# Chapter 3: The Performance
Saturday afternoon, and the plaza outside Central Station was packed. Office workers grabbing late lunches, tourists snapping photos, families with strollers—exactly the kind of crowd that could make or break a street performer's weekend.
I'd set up my usual spot near the fountain, far enough from the station entrance that security wouldn't bother me, close enough that foot traffic was constant. My guitar case lay open at my feet, already holding a few coins from early passersby. If I was lucky, today could bring in enough for food, soap, maybe even a cheap pair of socks to replace the ones with holes.
But luck had never been my friend.
I should have known better than to perform here. My usual spot was three blocks away, tucked into a quieter corner where the crowds were smaller and I could remain invisible. But I'd made a mistake—gotten greedy, maybe, or just desperate. The rent for a storage locker where I could keep my things during school was due next week, and I was still fifty dollars short.
So here I was, exposed in the middle of downtown, playing for strangers who would never know my story.
I started with a cover—"Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen. People liked the classics, and my version was good enough to stop them mid-stride. A woman dropped a few bills into my case. A teenager filmed me on her phone. An elderly man stood listening for three full minutes before placing a folded twenty on top of the coins.
The sun was warm on my face. My fingers found the chords without thinking. For a few precious minutes, I let myself believe this was just a performance, not survival. That I was an artist, not a homeless kid begging for change.
Then I saw them.
Mei and her father, Uncle Chen, walking out of an upscale restaurant across the plaza. She was wearing designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than I'd made in the last month. He was in a business suit, phone pressed to his ear, looking every bit the successful real estate developer he was.
They hadn't seen me yet. I could stop playing, pack up, disappear before—
Mei's eyes locked onto mine.
For a heartbeat, we just stared at each other across the crowded plaza. Then her expression shifted into something cruel and satisfied, and she tugged on her father's sleeve.
Uncle Chen lowered his phone. Followed her gaze. His face hardened when he recognized me.
They started walking toward me.
Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my hands kept playing, muscle memory carrying the song forward even as my heart hammered against my ribs. People were watching me. If I stopped now, if I panicked, I'd lose whatever money I'd already made. I needed that money. I needed it more than I needed my dignity.
Mei and Uncle Chen stopped a few feet away from my guitar case. Close enough that I could see the designer logo on her purse, the gold watch on his wrist. Close enough that everyone around us could hear what they were about to say.
"Well, well," Mei said, her voice carrying across the plaza. "Look who it is, Dad. Our dear cousin Kenny."
I kept playing, kept singing, trying to ignore them. But my voice cracked on the next line.
"This life really suits you," Mei continued, speaking loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear. "Playing in the street for spare change. It's fitting, don't you think? After all the bad luck you brought our family."
An older woman who'd been about to drop money into my case hesitated, her hand hovering in midair.
"You know this boy?" she asked Mei.
"Unfortunately." Mei's smile was poisonous. "He's my cousin. Or he was, before he caused our grandmother's death and got kicked out of the family. Now he suffers out here, exactly where he belongs."
The woman pulled her hand back, clutching her purse closer. Others in the crowd began whispering, their expressions shifting from appreciation to suspicion. I saw my afternoon's earnings slipping away with every word Mei spoke.
I stopped playing. My hands fell still on the strings.
"I didn't kill her," I said quietly. "You know I didn't."
"Do I?" Mei tilted her head, mock-innocent. "All I know is that Grandma was fine until you came along. Just like Mom and Dad were fine until you were born."
Uncle Chen had been silent this whole time, but now he reached into his pocket. For a moment, I thought he might actually give me money—one final gesture before walking away. Instead, he pulled out his wallet and extracted a crisp 10,000 yen note.
The crowd murmured. That was serious money—nearly a hundred dollars.
He held it up for everyone to see, then slowly, deliberately, tore it in half.
"This is what you're worth, Kenny," he said, his voice cold. "Nothing."
He tore the halves into quarters. Then eighths. The pieces fluttered down like confetti, landing in my guitar case, on my shoes, on the pavement around me. Destroyed money, worthless paper that might as well have been ashes.
"You cursed my sister," he continued. "You cursed your parents. You cursed my mother-in-law. Everyone you touch suffers. So stay here in the gutter where you can't hurt anyone else."
He turned and walked away. Mei lingered for a moment, and I saw something in her eyes—not just cruelty, but satisfaction. She'd won. She'd taken everything from me, and now she'd humiliated me in front of dozens of witnesses.
"Enjoy your music career," she said sweetly, then followed her father.
The crowd dispersed quickly after that. Some looked uncomfortable, others disgusted—though whether with me or with what they'd just witnessed, I couldn't tell. The woman who'd almost given me money hurried away. The teenager who'd been filming had already left.
Within five minutes, the plaza had returned to its normal flow of traffic, everyone pretending nothing had happened.
I knelt down and gathered the torn pieces of the 10,000 yen note, hands shaking. Useless. Destroyed. The bank wouldn't accept them. No store would take them. Uncle Chen had made sure of that.
My guitar case held maybe thirty dollars in coins and small bills. Not enough for the storage unit. Not enough for more than a few days of food.
