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“What? Me?” I press my hand to my chest and gulp. I actually gulp.
“Mr. Rose set this up for you. Your audience is waiting. When you’re ready,” Mrs. Kim says, still smiling warmly.
Without my consent, my feet start to walk to the center of the stage, although I have no idea what I’m doing.
As I approach the chair, I hear an announcer’s voice welcoming the ladies and gentlemen who have gathered for the evening. It sounds pre-recorded. Everyone is reminded to silence their cell phones and refrain from flash photography. But then, I am introduced by name, and I know it’s a live announcer’s voice. I swallow down hard and try to stay my hammering heart. The disembodied announcer’s voice returns and informs the audience that I’m playing a selection of personal favorites. A drumroll beckons and the footlights blaze to life, temporarily blinding me. The curtains sway and then slide slowly back revealing a sea of red empty audience chairs. Well, almost empty. Seated in the center of the first row in the orchestra section are four people. I can barely make them out in the glow of the spotlight now shining on me. But I can hear their applause and see Connor’s smiling face.
My hand flies to cover my mouth and I want to break into tears. But I don’t. My Inner Maestro instructs me to warm up. I take a seat, curling the instrument to my body. I wrap my legs around my wooden lover and pull the bow across the strings to start a long slow scale.
When it’s done, I clear my throat, bow my head and glance over the copper light that dances across the strings of the cello. I lift the bow and press it down, curling my fingers to form the first chord. The bow flashes quickly back and forth, flying over the strings. My hand and fingers dance, pulling notes and chords from its body like strings of sweet taffy. They snap and twirl and twist and are pulled again as the melody transitions from a spritely dance to a slow ballad. My heart and fingers know the music and the notes as if I am recalling my own name.
A dandelion wish morphs into a raven in flight. Of course, I’ve flown on a wish before. At the spa in Georgia when our trip began, but even before that on the back of Connor’s Indian and tucked in his bed for a sleepover. As I pluck each note, I celebrate every flight — the amusement park, the Minnow Bucket, shooting the pistol, shopping, sketches, bike rides, candy, campfire food, dancing, music, concerts and … my life.
Connor is right. I’m not running away, I’m flying toward myself. And here I am. Willow told me to take this trip with Connor to discover who I am, and now I know. I am Raven. My spirit soars over the seats, the music hall, the skyscrapers and the city, out into the world of possibilities.
I continue playing through one piece and into the next, pausing for only a moment before letting my mind trace the musical scores I once practiced for hours a day. A concerto, an overture, a prelude, a folk dance. One after the other until my fingers are cramped and sore.
When the music is finished, tears stream down my cheeks. I lean the cello back on its stand and bow. I give thanks to the four people who are on their feet clapping for me. I can see them more clearly now. Tori, Ox, Connor and a young woman, who I can only guess is Ginger.
Mrs. Kim waits patiently in the wings for me and I walk with her to the sound of their cheers and Connor’s catcalls. My feet barely touch the wooden planks.
“That was beautiful,” she says. “And may I just say, if that wonderful man ever asks you to marry him, say yes.”
I laugh, wondering if that particular wish could ever come true. And hug her. “Thank you for your help. I know it took a monumental effort to get this all set up.”
“It no work at all, trust me. I mean, any friend of Tori’s is a friend of mine.”
“You know Tori Carmichael?” I ask, doubting the woman who doubts my affections for her brother would ever help set this up.
“Of course. She’s launching a fashion line here in a few weeks. I’m one of her business partners.”
I look down and see she’s wearing a pair of Tori’s jeans. And they are spectacular. She twists so I can see the pockets on the back and I give her a big thumbs up.
“C’mon. You’re signing autographs and taking pictures with your fans.”
