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And
even
though
you
might
think
that
being
part
of
a
group
would
make
you
relax
a
little
,
not
care
so
much
how
you
sounded
blended
among
everyone
else
,
if
anything
,
the
opposite
was
true
.
I
sat
behind
a
seventeen
-
year
-
old
viola
player
named
Elizabeth
.
She
was
one
of
the
most
accomplished
musicians
in
the
camp
—
she
’
d
been
accepted
into
the
Royal
Conservatory
of
Music
in
Toronto
—
and
she
was
also
model
-
gorgeous
:
tall
,
regal
,
with
skin
the
color
of
coffee
,
and
cheekbones
that
could
carve
ice
.
I
would
’
ve
been
tempted
to
hate
her
were
it
not
for
her
playing
.
If
you
’
re
not
careful
,
the
viola
can
make
the
most
awful
screech
,
even
in
the
hands
of
practiced
musicians
.
But
with
Elizabeth
the
sound
rang
out
clean
and
pure
and
light
.
Hearing
her
play
,
and
watching
how
deeply
she
lost
herself
in
the
music
,
I
wanted
to
play
like
that
.
Better
even
.
It
wasn
’
t
just
that
I
wanted
to
beat
her
,
but
also
that
I
felt
like
I
owed
it
to
her
,
to
the
group
,
to
myself
,
to
play
at
her
level
.
"
That
’
s
sounding
quite
beautiful
,
"
Simon
said
toward
the
end
of
camp
as
he
listened
to
me
practice
a
movement
from
Hayden
’
s
Cello
Concerto
no
.
2
,
a
piece
that
had
given
me
no
end
of
trouble
when
I
’
d
first
attempted
it
last
spring
.
"
Are
you
using
that
for
the
concerto
competition
?
"
I
nodded
.
Then
I
couldn
’
t
help
myself
,
I
grinned
.
After
dinner
and
before
lights
-
out
every
night
,
Simon
and
I
had
been
bringing
our
cellos
outside
to
hold
impromptu
concerts
in
the
long
twilight
.
We
took
turns
challenging
each
other
to
cello
duels
,
each
trying
to
out
-
crazy
-
play
the
other
We
were
always
competing
,
always
trying
to
see
who
could
play
something
better
,
faster
,
from
memory
.
It
had
been
so
much
fun
,
and
was
probably
one
reason
why
I
was
feeling
so
good
about
the
Hayden
.
"
Ahh
,
someone
’
s
awfully
confident
.
Think
you
can
beat
me
?
"
Simon
asked
.
"
At
soccer
.
Definitely
,
"
I
joked
.
Simon
often
told
us
that
he
was
the
black
sheep
in
his
family
not
because
he
was
gay
,
or
a
musician
,
but
because
he
was
such
a
"
shitey
footballer
.
"
Simon
pretended
that
I
’
d
shot
him
in
the
heart
.
Then
he
laughed
.
"
Amazing
things
happen
when
you
stop
hiding
behind
that
hulking
beast
,
"
he
said
,
gesturing
to
my
cello
.
I
nodded
.
Simon
smiled
at
me
.
"
Well
,
don
’
t
go
getting
quite
so
cocky
.
You
should
hear
my
Mozart
.
It
sounds
like
the
bloody
angels
singing
.
"
Neither
one
of
us
won
the
solo
spot
that
year
.
Elizabeth
did
.
And
though
it
would
take
me
four
more
years
,
eventually
I
’
d
nab
the
solo
.
"
I
’
ve
got
exactly
twenty
minutes
before
our
manager
has
a
total
shit
fit
.
"
Brooke
Vega
’
s
raspy
voice
booms
in
the
hospital
’
s
now
-
quiet
lobby
.
So
this
is
Adam
’
s
idea
:
Brooke
Vega
,
the
indie
-
music
goddess
and
lead
singer
of
Bikini
.
In
a
trademark
punky
glam
outfit
—
tonight
it
’
s
a
short
bubble
skirt
,
fishnets
,
high
black
leather
boots
,
an
artfully
ripped
-
up
Shooting
Star
T
-
shirt
,
topped
off
with
a
vintage
fur
shrug
and
a
pair
of
black
Jackie
O
glasses
—
she
stands
out
in
the
hospital
lobby
like
an
ostrich
in
a
chicken
coop
.
She
’
s
surrounded
by
people
:
Liz
and
Sarah
;
Mike
and
Fitzy
,
Shooting
Star
’
s
rhythm
guitarist
and
bass
player
,
respectively
,
plus
a
handful
of
Portland
hipsters
who
I
vaguely
recognize
.
With
her
magenta
hair
,
she
’
s
like
the
sun
,
around
which
her
admiring
planets
revolve
.
Adam
is
like
a
moon
,
standing
off
to
the
side
,
stroking
his
chin
.
Meanwhile
,
Kim
looks
shell
-
shocked
,
like
a
bunch
of
Martians
just
entered
the
building
.
Or
maybe
it
’
s
because
Kim
worships
Brooke
Vega
.
In
fact
,
so
does
Adam
.
Aside
from
me
,
this
was
one
of
the
few
things
they
had
in
common
.
