Если я останусь

           Adamtookmyhandandcaressedtheinsideofmywristwithhisfingers."Doitforme.Ireallywanttoplaywithyou.Justonce."

           Iwasabouttoshakemyhead,toreaffirmthatmycellohadnoplaceamongthejammingguitars,noplaceinthepunk-rockworld.ButthenIlookedoutatMom,whowassmirkingatme,asifissuingachallenge,andDad,whowastappingonhispipe,pretendingtobenonchalantsoasnottoapplyanypressure,andTeddy,whowasjumpingupanddown—thoughIthinkitwasbecausehewashoppeduponmarshmallows,notbecausehehadanydesiretohearmeplay—andKimandWillowandHenryallpeeringatmelikethisreallymattered,andAdam,lookingasawedandproudashealwaysdidwhenhelistenedtomeplay.AndIwasalittlescaredoffallingonmyface,ofnotblending,ofmakingbadmusic.Buteveryonewaslookingatmesointently,wantingmetojoininsomuch,andIrealizedthatsoundingbadwasn’ttheworstthingintheworldthatcouldhappen.

           SoIplayed.Andeventhoughyouwouldn’tthinkit,thecellodidn’tsoundhalfbadwithallthoseguitars.Infact,itsoundedprettyamazing.