Naomi frowned.
“What?”
“Do you want me to speak to her?”
“No.”
“Do you want Lucia to?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want nothing?”
Naomi thought.
“I want to play.”
Danielle’s face softened.
“Good.”
Then:
“We’ll deal with the rest after.”
Naomi nodded.
That was why Danielle was good at hard things.
Not because she never became angry.
Because she could postpone anger without pretending it had disappeared.
The festival began at one.
The auditorium filled slowly.
Families.
Teachers.
Donors.
Local arts supporters.
Musicians.
Students.
The Chesapeake Young Artists Festival was not famous enough for television cameras or celebrity patrons, but prestigious enough that parents drove three hours for a fifteen-minute performance slot.
Naomi’s performance was scheduled in the second half.
That gave her two hours to become increasingly certain she had forgotten everything she knew.
Backstage, she changed into a deep blue dress.
Danielle braided a loose strand near her temple.
Naomi checked her pedal markings.
Then checked again.
Lucia took the score away.
“No.”
“What?”
“You know it.”
“I need to see measure sixty-eight.”
“You have seen measure sixty-eight for four months.”
“What if I forgot?”
“Then you will remember on stage.”
Naomi stared.
“That is terrible advice.”
“Coordinator privilege.”
She put the score on a chair.
Naomi crossed her arms.
“I hate everyone.”
“Excellent.”
Lucia smiled.
“Normal performer state.”
Across the hall, Karen stood with three of her own students.
Teenage violinists.
Polished.
Expensive instruments.
Matching black folders.
One girl whispered something.
Karen looked toward Naomi.
Naomi looked away.
She hated wondering whether people were talking about her.
That was new.
Before the morning, she had only worried about the performance.
Now the room contained another possibility.
Do they think I belong?
That question was dangerous.
Nadine? No, different story. Here Lucia and perhaps her harp teacher. We need teacher character. Let's introduce Naomi's actual harp teacher maybe Evelyn Grant. Lucia is coordinator. Karen is other teacher. Good.
At 2:07, Dr. Evelyn Grant arrived backstage.
Naomi nearly shouted.
“Where were you?”
Evelyn, sixty-three, Black, former Baltimore Symphony harpist and Naomi’s teacher for nearly five years, removed her glasses.
“Parking.”
“For two hours?”
“Baltimore.”
Fair.
Naomi hugged her.
Evelyn tolerated approximately three seconds.
Then:
“Enough.”
Naomi stepped back.
Evelyn looked at her face.
“What happened?”
Naomi sighed.
“Why does everyone know?”
“Your eyebrows.”
Lucia, standing nearby, laughed.
Naomi told the story again.
Evelyn listened without interrupting.
When Naomi finished, she asked:
“What do you think happened?”
Naomi frowned.
“You heard.”
“No.”
“What do you think happened?”
Naomi looked toward the hallway.
“She thought I didn’t belong.”
“Maybe.”
Naomi looked offended.
“Maybe?”
Evelyn continued.
“She saw a child near an expensive instrument before scheduled performance.”
“She may stop every child.”
Naomi crossed her arms.
“She didn’t ask my name.”
“Yes.”
“She decided.”
“Yes.”
“She talked to me like I knew nothing.”
“Yes.”
Evelyn nodded.
“That is what you know.”
Naomi looked down.
Evelyn continued.
“Race may have mattered.”
“Class may have mattered.”
“Age certainly mattered.”