Too late. It was a glossy program from a concert in Vienna, a full nineteen years ago. Mom was the headliner. Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor. A newspaper clipping was stapled to the back of it—a review from a German newspaper, presumably glowing.

I picked up another scrap of paper from the drawer. And another. These were all hers, interviews, programs, flyers, reviews. The earliest ones were all pasted into a little notebook at the bottom of the pile—her recital at Amberley, her philharmonic debut—but then there was a gap, nine years, ten, and everything since was just tossed in here, sloppily. Almost angrily.

Why had she kept it like this? What was the point? And she hadn’t cleared it out before leaving. Neither had Dad. He just kept sleeping next to it, night after night.

I climbed up to my closet, grabbed the shoebox my new sneakers had come in, ran back down, filled the box with paper scraps of Anna Weston-Chertok, shut the lid, closed the drawer, took the box back to my room, and stared at it.

What now? I could mail this to her. I didn’t even know where she was.

I put the box in my closet and shut the door.

The sun was going down. I wandered to the kitchen to forage, and a text came in from an unknown number.

I immediately started grinning. I hadn’t even put his name in my contacts yet.

I’m conducting till 8:30 but do you want to get together after?

And then . . . If you’re up for it. I can hang out wherever.

I started typing a reply, then let my finger hover until—another message: If you’re busy tonight I totally get it.

Then: Blather on, verb (See above)

I flopped over the kitchen counter, typing fast. Are you conducting your piece?

Nonononononooooooo Then: Not ready yet. At all. Tonight is THE MAN

I turned my phone upside down, like that would make his message make sense.

Eine kleine Nachtmusik

Nice! I replied.

They’re not killin it but we’re getting there, then: aaa break’s over, text you when we’re done

I typed as quickly as I could. Are you leading the orchestra tonight

He didn’t reply. Either he’d switched his phone to silent or he didn’t know how to answer such a pleb question. Of course the conductor would lead. But it seemed like he was describing the job of a real conductor, not a student—the musical director. Were they really giving a kid with next to no experience, running on pure instinct and enthusiasm, free rein with the Amberley summer orchestra?