Transcendence by C. J. Omololu Read Free Book Online Page B

compliment her on her improving technique.
    “I think I’ve finally decided on a name for my cello,” Veronique says, lifting the instrument from its case.
    “I already told you, it’s not like naming is mandatory or anything. Not everybody does it.” Not everybody includes pretty much only me, because everyone else I know in the orchestra has a cute or meaningful name for their instrument. I tried naming my first cello after the main character in my favorite book, but every time I called it “Harry” I felt like an idiot.
    “I know, but it makes it so much more personal. Are you ready?” She gives a dramatic pause. “Bono.”
    “‘Bono’ as in U2 Bono?” I roll the name around in my head for a second. It could work.
    “Yep.” Veronique smiles. “If something is going to be between my knees for so many hours every week, I figure it might as well be the sexiest singer alive.”
    “Veronique!” I whisper, giggling. I look toward the doorway to make sure Mom isn’t listening. “Won’t your boyfriend get mad?”
    She shrugs. “No. Giacomo thinks he’s sexy too. He’ll probably like it.”
    I hold up my hand. “Totally TMI,” I say, getting so embarrassed I can barely look at her.
    “Come on, Bono,” she says, pulling the cello into position. “Let’s get down to business.”
    We work on Bach’s Variations for a few minutes before I suggest something new. “I just got this, and the arrangement doesn’t look too hard,” I say, placing the music on the stand. “It’s one of the first real classical pieces I ever tried.” I’ve barely gotten through the first bars of Chopin’s
Sonata in G
before Veronique puts her hand on the page and pulls it down, the expression on her face full of pain.
    “I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice sounds shaky and uncontrolled, not like her at all. “But no Chopin.”
    I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Veronique always agrees on my choice of music. “None?” I say. “No
Polonaise
?”
    “No,” she says. “I don’t … I can’t stand Chopin.” Veronique’s face is red, and she seems flustered. I’ve never seen her anything but cool and calm—what is it about a little piece of music that has her almost crawling out of her skin?
    “No problem,” I say, picking up the pages and sliding them under my seat. “I’m not a huge fan anyway.” Which is a complete lie; Chopin composed some of my favorite music, but she already looks embarrassed and I don’t want it to get any worse. As I sit back in my chair, my head begins to spin, and I try to tell myself that it’s just a head rush. I sat up too fast is all. The feelings of panic begin as the room feels like it’s receding around me. I can see Veronique speaking, but I can’t understand what she’s saying.
    I stand watching from the wings as Alessandra pulls the bow back and the last notes of Chopin resonate throughout the concert hall. Applause thunders through the building as she stands holding the neck of the cello, reaching with the other hand to pull her long, blond hair away from her face. Alessandra has been with the Young Masters Orchestra since she was my age, touring the world with her father as chaperone for the past four years. Now that she’s almost nineteen, she is so much better than I am, and between her beauty and skill I always feel inadequate around her
.
    I sense him behind me well before he speaks. “Are you ready, Clarissa?” Paolo asks, his smile bright in the low lights of backstage, causing my heart to flutter like it always does whenever he’s around. His dark hair shines almost black in the flicker of the footlights as I look up at him and nod quickly. Paolo touches me lightly on the elbow as he guides me onstage, where my cello and chair have been placed next to Alessandra’s, and even though I should be nervous with so many people here to watch my first performance, all I can feel is the physical sensation of his skin on mine. With a slight bow, Paolo takes