Interment

In fifth grade, I earned first place statewide for violin against the girl I half-loved— her fingers quicker, her lineage more illustrious— but that day, mine did not tremble. She chose a piece with fireworks and pitfalls— something by Tchaikovsky— I chose Barcarolle— plainspoken, sweet, a boat gliding through moonlight. I played it without flaw. She slipped once, only once. We both knew I’d won on a grace note— not brilliance, nor fire— just a clean line held steady while hers faltered. Afterward, she turned from me like a violin tucked into its case. A week later, dad took us to a restaurant with cloth napkins and candles, to celebrate my victory. He smiled too much, and talked too loud, and the wineglass trembled in his hand just before he threw up on the checkered tablecloth. He tried to pay, but the card was declined. The cashier cut it in half. He gave them his gold watch as a promise. I wished I could just be invisible, and we left without dessert. Two years later, I buried my medal in the woods and never played violin again.