Everything You Are(40)

But when he glances up, the old man, still watching, nods permission. His expression is intent, almost hungry. Braden lays one hand tentatively on the cello’s burnished shoulder.

Feels her shudder beneath his touch, sigh. “At last,” she sings to him. “All this time I have waited for you.”

“Braden!” His mother’s voice is sharp, and he knows the words she’s not saying by heart. Are you five? Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?

The heat of shame rises through his body.

“No harm.” The luthier shuffles over to him. Up close, the old man’s eyes are almost black, glittering. “You like this instrument?”

Braden lets his hand stroke up the cello’s neck, just skimming the strings. A whisper of music floats into the room. Mama shuffles her feet and clears her throat, impatient, but she seems far away. The cello is immediate, already becoming his own personal universe.

“She likes you. She has invited you to play,” the luthier says.

“We’re here to talk about violins.” Mama has her no-nonsense voice on.

“Yes, yes. The violins. But first, five minutes to play the cello. She wants to be played, and we always must do what she wants. She is the boss of us, yes? Not the other way. Here. Sit.” The old man motions Braden toward a chair.

Mama tsks disapprovingly but doesn’t interfere.

If Braden looks at her, she’ll shake her head and pinch her lips to signal no. He sits.

The old man lifts the cello with a little grunt. “She’s full size. Not a child’s instrument, but you are not a child. How tall are you, boy?”

“Five six.”

“And growing yet. Fourteen, are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Young, but the cello has spoken. Now, sit with your knees apart. Yes, like so.” He sets the cello down and rests it at an angle against Braden’s left knee. Braden’s hand settles on the curve of her shoulder, and it feels solid, familiar, right. A violin has always felt fragile, a thing to be shielded and protected. The cello whispers of strength.

“Ophelia, bring the bow.”

The girl slides down off the stool and pads over, soundless, and puts a bow in Braden’s waiting hand. Her eyes are wide with wonder, her hair the same warm gleaming red brown as the wood of the cello.

“You will find the action different than a violin—”

Braden sweeps the bow across the strings, not waiting for the old man to finish. Yes, he feels the difference. The curve of the bridge, the way the bow shapes his arm so that each note sings true. He moves his fingers over the fingerboard, experimenting with the pressure required to depress the strings.

The cello is generous in her response, gifting him with rich, mellow tones that resonate even after his bow hand drops away. His entire body is trembling, as if he’s been too long out in the cold.

The cello whispers, “I will always play for you. Don’t be afraid.”

He wants to whisper back, to say that all he fears is loss, but he dare not break the spell with words.

“You will be buying the cello, of course,” the luthier says, as if there truly is no question. “This boy is not a player of violins.”

Mama bristles. “He excels. He went to state last year, with a cheap rented violin—”

“And he will do more with the cello. With this cello.”

“Nonsense,” Mama says. “We came for a violin. We will be buying a violin. Get up, Braden. Put that instrument away before you break it.”

Braden’s hand closes around the neck of the cello, possessive. She is his, or he is hers, one way or the other or both.

“I could play the cello,” he tells his mother. “This cello. It won’t take me long to learn.”

“I will give you a good price,” the old man says. “No more than the violin. I am old. I have seen many matches made. This boy and this cello belong together.”

“He is already very skillful on the violin. We are not starting over again.” Mama’s voice sharpens. “Put the cello away. Talk to me about this violin.” She points at an instrument that looks to Braden now like a child’s toy.

“Trust an old music seller.” The old man’s hand rests on Braden’s shoulder, lightly. “I know these things.”

“I don’t need you to know things.” Mama has reached the end of her patience. “Braden, come and try this one. See how pretty.” She lifts an instrument that glows warm in the light.

Obedient, understanding it is pointless to beg, Braden gets up, feeling like the boy who walked into the store has vanished. His body feels big and clumsy, the violin too small. His hands won’t stop shaking, and the bow doesn’t glide true across the strings. It doesn’t love him, this violin. It will take time and effort to make it his.

“Not this one.” He puts it back in its place and tries another. And another.

“Enough!” Mama snaps. “Stop sulking over the cello. You are not giving any of these a chance.”

“I’m not sulking. I just . . .” He has no words to explain. Mama reads something in his face that softens hers. She touches his cheek. “We will rent one from the school. How about that? We will buy you your own violin and rent a cello. If it turns out that you are a cellist after all, then we will try to find money to buy you one. All right?”