“I did.”
The freshman looked toward the chair.
“Were you scared?”
Kendal understood the question immediately.
Not scared of playing.
Scared back then.
Kendal looked toward the stage.
She could almost see Arthur Vance again.
The red face.
The raised hand.
The broken clarinet.
She could hear the fire doors opening.
Eleanor’s heels coming down the aisle.
Her father asking if Vance had touched her neck again.
Her grandfather saying the room was clean.
She looked back at the girl.
“Yes.”
The freshman seemed surprised.
“I thought you weren’t.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you stood up to him.”
“Eventually.”
The girl thought about that.
Kendal opened her instrument case.
Samuel’s old grenadilla clarinet was still inside.
The silver keys had been replaced twice.
The wood carried tiny scratches from decades of use.
The instrument had belonged to her grandfather.
Then to her.
Someday, perhaps, it would belong to someone else.
Kendal assembled it slowly.
The freshman watched.
“Is that the one?”
Kendal smiled.
“The one from the story?”
The girl nodded.
“Yes.”
The freshman touched her own clarinet case.
“My parents bought mine used.”
“Used instruments are good.”
“It has scratches.”
“So does mine.”
The girl looked surprised again.
Kendal held up the barrel.
“See?”
Tiny marks ran along the wood.
“That happened in Chicago.”
She pointed to another.
“Boston.”
Another.
“No idea.”
The girl laughed.
Kendal handed the clarinet back to herself and fitted the pieces together.
“An instrument doesn’t have to look untouched.”
She tested the reed.
“It has to keep playing.”
Students began entering the auditorium.
The new director walked toward the podium.
She was a woman in her thirties named Dr. Priya Shah.
Kendal had met her once before.
Dr. Shah smiled.
“You ready?”
Kendal looked toward the first-chair stand.
The freshman started moving away.
Kendal stopped her.
“Wait.”
The girl turned.
Kendal pointed to the seat.
“You’re first chair.”