Mr. Blair in the first place was always a bit of a mystery, because Mom hated music, always had as far back as Allie could remember, unless it was hymns in church.
This is lesson day, she realizes with a keening note of loss that takes her back to that very first lesson on that very first day.
A terrible day. For some reason Allie can’t understand, the girls in her class at school have turned on her. There have been snide comments and cold shoulders, rolled eyes and colder laughter all day long.
And when Mom shows up to pick them up after school, both Allie and Trey can tell at once that something is wrong.
“Uh-oh,” Trey says before the car rolls to a stop. “It’s one of those days.”
First sign, Mom’s got her hair twisted up into a bun. Her lipstick is red. She sits staring straight ahead, hands on the steering wheel at precisely ten and two.
“You get shotgun,” Allie shouts, racing for the car. The last thing she needs is to be stuck in the front seat with Mom when she’s in a mood.
She skids to a halt when she reaches the car, staring through the window in confusion.
The back seat is full of cello.
Dad’s cello. Or, at least, Dad’s cello case. When he left, it vanished with him and she hasn’t seen it since. Her heart gets stuck in her throat, and the rest of her body goes numb. A thread of Bach finds its way through the closed window and onto the sidewalk, wraps around her heart, and tugs.
Trey is already in place in the front seat, smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
“Get in, already,” her mom says. “Some people might have all day, I do not.”
Allie squeezes into the back seat beside the cello case. She can’t draw a proper breath, maybe because the cello is crowding her, but mostly because she’s caught between hope and fear.
She hasn’t seen the cello since Dad left, has always thought he took it with him. Did he come home? Or has the cello been at the house all along? But if that’s true, then why is it in the car now? Maybe Mom is going to sell it.
Allie remembers being so small she could stand tucked between Dad’s legs and the cello, dwarfed by its magnificence. Remembers the hum running through the wood and continuing on into her body.
“Feel that, little bird?” he’d asked. “That’s as close to magic as we get in this lifetime.”
Allie touches the case. Lightly, questing, feeling the impossible vibrations. Nobody is playing. The cello is in its case, and still the music circles up and around her.
Her mother slams on the brakes hard enough to jolt Allie into her seat belt.
She doesn’t recognize this place where they’ve stopped, on a quiet, tree-lined street.
“What are we doing?” Trey demands. “Why are we stopping here? I’m hungry.”
“Allie is going to have a music lesson.” Mom’s voice is cold and sharp. It cuts.
“I’m what?”
“Don’t be difficult, Allie,” her mother says, as if she’s thrown a tantrum instead of asking a reasonable question. “Your father wants you to have cello lessons; therefore, you are going to have cello lessons.”
Tears fill Allie’s eyes, spill down over her cheeks. She can’t suppress a little sob. She doesn’t know why she’s crying, only that she can’t seem to stop.
Her mother sits stiff and unbending, staring straight ahead. “Take the cello. Go into the house. Your teacher is a Mr. Blair, and he is waiting for you. You’ll be coming here once a week for lessons.”
Trey swivels to look at Allie, his eyes big.
She shrugs her shoulders at him, wipes her nose on her sleeve, and wrestles the cello case out of the car. It’s as big as she is, and it’s hard work lugging it up the sidewalk. Mr. Blair meets her at the door with a smile.
He doesn’t look like a musician, is her first thought. All musicians in her mind look like her father, tall and thin and dark. Mr. Blair is old and tiny, and flits about with quick, unexpected movements that make her jumpy.
He insists on taking the cello out of the case and setting it up for her, muttering all the while.
“Stradivarius, my foot,” he says, peering through the sound hole at the label. “Fakes everywhere these days. Ah well, what does it matter for a girl so young? Good enough, good enough.”
When the bow is rosined to his satisfaction, he gestures her into a