The summer program is open to kids from all over the world, and I can’t help that tiny nagging voice that sometimes creeps up in my head and says, I know I’m good, but am I good enough? Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself—I haven’t even been formally invited to audition yet. There’s a whole first round where you have to apply and send in a résumé of all your musical experience and get recommendations before they even invite you to audition. I turned it all in a few weeks ago, and now I wait.

Even if I do make the cut, the board gives out exactly one scholarship in the high school program each summer—and I need to be the one to get it. I don’t know how we’ll ever afford it otherwise. I’ve even heard my parents worrying about that late at night. So yeah, consistently perfect, that’s the goal.

I don’t even notice my mom is in my room until she pokes me in the shoulder. I jump, my eyes flinging open, nearly dropping my bow.

“Sorry, hon,” she says, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. It’s wet; it must have started raining.

“It’s okay.” I set my cello in its stand and stretch my arms out while I flex my fingers. “You’re home early.”

“Late, actually,” she says. “It’s almost eight. You hungry? Vera’s bringing home takeout.”

I’m about to say no, but then I realize I definitely am. I glance at my phone; I’ve been playing for four hours, a full hour longer than my usual school-night practices. “Starving, apparently.”

My mom pulls her hair back with a yawn and gives my shoulder a squeeze. I know the feeling; coming home from the con last night and diving into school today wasn’t fun, but it was probably worse for her, sitting in a real estate office, praying someone will wander in needing to buy a house just so she can get paid.

“I’m gonna go change,” my mom says. “I’ll shout when Vera gets home.”

I nod and sit on my bed. My cat, HP—short for Harry Potter, don’t judge me, I was eight—jumps up and starts rubbing her head against me. I scratch under her chin for a second, pulling away when she stops purring and bites me. My phone lights up with another message, and I drop onto my pillow to check everything I’ve missed. Jayla and Nikki have both texted me about a dozen times—both separately and on our group chat—but it’s Bats’s message that I click on first.