Light From Uncommon Stars(58)

Why was she queer, and trans? Why couldn’t she have had a father who didn’t hate her? Why couldn’t she have a mother who was glad that she had been born?

Didn’t she want to kick down her father’s door? Didn’t she want to curse, to scream at Evan and Skylar and the ladies on the bus?

Katrina stood there, before big cars and small, people walking and riding bicycles, couples waiting in line for Taiwanese shaved ice. They were holding hands. They were laughing, belonging.

Katrina wanted to shout to every traffic light. Every traffic light. Every noodle house, every nail studio, every boba joint, and every gas station in between.

But if she had the chance to shout, what exactly would she say?

And if she were not queer or trans, what exactly would she be?

Katrina stood there, listening to the afternoon before her. She looked up at the hill she had descended, and beyond it to a vast and cloudless sky.

She could yell all she wanted. She could fight all she wanted. She could even play in public all she wanted. But none of that would be enough.

And even with all the justice and vengeance in the world, she would still pick up Aubergine and not know what, if anything, she contained.

When Katrina finally returned, Miss Satomi was still sitting by the piano. For all Katrina knew, her teacher hadn’t moved.

“M-Miss Satomi?”

“I’m glad you had the chance to get that out. May I see Aubergine?”

Miss Satomi held Katrina’s violin, appreciating its newfound balance.

“Katrina,” she said quietly, “do the strings give the violin its sound?”

“Miss Satomi?”

The question did not make sense. After all, the strings are what the bow plays upon, what the audience sees.

“It seems absurdly obvious, doesn’t it?” Miss Satomi conceded. “But think about it. Why are there Stradivarius violins, but no Stradivarius strings?

“Of course, string qualities matter. But no one pays millions, or even thousands, of dollars for a set of strings. Trust me—if it were necessary, we would. But strings are only the source of the vibrations. These vibrations are taken via the bridge through the sound post into the body of the instrument itself.

“And there, in the dark, the sound develops. There, in the empty spaces, a violin’s voice matures, gains complexity, power, depth…”

Shizuka pointed at Katrina’s heart.

“Everything the audience hears, what we strive to create … what we live to convey … it comes from there. In your hollows. In your nothingness.

“There is where your music gains its life.”





JUNE





19


Tamiko Giselle Grohl’s dearest thoughts were of Kiana Choi. She studied Kiana Choi’s repertoire, her mannerisms, her lipstick, her choice of gowns. She imitated her soft-loud speech, her cultivated yet hard-to-place Asian accent.

Tamiko worked. She practiced. She wore the right clothes, the right eye shadow, showed enough leg. And she had prayed. No, more than prayed, she had promised, begged, offered, to whoever would listen, that if she could study with the legendary Shizuka Satomi, the Queen of Hell, the one who transformed Kiana Choi into Kiana Choi, she would do anything, anything at all.

Then, from across the ocean, Shizuka Satomi, had come.

She had looked into Tamiko’s eyes. She had listened to Tamiko play. The timing, the music, the day … had all been so perfect.

So why had the Queen of Hell said no?

“She’s testing me. This must be a test.”

She looked at her forearm, where the blood was as glistening and red as Kiana’s perfect lips.

Ellen Seidel blinked, modulated her voice, and tried to smile.

Tamiko was wearing long sleeves. They freely draped over her slender arms, except for the places where the cuts still wept.

“Honey, cuts on your arms can leave scars, and people will see them when you play.”

Tamiko stared through her, into space. “She was at Grunfeld’s, and Mr. Grunfeld died.”

Ellen nodded nervously. “Yes, it happened suddenly. So sad.”

“Romantic…”

“Tamiko?”

The girl rubbed her arms, and more blood soaked through the sleeves.

“Shizuka Satomi has a new student. And she’s already killed for her.”

That was eleven hours ago.

Ellen Seidel was on her sixth cup of coffee and three millionth recollection of the lesson. Somehow she had gotten through another lesson without breaking character. She had reassured Tamiko, promised Tamiko, that there was no way that girl at Grunfeld’s could have been her new student—if Shizuka Satomi had chosen a new student, that it wouldn’t be whispered in music rooms, it would be front-page news.

Her phone buzzed. She read the text.

“Landon! Would I really be asleep? Come over now,” she replied.

Fifteen minutes later, Landon Fung was at her door.

“So, did you talk to Tiffany?” she said.

“Yes, finally. She’s been busy until now with exams, so she hasn’t been able to write back. It’s her first year of college—at Stanford, by the way—and you know how much of a transition that—”

“Landon!”

“I’m sorry. Um … I know you don’t want to hear this. But yes. Tiffany was at a noodle restaurant and saw Shizuka Satomi. She was discussing her new student.”