Relax. Keep your fingers open and light.

Someone’s teacher wrote:

Think of sunshine. You don’t need to rush.

Just follow the notes.

Trust yourself.

Good job!!

And there, someone’s teacher had drawn happy faces.

And there, someone’s teacher had pasted stars.

“Who’s your teacher?” Shizuka finally said.

“Um, no one.” The girl was munching on a hot dog bun.

This made no sense. How does someone with no teacher encounter Schradieck?

“I took violin in school once, when I was seven. But my father stopped the lessons.”

“Why?” Shizuka was even more confused. Anyone could hear this was a gifted musician.

“He said it was making me a faggot,” the girl said.

The girl rubbed her eye and winced. Shizuka inhaled sharply. Some of her makeup had smeared off, to reveal the bruised skin underneath.

The bag fell from Shizuka’s hands. Ducks flew at the fallen hot dog buns, tearing everything she had brought with her to shreds.

“I think I had better go,” Katrina said.

“No, wait.”

With a speed that surprised her, the woman grabbed Katrina’s arm.

Crap! Katrina froze. She could probably break the woman’s grip, but if she caused a commotion, she would get in trouble for sure. Stupid, Katrina, stupid! What if she thinks I’m a boy? What if she calls the police?

“Let me see your violin,” the woman said gently.

“Huh?”

“Your violin. Please.”

Waitwaitwait … what was this?

Katrina was in shock. The woman was playing the same Schradieck … wasn’t she?

But how could Schradieck sound like that? So quick, yet so even, it seemed almost a blur. But this was no blur. Each note was perfectly formed, perfectly spaced, and fully developed. How could hands move that way?

And yet, as the woman played, she was talking, as if on a lazy morning stroll.

“You have a very pretty tone. And I notice you play just a little sharp. You’re a bit of a diva, aren’t you?”

Katrina had heard the term “diva” in drag and queer circles, but here, in the context of music, the sound of it made something inside her swoon.

“It’s fine to be a diva,” the woman said with a wink. “But you have to own it.”

And then, where there had been the practice exercises, suddenly there was music. Katrina could still recognize the original exercises, but now there seemed to be two violins. And now there were three …

The music was sunrise, permeating the park. People stopped midsentence, midstroll to listen. Even the ducks seemed to stop squabbling.

The music was every hope Katrina had abandoned, every dream she had released. It was hamburgers on the grill, fruit punch in the cooler, a bag of Costco beef jerky for everyone. It was dancing without knowing the steps and not caring. It was her mom holding her, her dad calling her his little girl.

And then, it stopped.