“It’s a thank-you from Lan. The Camellia Music Society is hiring Starrgate to provide donuts for the entire event … because of Shizuka Satomi’s heartfelt recommendation.”

“Miss Satomi?”

“Well, I suppose that counts as a little effort.”

Shizuka read the letter once more. It was crazy, but the more she thought about the showcase, the less she disliked it. This was not a competition, which meant no self-important judges, mandatory pieces, or vomiting in the bathroom. And Katrina would gain valuable performing experience.

“At the very least, we can enjoy the weather. And there will be donuts.”

“You’re accepting?”

“If they want to hear my student that badly, then why not? And besides, perhaps it’s time that Katrina gets her first taste of blood.”

“But you promised that I did not have to compete,” Katrina said nervously.

“This isn’t a competition. It’s just a showcase. No pressure. You can just play the music you’ve been working on.”

Katrina sat down. She buried her head into her knees and began to rock back and forth.

Now what? Why should Katrina be scared of a showcase? Wasn’t she posting videos on the Internet? Wasn’t she thrilled when she got more views? Why wouldn’t any musician want to share their music?

Shizuka caught herself. No. Being upset would only make things worse.

“Katrina. I’m listening.”

For a long time, there was nothing.

And then, slowly, Katrina told Shizuka how ugly she felt when she was ignored at Grunfeld’s. Bit by bit, she admitted how hurt she was when Lucía Matía had called her a boy. She talked of listening to the sneers of people on the sidewalk, the horrible words spoken both loudly and under breath.

She talked of listening, always listening, for the next possible attack, of trying to slouch as she walked in public, or that time after church when her uncle held her down and kissed her while saying please don’t give him AIDS and that God thought she was a filthy whore.

And there was more. She talked of dating, of bathrooms, of being in a roomful of queers and still feeling alone. She talked about the sting of applying makeup over fresh scrapes and bruises, the terrible whispers on the bus ride here.

And there was more. There was always more.

And that was what made it so horrible. Her family would be there, her school would be there, the sidewalk would be there, and it was so everyday that yesterday was tomorrow blending into the day after jammed backward and forward and just wanting to cry.

“B-but I can’t even cry like a girl…”

Eventually, the crying subsided, not because anything was better, but because there was no moisture left to give.