The teacher touched the girl’s wrist before her fingers reached the strings.
“Please don’t.”
Twelve-year-old Naomi Carter stopped immediately.
Her hand remained suspended beside the concert harp for less than a second before she lowered it.
“I wasn’t going to pull anything.”
The woman standing beside her gave a tight smile.
“I know it looks inviting, sweetheart, but this is not a classroom instrument.”
Naomi looked at the harp.
Neither was she.
That was the problem.
The instrument stood beneath the stage lights inside the grand auditorium of the Harrington Center for the Arts in Baltimore, Maryland. It was a Lyon & Healy concert grand, nearly six feet tall, gold-columned, polished until the stage lights reflected along the soundboard like water.
Naomi knew the model.
She knew the approximate tension of forty-seven strings beneath her fingertips.
She knew the pedals.
The spacing.
The difference between touching the neck for balance and touching a string with enough pressure to change its vibration.
She also knew the woman stopping her had no idea she knew any of those things.
“Are you looking for someone?”
the teacher asked.
Naomi nodded.
“Ms. Morales.”
The woman glanced toward the stage doors.
“Parents and students are checking in downstairs.”
“I already checked in.”
The teacher looked at Naomi’s clothes.
Black skirt.
White blouse.
Flat black shoes.
A burgundy cardigan her mother insisted she wear because auditoriums were always too cold.
No formal gown yet.
No instrument case.
No parent beside her.
Just a canvas backpack.
“Are you in the youth chorus?”
“No.”
“Strings?”
Naomi almost smiled.
“Sort of.”
The teacher looked confused.
“What do you play?”
Before Naomi could answer, another adult called from across the stage.
“Karen, can you check whether the chamber group has all six stands?”
Karen Wallace turned.
“One moment.”
Then back to Naomi.
“Just stay away from the harp, please. The soloist will be here soon.”
Naomi stared at her.
“The soloist?”
“Yes.”
“She’s performing the Saint-Saëns and the new commission.”
Naomi nodded slowly.
“I know.”
Karen gave her another smile.
The kind meant to end conversation.
“Good.”
Then she walked away.
Naomi remained beside the harp.
Not touching it.
That part mattered.
She put both hands behind her back.
For approximately ten seconds, she stared at the soundboard.
Then she whispered:
“Apparently I’m late.”
A man moving a music stand nearby heard.
He laughed.
Naomi looked over.
He raised both hands.
“Not getting involved.”
She smiled.
Then the stage door opened.
Lucia Morales entered carrying a folder, a water bottle, two pencils, a coil of microphone cable, and the expression of a woman who had solved seven problems since breakfast and expected an eighth before noon.
She was forty-four, Puerto Rican, short, energetic, and coordinator of the Chesapeake Young Artists Festival.
She saw Naomi.
Then saw Karen across the stage.
Then looked at the untouched harp.
Something in Naomi’s expression told her enough.
“Naomi.”
“Hi.”
“You’re early.”
“My mom had work.”
“Good.”
Lucia placed everything on the floor.
Then walked to the harp.
She looked at the bench.
It had been pushed against the back wall to clear the stage during setup.
Lucia dragged it out.
The wooden legs made a soft scraping sound across the stage floor.
Several people looked over.
Karen included.
Lucia positioned the bench carefully in front of the harp.
Then she turned toward Naomi.
“Sit.”
Karen stopped walking.
Naomi looked at Lucia.
“I haven’t changed yet.”
“I did not ask about your dress.”
Lucia adjusted the bench height.
“Sit.”
Naomi sat.
Lucia crouched beside the pedal box.
“Shoes okay?”
“Yes.”
“Warm?”
“Mostly.”
“Hands?”
Naomi flexed her fingers.
“Cold.”
“Then warm them.”
Naomi placed both hands on the strings.
Karen crossed the stage quickly.
“Lucia.”
Lucia looked over.