If they had asked her, she
would have declined. She would not have willingly accepted this mantle
nor this well-lit space on the stage -- doused in floodlights and a
thousand eyes on her every move -- if she had had a choice. She opened
her mouth to speak. Nothing emerged but her silence, and this silence
glued her to her spot. The conductor raised his arms, baton dancing in
his fingers. All around her, instruments moved, shifted, ready for the
moment of life. She, however, remained still. If they had asked her,
she would not be here. She could see the outline of her father and
aunt, seated a few rows back. She felt caught in a net. The conductor
moved and a musical explosion erupted around her. She noticed the
violin now on her shoulder. The bow was balanced perfectly in her
fingers. The conductor's eyes now shifted to her. If they had asked
her, she would not be at this place at this time. He nodded. So she
played, imagining all of her notes like broken bones scattered on the
stage. The violence of her sound was the only sweet revenge she could
think of. For, of course, they had not ever asked her, nor would they
ever.
