As the twins trooped out of the door, Jolene handed me a pair of packaged, high-end foam earplugs.
“Why?”
Andrea winced. “Trust me, you’re going to need them.”
“What have I agreed to?” I asked Dick.
Jane sniffed, smirking at me. “Suddenly ‘tedious’ doesn’t sound so bad, now does it?”
I had to add “special violin studio” to the list of things I didn’t realize existed in the Hollow. The nondescript, beige cement block warehouse was on the industrial side of town, painted with a stately sign reading Half-Moon Hollow Music Academy. If I hadn’t seen a parking lot full of cars, I probably wouldn’t have stopped there with children. But the twins ran in with a confidence that spoke of familiarity—or at least, the recklessness of being eight.
I had no idea there was enough local interest in string instruments to merit a whole studio devoted to them. Local kids could sign up for piano lessons or even guitar fairly easily. Or if they couldn’t afford private instruction, they usually joined their school bands for woodwinds and brass. Those bands rarely included a string section. I’d known a girl in high school who had been considered a violin prodigy, thanks to her well-off parents’ early intervention. And she’d had to travel to a youth orchestra in Nashville just for the opportunity to play. But this room was packed with at least twenty kids and their parents, holding everything from a tiny violin to an enormous contrabass. (I could only identify it because of a previous work project involving a regional orchestra.)
The school was basically an open rehearsal space with chairs and music stands arranged on risers in the center. It smelled familiar, a warm woodsy scent that immediately calmed me. Maybe it was the instruments? The owner had painted the walls a crisp white and hung carefully-placed acoustic panels. The floor was an immaculate maple that shone in the bright overhead lights. The only decorations were photos of students performing in various concert halls, interspersed with portraits of famous composers. Little brass nameplates labeled Brahms, Bach, and Beethoven, with a little sign underneath that read, “Learn Your Three B’s!”
Immediately, the space seemed very professional and focused, which was reflected in the kids’ behavior. Yes, they were still kids, talkative and loud, but they weren’t running around or roughhousing. I hoped this was a demonstration of how much they valued the lessons, and not the music teacher being some sort of super-strict ogre.
Most of the students were around the twins’ age, with a few teens who seemed to be in charge of getting the youngest kids into their seats with their instruments intact. It struck me that the crowd here was much more diverse than the average gathering in the Hollow. While most of the region’s occupants were Caucasian, the students here represented a healthy blend of Asian, Latino, Indian, and African American. I couldn’t help but think that was good for the twins, too. Growing up on the McClaine compound, where everybody was exactly like you, could leave you unprepared to deal with the outside world and all its differences. Jolene’s kids wouldn’t have to struggle with that and it made me all the more proud of her as a mom.
Janelyn, always the more social of the two, was greeted with hugs from several of the girls in class, while Joe seemed to have two or three “core friends” who separated from the class to talk very intensely about the instruments they were unpacking.
“Okay, I’ll just wait over here then,” I said awkwardly, joining a row of parents sitting along the wall. Some of them were knitting or reading. I guessed sideline coaching wasn’t a big thing in youth classical music classes—another point for Jolene and her ability to choose activities for her kids. I pulled out my phone to check my emails and two older boys led the twins’ group through breathing exercises and arm stretches.
The older boys, who continued to glance towards a closed office door near the front, stood in front of the seated group and raised their arms. Watching each other carefully to keep time, they lifted their arms and the children raised their bows in response. A chaotic clash of noise—the likes of which I’d only heard that one time a raccoon dared to infiltrate my uncle Eagan’s trailer—knocked me back against my chair. At first, it was just an assault on my eardrums, but eventually, I could hear that some of the notes were perfectly played—the tone whole and