I packed up my guitar with mechanical precision, fingers moving through the familiar motions while my mind went numb. The afternoon sun felt too bright, too hot. My throat was tight, and my eyes burned, but I refused to cry. Not here. Not where people could see.
I slung my guitar over my shoulder and walked away from Central Station, away from the crowds, my feet carrying me on autopilot toward the one place that felt safe.
The bridge.
By the time I reached my spot under the Jefferson Street Bridge, the sun was beginning to set. The river reflected orange and pink, almost beautiful if you didn't look too close at the garbage floating in the shallows.
I dropped my guitar case and backpack, then just stood there, staring at the water. My hands were still shaking. My chest felt like someone had reached inside and squeezed.
*This life suits you.*
*Everyone you touch suffers.*
*You're worth nothing.*
The words circled in my head like vultures, picking at wounds that had never quite healed. Seven years since my parents died, and my family still blamed me. Still believed, with absolute certainty, that I was cursed. That my existence brought misfortune to everyone around me.
What if they were right?
Grandma had died. That was a fact. And yes, she was eighty-nine, and yes, her heart had simply worn out—but what if the stress of raising me, of taking in the grandson everyone else rejected, had accelerated her decline? What if I really was bad luck incarnated?
I sank down onto my blanket, pulled my knees to my chest, and finally let the tears come.
They came hard and fast, racking sobs that tore through my chest and left me gasping. I cried for Grandma, for my parents, for the life I'd lost and the life I was living. I cried for the humiliation of watching Uncle Chen destroy money I desperately needed, for Mei's cruelty, for the way the crowd had looked at me afterward—like I was something dirty and contagious.
I cried until there was nothing left, until I was hollow and empty and too exhausted to feel anything at all.
The sky had turned dark by the time I finally stopped. Stars were beginning to appear overhead, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the rumble of a train. Normal sounds of a normal night in a normal city where normal people were going home to normal lives.
I pulled out my phone and saw three missed texts.
**Jasmine:** *Hey! How was your weekend? You coming to the showcase planning meeting Monday?*
**Coco:** *Just finalized the lineup for the showcase. You're opening the second half! Think about what song you want to perform.*
**Mary:** *Coco is way too excited about this showcase. She made me listen to your song like 10 times today. Fair warning.*
I stared at the messages, feeling the weight of the gulf between their world and mine. They thought I was just a talented kid with a guitar. They had no idea I was sleeping under a bridge, bathing in a river, using tree roots to brush my teeth.
They had no idea that today, my family had destroyed money in front of me just to prove I was worthless.
I should quit the club. It would be easier that way—no lies to maintain, no risk of them finding out the truth. I could finish the school year, keep my head down, and disappear the moment I graduated. That was the smart play. The safe play.
But as I sat there in the dark, holding my phone, I thought about the way Coco had cried when I sang. The way Mary had looked at me with awe instead of disgust. The way Jasmine smiled at me in the hallways like I was worth smiling at.
For the first time in months, people saw something in me besides bad luck.
What if they were right too?
I wiped my face with my sleeve, took a shaky breath, and texted back:
**To Jasmine:** *Weekend was fine. I'll be there Monday.*
**To Coco:** *I have a few songs in mind. Let's talk about it at practice.*
**To Mary:** *Tell her I'm honored. See you Monday.*
Then I set my phone aside, pulled my blanket over my shoulders, and tried to find a position on the cold concrete that didn't make my back ache too much.
Tomorrow was Sunday. I'd go to the library, charge my phone, work on new songs. Monday, I'd be back at Riverside, back in the uniform, back in the role of normal student with a normal life.
I could keep this up. I had to keep this up.
Because the alternative—giving up, proving Mei and Uncle Chen right, becoming exactly the worthless, cursed thing they believed I was—that wasn't an option.
Grandma hadn't raised me to give up.
And I'd be damned if I let her down now.
Sunday morning, I woke to rain pattering on the concrete above me. Water dripped through cracks in the bridge, forming small puddles near my blanket. I moved my things to a drier spot, then checked my guitar case—the inside was damp but not soaked. The guitar itself was fine, protected by its hard case.
Small blessings.
I counted the money from yesterday's performance. Thirty-two dollars and fifty cents. Not enough for the storage unit, but enough for food and maybe a trip to the thrift store for warmer socks.
The torn pieces of the 10,000 yen note were still scattered at the bottom of my guitar case. I picked them up, studying the deliberate destruction. Uncle Chen had been thorough—each piece was too small to be taped back together, too damaged to be accepted anywhere.
I should throw them away. They were just a reminder of yesterday's humiliation, of the family that hated me.
Instead, I tucked them into my notebook, between pages of song lyrics.
Maybe someday, when I was standing on a real stage instead of a street corner, when I was playing sold-out shows instead of begging for change, I'd look at these pieces of destroyed money and remember why I kept fighting.
Until then, they were just paper. And paper couldn't hurt me unless I let it.
I packed up my things, slung my guitar over my shoulder, and headed toward the library.
I had songs to write.
And on Monday, I had a club meeting to attend.
*End of Chapter 3*