Things Hoped For Read Online Free PDF Page A

deciding which parts of each piece need the most work. And the part of my mind that isn’t thinking about my auditions is worrying about Grampa.
    At ten-thirty my physics teacher is explaining surface tension and capillarity, but all I can hear is the cadence of the sarabande in my Bach partita. And Grampa’s message, replaying in my head for the tenth time.
    By noon on Friday I am dying to get to a practice room, but I make myself eat lunch first. I know I’m going to need the fuel. When I tried to skip dinner one day, Grampa told me, “Every officer knows that an army marches on its stomach. So does an orchestra, and don’t you forget it. Now sit here and eat a real meal. And that’s an order.”
    Marcy sits down across from me in the lunchroom. She plays cello, and we’re in a chamber group together. I have sat beside this girl for dozens of hours, and we’ve played Mozart and Haydn and Bach together, gorgeous music. Her notes and my notes weave in and out and all around each other, but they never actually touch. She makes sounds, and I make sounds, and the vibrations meet in the air, and when the sounds are right, both of us smile. But does that make us friends? I don’t think so. And that’s probably my fault. To really be her friend I’d have to give up some of my time. All I’ve been willing to share so far is my music stand.
    “So, are you ready for your Juilliard audition?”
    Marcy’s all bright and bubbly. She can afford to be. She’s a junior.
    I try to smile back. “Not completely. But I know what I have to do.”
    She nods and says, “Oh, I know what you mean.”
    But she doesn’t know. She’s just a junior, and audition madness is still a year away for her. She has no idea.
    I’d like to chat, to be friendly and polite. I want to, but I can’t, not right now. And I’m glad Marcy doesn’t seem to mind.
    “Mark, he’s got an audition at Curtis next week. He plays viola, remember? And he is such a mess right now—as if a bad audition would be the end of the world or something.”
    Marcy doesn’t get it yet. She’s talented, but she doesn’t get it.
    Because her boyfriend’s right: A bad college audition is the end of the world. Or at least it’s the end of one world. It means you have to go and find another world to live in—a world that’s not about studying with a great teacher, or learning new pieces, or mastering an instrument, or playing music for a living. A world that’s less perfect. A world where music might become a sad, wistful hobby.
    I’m done with my sandwich and I finish my milk and I smile at Marcy. “See you later.”
    “Okay, and good luck on your auditions, Gwennie.”
    “Thanks.”
    I walk up the winding staircase to the third floor and go to my favorite practice room.
    Good luck. Everybody says “good luck.”
    I open the case and rosin my bow.
    It’s not about luck. Mr. Ware has a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson on the wall in my English classroom:
    Shallow men believe in luck.
Strong men believe in cause and effect.
    I close the practice room door and begin my warm-ups. Fingers, strings, pressure, bow, friction, sound. Cause and effect.
    Emerson gets it.
    An hour into the practice my cell phone rings. I don’t know the number, and I almost reject the call. Then I remember: This could be Grampa.
    I catch the call on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
    “Is this Gwen?” It’s a man’s voice.
    “Who is this?”
    “Lawrence Page gave me your number. I’m Kenneth Grant, his attorney.”
    “Oh—Grampa called you?” Because that would be wonderful news.
    “No, I got a voice mail from him late Thursday afternoon, very brief. But in the message he asked me to check up on you. I don’t really know why he wanted me to call. So . . . everything’s okay?”
    “Yes—fine.” Grampa’s paying this lawyer three hundred dollars an hour to see if I’m all right. It’s ridiculous, but it makes me feel good anyway.
    “And you’re a music student,