I close my eyes for a bit and just listen to myself play. I know that my shoulder is tense and that I am clenching my jaw too hard, but I want to finish the vocalise. It sounds so beautiful resonating inside the practice room that my mind forces my fingers to continue on despite their soreness. I try to focus on keeping my bow-stroke as long and even as I can and my tone rich and dark. Surprisingly it works, and it no longer hurts to play. The piece finishes easily and I'm left in a silence, staring at a photograph Rachmaninoff's face copied onto the cover of my sheet music.

I can't help but feel a wave of frustration pass through my body as I look at his eyes. He would have been happier if Itzack Perlman or Jascha Heifetz had just played it instead of me. I had just killed it, treated it as if it were a technical exercise or a block of wood that I was drilling right through. Why couldn't I just play it right? I'd practiced it for weeks and it didn't sound nearly as good as I had wanted it to be. Rachmaninoff hadn't written this piece for someone like me. It was meant to be played by someone who was much better, someone who was worth it. Slowly, tears well up into my eyes, and I try to suppress them.

It's no use crying, Kim. It won't make you any better, I tell myself, Just put it away play it again later. And when this happens again tomorrow, the next day, and the day after, you can do the same thing. Maybe someday, someone will just put your damn violin with you in your coffin.

Just as I finish packing my things, the orchestra director's head pops up just outside the window of my practice room. Normally, she acted the part of a stern-faced disciplinarian with a sardonic sense of humor but now standing in front of me as I open the door, she is smiling.

When I greet her after I step outside, she gestures to a stack of papers in her hand and says, "I was just coming from the copy room, Kim, and it sounds great. Honestly, I think you're the only one who really has a shot in next month's competition."

I thank her politely, hoping that the conversation would end there so I could get back to class, but she continues on.

"I was actually thinking you might be interested in a concerto contest coming up this spring. I walked in this morning to find a flyer sitting on my desk. It's the International Young Musician Competition or something along those lines. This year they're holding it in Italy. I really think it would be a great opportunity for you."

I look at her in surprise. I'd known about this competition from the moment I'd first started playing the violin. Yo-Yo Ma had won first prize. Joshua Bell, Kiri Te Kanawa, and Maurizo Pollini had all participated. My heart pounds loudly in my chest, but I force myself to think rationally. Italy? It would be too far and too expensive. There was no possible way that it would be feasible.

"That sounds amazing," I tell her earnestly, "But, I really don't think I have that kind of money."

She gives me a crooked smile. "If your audition tape qualifies for the contest, Kim, everything will be covered. So what do you say?"

"Yes, of course!" I nearly exclaim, unable to contain my excitement. She laughs at this and clasps her hands together as the bell rings.

"Well, stop by my office some time after school this week and pick up the forms." I nod eagerly and quickly head to my next class. I try not to look stupidly happy as I walk down the crowded hallways, but it's hard. To me it seems like sheer luck, but it easily could have been otherwise.

A tall girl with long, straight hair nudges me as I'm about to enter the classroom.

"Kim!" she begins, holding open the door for me, "You weren't at lunch today again. I beginning to feel like you're avoiding me."

I try to muster up the most exasperated look that I can, but no amount of bad acting can hide my transparency, especially from someone whom I'd known since elementary school.

"Well, you clearly make it impossible Meg" I retort back playfully as I roll my eyes. I make my to a desk in the front corner and sit down. She seems to understand something from my tone as she plops down beside me and turns to me with an expression, this time, of genuine exasperation.

"Kim, there is something called "having a life", and you clearly don't understand that concept. Tonight, you are coming with me to the bonfire. You can't just hide behind your violin all the time. "

I think I've always tried to be a tolerant, level-headed person, someone who can handle criticism when it gets thrown at me. My teachers have marked up essays, judges have given me stapled sheets of comments, and my father has always been harsh in his judgements. Throughout my life, I've always been able to take it- because I know that I can try, that I can make myself better. But now, when my best friend tells me stop doing what holds me together, I can't help but fume.

"Why can't I? What can partying or screwing someone possibly do for me? It's not like I want to just throw my life away."

She gives me a long look and her eyes look hurt as she says slowly, "I just think you're a bit uptight. You should really loosen up a little."

I suddenly feel ashamed of myself for losing my temper. I feel like a caged animal, rendered stupid with blind emotion. Meg really hadn't meant any harm. She just couldn't understand. She didn't know about me because life was happier than mine. She had a family, an established future for herself. She had nothing to work for. I, on the other hand, have a dead mother and an alcoholic father. Things don't come as easily for me, but I can't live hating the world.

I sigh and give her small smile. "Yeah, you're right, but not today okay. My dad wants me home right away."

She rolls her eyes just as our history teacher starts talking at the front of the room.