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224 pages, Hardcover
First published September 1, 2003
I pulled my bow in a quick downstroke and heard a discordant note tear out raw and wrong.
That's what I keep remembering. How once I'd played that note so badly, there was no way to get it back. And how that one mistake led to another and another--a missed accent, a hurried rest beat, an odd angle to my bow arm. One off note after another, after another, after another.
Somehow my hands, on their own, played to the concerto's end: played decently through the easy parts when I should have been preparing for the trouble spots and wasn't; faltered through the hard sections with only what my fingers remembered and nothing of what I needed to add from my head and my heart.
She [Amy:] sniffs. "Is your Mom making you go [back:]?"
"Then why?" she demands. "If you can stay here, why don't you?"
"Because right now I belong where I can learn to be the best musician I can be."
She considers than and then asks, "But what if you mess up again?"
"I don't know," I answer. "I might. But you wouldn't want me not to try, would you? To have less courage than you showed tonight?"