That evening after class I play downtown, performing long after darkness falls. But I earn enough that I can relax about my dwindling bank account.

Daphne is at her laptop when I open the door. “Hey,” she says without looking up.

“How’s it going?” I push my cello into the corner and fall onto the bed. I feel the burn in my hamstrings from the sprints I did this morning with Garrett, but I don’t mind the hurt—I know it will turn into strength.

She sighs. “Fine.” The word comes out like a question.

I lift up on my elbows and look closer at her. She’s pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes. “Daphne—hey, seriously, are you okay?”

She shrugs. “I thought you were going to meet me for hip-hop.”

Shit. “I’m so sorry. I meant to tell you, thought I told you—I already went running with Garrett this morning.”

“It’s cool. I was saving a spot for you, though. I felt a little dumb telling people that spot was saved, and then…”

“Ah, shit. I’m sorry. If that ever happens again, I promise I’ll let you know.”

She shrugs again. “It’s okay. I know you’re busy.” Her shoulders look frail, or at least more so than usual, but I tell myself it must be the light from her laptop, draining the color from her face. I reach over and flick on my desk lamp. It makes her look even paler.

“Maybe the Thursday class?” she offers.

“Umm…I’ve kind of already made plans to run with Garrett again. Friday?”

“No hip-hop on Friday.” Her voice is doleful, a deflated balloon.

“Oh.” I sit on the edge of the bed. I think she wants pity, but I’m not really in a place to give it right now. I’m exhausted and achy and thinking about my dead mom and I still have to read a chapter of macroeconomics tonight. Tomorrow I have to wake up at seven if I want to make it on time to meet Bethany.

“We could hang out Friday night, maybe?” She throws me a hopeful glance over her laptop screen. “Me and some girls from down the hall are going to a party.”

I pull my economics book off my desk and flip to chapter four. “Sure. That sounds cool.” It doesn’t. My throat constricts when I realize I just made plans to go to a kegger with some chicks I don’t even know on the anniversary of my mom’s death, but I don’t say anything. It’s probably a good idea to stay busy that day anyway.

---

Thursday morning, Garrett and I do what he calls a ‘tempo run,’ starting off slow, at barely a jog, for ten minutes; then switching for seven minutes to a fast pace I couldn’t handle but for his belief in me; and then running another ten slow. I hate this workout the most, but I endure it, because of him. He is tough and rooted and solid. Everything I wish I were.

Later that morning, if you can call 8:15 late, Bethany and I are sitting on the floor of her practice room sipping hot coffee and nibbling donuts she’s brought from Starbucks. She always does this, always brings delicious things for me and insists I don’t give her money for it. Does she know how broke I am, or is this a thing people do? Am I supposed to reciprocate?

I catch her staring hard at me and realize I’ve said almost nothing all morning.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Of course. Fine. Just…thinking about my mom, I guess. Death day, and all.”

“Wait, what?” She freezes with her coffee midway to her mouth.

Shit. My morning run must have relaxed my tongue along with my nerves. “Sorry, I… Forget it. I didn’t mean to say that.”

She sets her coffee cup on the floor. “So your mother died…and the anniversary of her death is…today?” Her green eyes are wide.

“Tomorrow.”

“How did she die?”

I take the last bite of my donut instead of answering her, but she waits out my chewing. Finally, I say, “Suicide.”

Her face falls.

Pity, ugh, it’s just so fucking gross. “It’s been two years,” I tell her. “It’s fine.”

“Well.” The way she purses her lips at me tells me she’s not buying my bullshit. “I’m not going to pretend to know how you feel, but you have every reason to be distracted and sad this week. At the very least you should have another donut.” She slides the box toward me.

I give her a grim smile and reach for a glazed.

“Meanwhile,” she says, “can I play my Bach prelude for you? I need you to drill me and teach me to be an awesome performer like you.”

I love her for changing the subject. “I told you, I’m not awesome, I just practice more than anyone else. But I’ll drill you, on one condition.”

“What?” She says around a mouthful of donut.

“Come with me and my roommate to this party tomorrow. I promised her I’d go, but I’m really not feelin’ it.” And I don’t want to stand Daphne up again.

“You mean, like…a real party with like…loud music and sweaty drunk people?” She narrows her eyes at me.

“Don’t forget, it’s my mother’s death day.”

“Oh, Malory, you are cold.” I laugh, and she shakes her head in mock exasperation. “Obviously,” she says, “I have no choice.”

Later that afternoon when I’m up on the riser in studio class, something goes weird with me—with my playing. It’s my new Popper etude, and yes, it’s hard, but I’m not stumbling because I don’t know the music. I’ve drilled this again and again and again until my fingers have just about bled. I’ve recorded myself and played it back and analyzed my pitch and tone and articulation. And I’m not actually sure I’m truly stumbling—the class doesn’t seem to have caught on that I’m having trouble. But there is a panic in my fingers, a delay between my brain and the notes as if the music is happening without me. I’ve lost control. I watch my fingers climb the finger board like they’re running, running away, and then they turn into my legs and I’m in the woods with Garrett and he’s barking harder, harder every time I want to give up and wider, wider when I’m naked and Hey, my mom’s dead and Where did my dad go? Why does no one give a fuck that he ran off and abandoned his kids? Why is he alive and my mom isn’t? And why was I not aware enough and smart enough and brave enough to stop it all?

I come back to myself with a start, jerk my head up to look around at the class—they’re clapping like usual. I finished, I guess, I must have, but I have no memory of playing the second half of the Popper at all. It takes me several minutes to catch my breath.