Harrison stared at the reflection of their kitchen light in the dark window. Snow softened the street. "I don't know yet."
"Arthur," Margaret said gently, "feeling bad is free. Repair usually costs something."
---
Jack's first term at Westbridge on scholarship began in a January that refused to thaw.
The academy was not designed for children who took two buses and a walk through a parking lot behind a dry cleaner. It was designed for children who arrived in heated cars with sheet music organized in leather portfolios. Jack arrived with his navy backpack and a folder held together by a rubber band. He learned quickly which hallways were shortcuts and which teachers mistook quietness for disengagement. He learned that some scholarship students were treated as inspirational anecdotes and others as administrative risks. He tried to be neither. He tried to be a pianist.
Ms. Blake became his primary teacher.
Her studio was on the second floor, with a window that looked onto the courtyard where, in better seasons, students sat on stone benches pretending to analyze scores while actually gossiping. In winter the courtyard was a white rectangle. Ms. Blake's lessons were exacting. She did not praise constantly. She did not withhold warmth, either. She asked Jack questions that forced him to hear his own playing as if it belonged to a stranger.
"Why did you soften there?"