She asked Rachel what families actually needed.
Rachel said transportation.
Margaret funded transportation.
Useful.
Lila did not know for years.
Good.
At fifteen, Lila’s talent stopped feeling extraordinary to her.
Everyone around her was talented.
Summer conservatory fixed that quickly.
She met children who could sight-read things that took her weeks.
A thirteen-year-old boy from California could play octaves faster than she could think.
A girl from Seoul had performed with an orchestra at nine.
Lila panicked.
For the first time, being Number 27 meant nothing.
She called Marcus.
“I’m not that good.”
He was underneath a boiler when he answered.
“What?”
“I said I’m not that good.”
A wrench clanged.
“Hold on.”
Thirty seconds.
Then:
“Okay.”
Lila stared at her dorm wall.
“Okay?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That I’m amazing.”
“You told me not to do that when you were thirteen.”
“Different emergency.”
Marcus laughed.
“Lila.”
“Yes?”
“Are they better than you?”
“Some.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“You wanted a school where people could teach you.”
“That requires somebody knowing something you don’t.”
She hated practical parents.
“They’re younger.”
“So?”
“That matters.”
“To your ego.”
“Dad.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No.”
“Then stay.”
She stayed.
That summer hurt.
Then changed her.
She stopped measuring every room by whether she was the most impressive child inside it.
Good.
At sixteen, she developed tendon pain in her right wrist.
No dramatic injury.
Overuse.
Technique problem.
Too much practice.
Doctor said rest.
Lila reacted as though he had ordered amputation.
Helena was less sympathetic.
“You are not touching a piano for two weeks.”
“I have auditions.”
“Then you will attend with a functioning hand later.”
“What if I lose progress?”
“You will.”
Lila stared.
Helena continued.
“Bodies are not instruments you own.”
“They are the person.”
That sentence stayed too.
Lila learned physical therapy exercises.
Adjusted technique.
Practiced mentally.
Listened more.
When she returned, some things were worse.
Others better.
She had learned silence again.
At seventeen, she was admitted to Juilliard, Curtis, Northwestern, and the University of Michigan.
Everyone expected Curtis because Philadelphia.
She chose Michigan.
Marcus stared.
“Michigan?”
“Yes.”
“Cold.”
“I know.”
“Far.”
“I know.”
“You hate driving.”
“I won’t drive.”
Renee looked at him.
“She is going.”
“I know.”
“You are doing your face.”
“What face?”
Lila laughed.
“Grandpa face.”
“I am not a grandfather.”
“Future training.”