Transcendence

the cello comes ridiculously easy for me. It’s like learning how to talk—not something I have to really concentrate on, it just happens, like I’ve known it forever. Within a year, I’d outgrown my first cello teacher, and my parents had me on the fast track to world cello domination.

“I’m sorry, dear?” Mom says, staring at her laptop. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I say, and finish putting the groceries away just as the doorbell rings.

“How was London?” Veronique asks before she’s even through the door. “I hope you don’t mind me coming twice this week, but I can’t stand missing a lesson.” She’s holding her cello with one arm and gives me a quick hug with the other.

“London was great,” I say, backing up and letting her into the hallway. “And it’s totally fine to come today.”

Veronique is slim and super-fashionable, with her straight black hair cut in a severe bob—a style that my long wavy hair can only dream about. There’s a tiny brown birthmark that looks like a comma over her right eye, which is good, because otherwise she’d be a little too perfect and I’d have to hate her. She’s in her early twenties and is some sort of scientist over at UCSF. Whatever she does, it makes enough money for the best instrument, the latest clothes, and the freedom to be at a cello lesson on a weekday evening.

She hands me a sealed envelope and I smile, knowing it’s cash. Veronique has only been my student for about six months, but I can always count on her not to forget. “Thanks,” I say, shoving it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Come on in, I’m already set up.”

It is actually enjoyable to teach Veronique—she isn’t a natural, but what she lacks in skill she makes up for in determination. From week to week, I can tell she’s been practicing, although she gets really embarrassed when I compliment her on her improving technique.

“I think I’ve finally decided on a name for my cello,” Veronique says, lifting the instrument from its case.

“I already told you, it’s not like naming is mandatory or anything. Not everybody does it.” Not everybody includes pretty much only me, because everyone else I know in the orchestra has a cute or meaningful name for their instrument. I tried naming my first cello after the main character in my favorite book, but every time I called it “Harry” I felt like an idiot.

“I know, but it makes it so much more personal. Are you ready?” She gives a dramatic pause. “Bono.”

“‘Bono’ as in U2 Bono?” I roll the name around in my head for a second. It could work.

“Yep.” Veronique smiles. “If something is going to be between my knees for so many hours every week, I figure it might as well be the sexiest singer alive.”

“Veronique!” I whisper, giggling. I look toward the doorway to make sure Mom isn’t listening. “Won’t your boyfriend get mad?”

She shrugs. “No. Giacomo thinks he’s sexy too. He’ll probably like it.”

I hold up my hand. “Totally TMI,” I say, getting so embarrassed I can barely look at her.

“Come on, Bono,” she says, pulling the cello into position. “Let’s get down to business.”

We work on Bach’s Variations for a few minutes before I suggest something new. “I just got this, and the arrangement doesn’t look too hard,” I say, placing the music on the stand. “It’s one of the first real classical pieces I ever tried.” I’ve barely gotten through the first bars of Chopin’s Sonata in G before Veronique puts her hand on the page and pulls it down, the expression on her face full of pain.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice sounds shaky and uncontrolled, not like her at all. “But no Chopin.”

I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Veronique always agrees on my choice of music. “None?” I say. “No Polonaise?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t … I can’t stand Chopin.” Veronique’s face is red, and she seems flustered. I’ve never seen her anything but cool and calm—what is it about a little piece of music that has her almost crawling out of her skin?

“No problem,” I say, picking up the pages and sliding them under my seat. “I’m not a huge fan anyway.” Which is a complete lie; Chopin composed some of my favorite music, but she already looks embarrassed and I don’t want it to get any worse. As I sit back in my chair, my head begins to spin, and I try to tell myself that it’s just a head rush. I sat up too fast is all. The feelings of panic begin as the room feels like it’s receding around me. I can see Veronique speaking, but I can’t understand what she’s saying.

I stand watching from the wings as Alessandra pulls the bow back and the last notes of Chopin resonate throughout the concert hall. Applause thunders through the building as she stands holding the neck of the cello, reaching with the other hand to pull her long, blond hair away from her face. Alessandra has been with the Young Masters Orchestra since she was my age, touring the world with her father as chaperone for the past four years. Now that she’s almost nineteen, she is so much better than I am, and between her beauty and skill I always feel inadequate around her.

I sense him behind me well before he speaks. “Are you ready, Clarissa?” Paolo asks, his smile bright in the low lights of backstage, causing my heart to flutter like it always does whenever he’s around. His dark hair shines almost black in the flicker of the footlights as I look up at him and nod quickly. Paolo touches me lightly on the elbow as he guides me onstage, where my cello and chair have been placed next to Alessandra’s, and even though I should be nervous with so many people here to watch my first performance, all I can feel is the physical sensation of his skin on mine. With a slight bow, Paolo takes his position at the piano, and along with the other musicians, I put my head down, trying to concentrate on the opening notes of the next piece. Paolo belongs to Alessandra; they are so obviously in love that you often have to look away in the face of such fierce devotion. Everyone in the troupe knows that, and to even think anything different will cause an unimaginable amount of trouble.

Veronique is looking at me with concern. “Is everything okay? You look pale.”

I blink and look around the room. The bright lights of the stage are gone, replaced by the colored shades of the Tiffany lamps my mom loves so much. “Sure,” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be. “Just a little dizzy. I think it’s the jet lag still.”

She looks relieved. “You’re probably right. Whenever I go to Italy with Giacomo it takes days to get back on the right schedule.” She glances at her delicate gold watch. “It’s getting late anyway. I should get going. We’re still on for Thursday, right?”

“Right,” I say, hoping that she doesn’t notice how much my hand is shaking as I put the bow back in its case.

I help Mom clear the dining room table after dinner, even though it’s just the two of us. No matter how many of us are home, she insists on setting the table and sitting down to a meal every night. I wonder if she’ll still do that when it’s just her in a few years. The thought of her sitting down here alone while Dad sits upstairs by himself is vaguely depressing.

“I’m going up to see Dad,” I say once the dishwasher is loaded. I’d almost forgotten about my promise to look at the photos.

“Okay,” she calls from the laundry room. “Did you finish your homework?”

“I did some in school.”

“How about your practice time? We can’t have you falling behind just because you went on vacation. Herr Steinberg mentioned that the little red-headed girl is just itching to challenge you for first chair.”

“I’ll do another hour before bed,” I call back. “I won’t be long.”

Dad has the classical music station blasting as I walk up the stairs. I find him at the computer, a half-eaten burrito on a plate next to him, along with some chocolate-chip cookies from my favorite bakery in the Mission.

“Hey, there’s my girl,” he says, turning around and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “There are some great shots from the trip. Want to see?”

“Sure,” I say, grabbing a cookie. I always forget to take pictures, and Kat’s camera is filled with the ones I took of her and various guards and Beefeaters. I know she took a couple of Owen in front of the Crown Jewels building, and I kick myself for not having her sneak a picture of Griffon. Despite the pang I get in my chest whenever I think of him, his image is already fading in my memory, and I’m not sure if I’d even recognize him again. Not that it matters.

Dad, on the other hand, takes pictures like he’s terrified of short-term memory loss. Every moment has to be documented so that nothing is forgotten. “There’s you and your sister on the plane, all sleepy,” he says as the