Schradieck? As in The School of Violin Technics. These were not musical compositions, but musical exercises. They were basic and beneficial, but basic and beneficial in the way that cod liver oil once was, or a measles vaccine, or a regular trip to the dentist.

How many countless students had given up violin because of Schradieck?

Shizuka smiled politely, the turned toward pond and ducks. There was no sense in making the girl nervous. The Queen of Hell opened the bag of hot dog buns, tore off a big chunk, and steeled herself for whatever horrible sound she was about to hear.

Shizuka was a child, on her way to school. During the winter mornings, especially around February, there was ice everywhere … on rain puddles, on windshields.

Today, the grass crunched underfoot. Even the air seemed frozen.

Julie Kiyama was holding her fingers to her mouth, exhaling into the frost and shouting, “Look at me, I’m smoking!”

“Smoking is bad for you,” Julie’s sister Sally yelled.

“Smoke rings! Smoke rings!”

“If you don’t stop smoking, I’m te—lling!”

And then they ran off. She tried to keep up with them. She ran as fast as she could.

But they had their hands free, and she had her violin.

Shizuka found herself breaking each bun into ever smaller pieces, so she could listen just a little more.

And as the girl finished Schradieck, Shizuka watched Julie and Sally Kiyama, her last childhood friends, disappear into the icy February mist.

In a Faded Box Marked “FREE”

School was over. As usual, Katrina was walking home alone. And, as usual, she wandered, meandered, trying to prolong each moment before she had to face her parents.

There was a store that sold used refrigerators and washing machines. There was what was left of a public phone nobody used.

And there was a used bookstore, and in front was a faded box marked “FREE.”

Katrina browsed through the box, full of the usual torn periodicals, self-help books, fad diets, computer manuals for long-dead machines.

And then she stopped.

School of Violin Technics, by Henry Schradieck. First published in 1901.

The book was probably there because all the markings, annotations, scribbles, and teacher’s notes made the book unsellable.

But for Katrina, each suggested fingering, each message penciled over notes or inked into a margin offered an encouragement and direction that she had never before seen.

Katrina had always loved music, especially the violin. Long ago, she had even taken lessons.

But she was queer, and living in a small town east of Oakland.

The afternoon that he found her makeup, Katrina’s father had punched her so hard that the entire side of her face turned black and blue. As word got around, her family, her church, the people at school hurled insults, shame.

You should act like a boy.

You should repent.

You should apologize.

You should die.

But here, all around the music, someone’s teacher wrote: