Category:

Dad always said the viola was lucky. He used to remind me every time I got sick of practicing or whined about another concert or competition. In careful detail, he reminisced about the day we first walked into the Hartswood Music Store on the corner of Eighth and Franklin—from the twinkle of the silver bell when we opened the door to Mr. Miyazaki's thin, wispy beard and wrinkly forehead as he welcomed us into his shop. For a while, my older sister, May, played the piano, so my parents thought I'd pick that instrument, too.

But no.

At first, I only cared about the decorations. The weird little busts of Beethoven and Bach and the funny crank of the music stands when you bent them backward. But at some point, I guess, I pointed at a pair of violas hanging off to the side, separate from the violins and the giant cellos. Dad was thrilled. Lucky things always came in pairs. Every good Chinese person knew that. And I had zeroed in on two violas—the instruments that would therefore make me the luckiest, would bring me the most happiness. Dad bought them both. The first was for good fortune and for my future children "who might one day want to play the viola, too" (barf). The second was, of course, for 'me'. Once I curled my fingers around the pegbox and headrest, my future became clear. I was Freya June Sun: the violist.

Dad was wrong about one thing, though. I'm not lucky. Because while I still have my viola, he's been gone for eight months and five days. One afternoon in August, while I was at the kitchen table reading 'The Canterbury Tales' for my summer reading assignment, Dad was at work, in some sort of accounting meeting with his coworkers. And then just seconds later, he was apparently on the floor, his heels making right angles with the blue-gray carpet. The doctors called it a massive myocardial infarction. A heart attack. I call it cosmic punishment.

Now, it's just Mom dragging May and me through the Hartswood Middle School parking lot, my patent-leather Mary Janes kicking up gravel. My viola case knocks against my dress, and I wonder if I can hit it hard enough against my thighs that I'll damage the instrument and won't have to play my solo.

"Stop doing that," Mom scolds. "We're going to be late."

"It's fine. Mr. Keating won't care."

Or more like he's given up on caring. We've been late to so many rehearsals and nearly every concert since the start of the school year. Why should my conductor expect anything different this time around?

Case in point: As we near the lobby's double doors, May putters fifteen feet behind us, rummaging through her purse. My sister hates dressing up, but tonight she has on a plaid miniskirt and a cream knit sweater. It's not because she thinks my seventh-grade spring concert is important. It's because Lucas Vanderpool will be there, watching his younger brother bang out random notes on the bass. I told her Lucas Vanderpool's face looks like a pinched rat's, and he is literally the dullest person on the planet, but May is reapplying lip gloss for him anyway. She never listens to me.

We're almost inside. I close my eyes.

'If a car honks in three seconds, it's a sign from Dad that I don't have to play.'

One thousand and one. One thousand and two. One thousand and three. Silence.

'Okay, five seconds.'

Mom lunges ahead, waving us in from the doorway. May finally catches up to me, her breath hot on my shoulders. She drops her lip gloss in her bag before pulling out a white headband and stuffing it in her hair. I freeze. Choosing to wear white in your hair is like 'asking' for the ancestors to smite you. You only wear it when someone's died. Dad's funeral was the first time I'd worn an eggshell ribbon in my hair. It felt like rope tightening around my scalp. When we got to the church, I was messing with it so much, it almost slipped out of my ponytail. Grandma wordlessly stopped my fiddling. I knew what she meant as soon as her fingers curled around my wrist. On that day, white 'belonged' in my frizzy hair. White was for the dead.

The ribbon's still hidden in my jewelry box, beneath silk scrunchies and tchotchkes from our old summer vacations in Florida. I don't dare wear it or even look at it. But I can't throw it away, either.

"May," I say, a sudden bite in my voice, "take it off."

"Hmm?"