Если я останусь

           Justclencheshisjaw.Theyloadmeintotheambulance;theredheadclimbsintothebackwithme.Shepumpsmybagwithonehand,adjustsmyIVandmymonitorswiththeother.Thenshesmoothsalockofhairfrommyforehead.

           "Youhanginthere,"shetellsme.

           IplayedmyfirstrecitalwhenIwasten.I’dbeenplayingcellofortwoyearsatthatpoint.Atfirst,justatschool,aspartofthemusicprogram.Itwasaflukethattheyevenhadacello;they’reveryexpensiveandfragile.ButsomeoldliteratureprofessorfromtheuniversityhaddiedandbequeathedhisHamburgtoourschool.Itmostlysatinthecorner.Mostkidswantedtolearntoplayguitarorsaxophone.

           WhenIannouncedtoMomandDadthatIwasgoingtobecomeacellist,theybothburstoutlaughing.Theyapologizedaboutitlater,claimingthattheimageofpint-sizemewithsuchahulkinginstrumentbetweenmyspindlylegshadmadethemcrackup.Oncethey’drealizedIwasserious,theyimmediatelyswallowedtheirgigglesandputonsupportivefaces.

           Buttheirreactionstillstung—inwaysthatInevertoldthemabout,andinwaysthatI’mnotsuretheywould’veunderstoodevenifIhad.DadsometimesjokedthatthehospitalwhereIwasbornmusthaveaccidentallyswappedbabiesbecauseIlooknothingliketherestofmyfamily.TheyareallblondandfairandI’mliketheirnegativeimage,brownhairanddarkeyes.ButasIgotolder,Dad’shospitaljoketookonmoremeaningthanIthinkheintended.SometimesIdidfeellikeIcamefromadifferenttribe.