Sophie seemed happier there than she had been in Celeste’s beautiful studio.
“Nobody asks me who’s important enough to hear me,” she said.
“They just ask whether the music sounds the way I want.”
The library rehearsal room smelled of varnish and old paper.
Sophie arrived there on Tuesday evenings with her violin, a pencil, and a notebook filled with questions about the final movement.
Mrs. Paredes refused to tell her exactly how to play it.
“If I make every decision,” she said, “the panel will hear my interpretation instead of yours.”
Sophie complained that some teachers made guidance sound like a riddle.
Then she tried the passage three different ways and asked me to choose which one felt most honest.
I admitted I liked the version with the sharp, impatient entrance.
“You always like the loud part,” she said.
“It reminds me of you.”
She rolled her eyes but marked the phrase in her score.
Outside, children from the chess club passed the glass door carrying plastic boards.
A janitor vacuumed the hallway, and a woman at the front desk argued with a printer.
Nothing about the room looked important.
That was its gift.
Sophie could be a young musician practicing imperfectly instead of a defendant waiting for judgment.
On the second Tuesday, Lila appeared carrying two bottles of water.
She stood at the door until Sophie invited her inside.
I remained near the library shelves and pretended to read a book about restoring antique radios.
“I wanted to say something without my parents here,” Lila began.
“You already said you were sorry,” Sophie replied.
“I know.”
Lila twisted the cap of one bottle.
“I also wanted to say I was jealous of you.”
Sophie looked up.
“Because you got better marks?”
“Because you didn’t need my aunt to tell you what to feel when you played.”
The admission surprised Sophie enough that she lowered her bow.
Lila explained that Celeste had corrected her breathing, posture, smile, and even the pauses between movements.
Every performance felt like an examination she could never finish.
“When I heard The Blue Room, I hated that it sounded like you,” Lila said.
“I thought if I could play it better, maybe it would belong to me.”
Sophie considered the words.
“You couldn’t have made it mine by playing badly,” she said.
“And you couldn’t make it yours by playing well.”
Lila gave a small, sad smile.
“That’s fair.”
They did not embrace.
They took out their music and began practicing scales on opposite sides of the room.
