogan

Have you ever had that one person that seems to plague your existence no matter how old you are or where you may be? Well, I do. It all started when I joined a new piano teacher’s studio in fourth grade…

I’d been playing piano since I was four years old, and by fourth grade, I was in a pianist’s most dreaded stage: not even enough motivation to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Searching for inspiration, I soon discovered the existence of piano competitions, and I knew this was the key to getting back into my practicing groove. However, my traditional teacher at the time found joining competition associations far too foreign and kicked me out the door when I insisted on the topic. I soon found a vibrant and tough-loving teacher that was fully in the competition loop.

But my cloud-nine state was short-lived—enter Terminator Girl (her real name shall remain a mystery so her parents don’t break my fingers at the next competition).

Terminator Girl was a year older than me, but for some reason would compete in the same grade level as in the an upcoming music competition. The first time we met, I was playing a variations piece by Shostakovich at my lesson. Terminator Girl walked into the room; the moment we locked eyes, I felt an invisible laser zap into my soul. She was sizing up my pianistic threat to her, and a small smirk spread across her face. Of course, my teacher took it as an amicable smile, but I shuddered and knew what it exactly was. A Terminator.

My teacher said to her, “Do you remember this piece? You played it last year, or was it two years ago?”

Oh, the humiliation I was playing on a level that she had already conquered long ago, and I was supposed to compete with her?!

After a final comment from Terminator Girl about the “easiness” of the musical passage that I was stumbling and struggling through, I went home filled with insecurity. I didn’t give up but I knew I had met my tenacious match.

And sure enough, Terminator Girl made many more appearances after that. My piano teacher held a recital at her home studio a month or so later, and, of course, Terminator Girl was there. She played her Rachmaninoff piece as if a robot had taken up rent in her fingers, playing at whirlwind speed without a single stumble.

At the small soiree that was held afterwards, many of us casually conversed and joked about each other’s relatable pianistic struggles, while Terminator Girl stuck up her nose at a 135-degree angle (she was also, apparently, a wiz at math) and walked past us inferior beings with our silly little troubles.

I continued to see Terminator Girl at competitions. No matter which one it was, she was always coincidentally right after me, ready to blast my nervous performance out of the water.

On my terrifying walk into the audition room, I’d catch a glimpse of her face, and that’s when I realized something: the Terminator Girl was miserable.

She couldn’t even smile back at me when I acknowledged and gave her a “we’ve both got this” nod in her direction. Yes, she won prize after prize, but did she enjoy it?

I had heard from other students that she would practice for hours and hours under the pressure of her parents — practicing and competing not for her own growth, but to win titles that others wanted her to win.

After realizing this, my enmity towards her turned into sympathy, even if she felt none for me. I was never meant to be a Terminator Girl.

But that didn’t mean that her diabolical appearances at every competition didn’t still drive me through the wall just a little bit.

Not too long ago, I particpated in a non-musical competition. It had absolutely nothing to do with music, but when I viewed the awards show, I watched excitedly as the recipients’ names flew by — when suddenly, an all too familiar name popped up.

It was her. The Terminator Girl.

Unstoppable.

Popping up again.

And again.

And again.

My eyeballs nearly fell out of their sockets—how on earth did she not only continually follow me, but pop into a completely unrelated corner of my existence ?

It’s not human.

Like George in the TV show Seinfeld, when his girlfriend invaded his friend group—“Worlds are colliding! You’re killing independent George!”

The last thing I remember is yelling as I slammed down my computer screen: “You’re terminating independent Veronica!!!’

And there is no doubt in my mind, no question whatsoever, that like her namesake in the Terminator movies, “She’ll be back.”

Veronica and Echo “Will be back” in the fall!