The Violin Conspiracy(15)

“I’m making two hundred dollars this weekend.” He had never made that kind of money. Even if his mom took most of it, what would he buy? If he had two gigs he could buy his own violin—no more school instruments. He could get a shoulder rest instead of a sponge. He’d seen one for twenty-five dollars at the music store on Providence Road.

“Where?”

“I’m playing at a wedding! It pays two hundred dollars.” He rolled the numbers around his tongue, savoring them.

“Oh good.” Then into the phone, “What I want to know is, does she really think he don’t notice? Because he sure as hell noticed.”

“That’s like two and a half weeks of work bagging groceries,” Ray said. Maybe she didn’t understand.

“That’s just like her,” his mom said. “I told you she was gonna do something like that.”

“If I do a good job,” Ray said, “they said they can use me every week. That’s two hundred dollars a weekend. That’s more than Ricky makes at the hospital in one week.”

“Hold on, girl,” she said to the phone. She stared up at the ceiling. “He makes about three hundred dollars a week.”

“Yeah, but that’s working five days a week. This is one afternoon. If I can get a couple gigs a week—and my friend thinks I can—I can start bringing in serious money.”

“When you get paid?”

“After each gig,” he said. “One thing, though. I’m going to need a ride.”

She looked at him blankly. “Well, you’re gonna have to find one. I’m not your taxi. Ride your bike.” She gestured for him to be quiet, waved him out.

He turned, muttering, “You are unbelievable,” and hit the doorframe with his shoulder.

“Hold on, girl. What did you say?” she shouted behind him.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” He went down the hall, flopped down on his bed. For a few moments the old familiar resentment seethed through him.

He needed to save up for a car, that was clear. Then he could book even more gigs. Then she’d see how much money he could make with his playing. And he could stay in school, try out for regionals. He’d get paid for making music—this was incredible.

He texted Aiden, asked him for a ride to the wedding, then rummaged through his book bag to retrieve the wedding music. Canon in D. No problem. “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.” No problem. Water Music Suite. They sure were playing a lot of Handel.

He was reaching for his violin when his mom opened the door without knocking. “Let me tell you something,” she told him. “When I’m on the phone, don’t come in asking me anything crazy. Do you understand?”

Ray held his breath for a moment. “Okay,” he said at last.

“And don’t even start playing that thing. Making all that noise.”

He needed a better practice mute, he told himself again. He’d pick one up once he made his first $200. He shuffled the pages around until she left. Then he just read and reread the music until he fell asleep, imagining how amazing it would be, playing in a wedding—a real wedding.

By Saturday morning, the twelve pieces of music were creased and parts were almost illegible with handling. His fingertips thrummed with anticipation. He took out the polish that Aiden loaned him, rubbed it vigorously on the violin’s body to try to clear off decades of rosin buildup. By the time he’d finished, his right hand was sticky and white with the rosin. He was so determined to make a good impression that he even polished the back of the violin, though no one would actually see it.

He wiped his hands on the edge of his bed, leaving a smear of rosin behind.

Now for the suit: black slacks, stiff white shirt, black tie. He looked at himself in the mirror. Damn, he looked good. People might think he was the one getting married.

As he took his cereal bowl back to the kitchen, his mom came out of her room. “Why you so dressed up?”

“I’m playing that wedding today, remember?”

“I told you. I’m not giving you a ride.”

“I know. I took care of it.” He put the bowl in the sink and retreated to his room to grab his jacket and his violin case, dashing outside as Aiden showed up. Right on time.

At 11:15—fifteen minutes early—they pulled up to the wedding venue. Ray had passed this place dozens of times, but never thought that the wrought-iron gates would stand open and welcoming for him; that the tall brick pillars, weathered a soft pink, would allow him to enter.

At the top of the drive, people were getting out and heading up the walkway to the front door. Aiden pulled up behind them. “You go on in, I’ll park and meet you around back.”

“Okay, cool.” Ray grabbed his violin case and headed up the sidewalk, lined with huge gray ceramic vases, from which ivy and roses poured. The house was even more daunting up close—it seemed to go on forever. He was really doing this.

Slightly ahead of him, a young couple and a young woman were dressed in their Sunday best—the young man in a navy-blue suit, the women both in minidresses. Their wedding gifts, wrapped in silver, sparkled.

“Hi,” he said.

The people smiled with their lips, their eyes not meeting his. The man—blond and blue-eyed—rang the doorbell.

This was it, his first paying gig. He was on his way to the big time. He’d hand his mother the crisp twenty-dollar bills and she’d look up at him and smile and hug him. Maybe they’d even give him two $100 bills.