Winter brought auditions for the state junior honors orchestra.
By then Ethan’s name no longer surprised people on sign-up sheets. He auditioned alongside Bellcroft classmates in a church annex downtown under the eyes of adjudicators who did not know or care about anyone’s backstory. This, too, suited him. He played solidly and won a seat, not first chair but high enough to matter.
Ms. Sterling pronounced the result “appropriate to your current level.” Dana took him for burgers anyway. At the diner she said, “I know your teacher thinks she’s protecting you from arrogance, but for the record, I am proud enough for ten people.” Ethan laughed into his fries.
The hardest stretch came in January, almost exactly one year after Arthur Levin’s death.
The anniversary landed on a cold week when schoolwork piled up, Dana’s car needed repairs, and Ethan’s left shoulder started aching from tension. He snapped at Lily during quartet rehearsal, missed an entrance in orchestra, and nearly cried when Ms. Sterling stopped him mid-phrase to ask what exactly he believed he was communicating besides fatigue. After class she found him in Practice Room B sitting on the floor beside his case. “I hate this week,” he said bluntly. It was perhaps the most personal thing he had ever volunteered to her.
To Ethan’s surprise, Ms. Sterling did not respond with a lesson.
She sat in the extra chair and said, “Arthur and I spent an entire summer festival disliking one another in Vermont in 1989. He accused me of polishing music until it lost blood. I accused him of worshiping sincerity when discipline was needed. We were both correct and both unbearable.” Ethan sniffed a laugh despite himself.