“Clothes may have mattered.”
“Her own anxiety about the instrument may have mattered.”
“You do not need to choose one before you have evidence.”
Naomi looked irritated.
“Why are adults always making things complicated?”
Evelyn smiled.
“Because simple stories make people stupid.”
Lucia raised one finger.
“I want that on a mug.”
Evelyn ignored her.
Then she leaned closer to Naomi.
“But.”
Naomi looked up.
“You also do not need to excuse what she did just because motives are complicated.”
There.
Better.
Naomi nodded.
Evelyn continued.
“She should have asked.”
“Yes.”
“She should have checked.”
“Yes.”
“She should not have treated lack of recognition as evidence.”
Naomi breathed out.
Exactly.
Evelyn tapped Naomi’s shoulder.
“Now stop thinking about her.”
“I’m trying.”
“Do not try.”
“Choose.”
Naomi stared.
“That sounds fake.”
“It is performance.”
“Most useful things sound fake before you practice them.”
She pointed toward the stage.
“You have six minutes before tuning.”
Naomi sighed.
“Everybody gives speeches.”
“You attract them.”
“That is rude.”
“Genetic?”
Naomi smiled.
Her father used that word.
Marcus Carter had died when Naomi was eight.
Not dramatically.
A brain aneurysm.
One morning headache.
Emergency room.
Two days later, gone.
He had been thirty-nine.
A civil engineer who could not carry a tune.
The harp came after him.
People liked to connect it.
They wanted grief to explain talent.
Danielle resisted that.
Naomi resisted more.
She began harp because her elementary school music teacher brought in an instrument demonstration and Naomi became obsessed with the pedals.
Not because of death.
Not because angels.
Not because strings reminded her of heaven.
She simply liked the machine.
Seven pedals changing forty-seven strings.
Complexity.
Color.
Hands and feet thinking together.
Her father’s death mattered to her life.
It did not need to explain every beautiful thing afterward.
At 2:36, the chamber ensemble tuned.
Naomi sat behind the harp.
Karen’s violin students had finished earlier and now sat in the audience.
Karen stood near the back wall.
She could see Naomi clearly.
Naomi knew.
She hated knowing.
Evelyn bent close.
“Look at me.”
Naomi did.
“If you play well, Karen was wrong.”
Naomi nodded.
Evelyn continued.
“If you play badly, Karen was still wrong.”
Naomi froze.
There.
Lucia had said something similar in spirit.
Now it landed differently.
Evelyn continued.
“Your performance is not evidence for your right to sit here.”
Naomi’s eyes filled.
“Do not cry.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m sweating from my eyes.”
“Very medical.”
“My mom works at a hospital.”
“Play.”
Naomi took one breath.
Then another.
The conductor raised his hands.
The first piece began.
Not hers.
A short chamber work featuring flute and cello.
Naomi had rests.
Long rests.
The hardest part of orchestral harp at twelve was learning not to move during rests.
She waited.
Counted.
Entered.
Clean.
Then Saint-Saëns.
Her hands knew it.
She stopped thinking about Karen.
Good.
Music replaced narrative.