The Broken String Read Online Free PDF Page A

and the way the bows stuck up in the air when the girls turned the pages of their music. But as I watched them, the photograph of my mother and the little girl clouded my vision. That big smile on my mother’s face. The way she hugged the girl, with her cheek pressed against the girl’s blond hair. Would my mother love me more if I played a violin? She and Daddy made me take a couple of piano lessons, but I’d hated it and they let me stop. I wondered if they’d let me try the violin instead? Maybe I could put a smile on my mother’s face and make her want to cuddle me the way she cuddled that little girl in the picture.
    When the first piece ended, the girl closest to me rested her violin on her knee and turned a peg at the end of the violin’s neck. I was fascinated. Why did she do that? Was it an on-off switch? Or maybe it controlled the violin’s volume? The girl had long glossy black hair, and she looked so self-confident as she turned the little peg and plucked one of the strings, her head close to the violin. She turned it again and I could almost feel that small black peg beneath my own fingertips.
    That afternoon, Danny and I walked home from school together, as we usually did. He hated walking with me because older kids made fun of him for hanging out with a kindergartener, and especially for holding my hand. So when we saw those kids, he’d let go of my hand and act like he hardly knew me, but as soon as they were gone, he’d take my hand again, especially when we had to cross the street.
    “How old do I have to be before I can play music at school?” I asked when we were about halfway home.
    “You have to be in the fourth grade to be in the chorus.”
    The fourth grade was so far in the future, I couldn’t even imagine it.
    “What about the other thing?” I asked. “The band thing?”
    “Orchestra,” he corrected me. “Band is different. You have to be in the fourth grade for the orchestra, too, but in the third grade you’ll learn how to play the recorder, which is the world’s most totally lame instrument.”
    I remembered how much he hated his recorder. Our mother was always after him to practice.
    “When
I
get to be in the band,” I said, “I mean, in the
orchestra,
I’m going to play the violin.”
    He let go of my hand and stopped walking altogether, looking at me like he had no idea who I was. “The violin is the lamest instrument of all.” He sounded angry and I felt embarrassed that I’d even mentioned it. He started walking faster than we had been. “Play the flute or something,” he said, ignoring my hand when I reached for his. “Anything but the stupid violin!”
    “
Okay,
” I promised, but I couldn’t keep up with his quick, angry strides and I wasn’t sure he heard me. Anyway, I knew as soon as the word left my mouth that this was one promise I was going to break.
    I had never paid much attention to the violins in my father’s office, always being lured by the cute lighters and the slightly less interesting compasses, but now they were all I could think about. When we got home from school that day, Danny went to his room to build something with his Legos and Mom was parked in front of her soap opera.
    “Where’s Daddy?” I asked my mother. I planned to ask him if I could see the violins.
    “At the RV park,” my mother said, her gaze never leaving the television. Daddy worked at a motor-home park sometimes.
    I walked quietly up the stairs, knowing I was about to break one of the most sacred rules in our house: I was going into our father’s office alone.
    I tiptoed into the office, shutting the door behind me. Then I sat down cross-legged in front of the five violins where they leaned against the wall, trying to decide which of them I should look at first. Only one case had a tag on it. The white tag was covered in clear plastic, and I leaned forward for a better look. On one side of the tag, someone had drawn a purple flower. A name and address was on the