"Make sure you practice!" his mom yelled as he backed the green van out of the driveway.
"Like the first thing I'm gonna do as soon as I get to college is practice violin," he mumbled to himself. Fat chance. He was the best violinist in his high school orchestra- first seat. He had even received an award for Most Outstanding Violinist. He deserved a break from violin- from the calluses on his fingers, a sore neck, and constantly having the same song stuck in his head. Plus, it was not as if he could
forget how to play, right? There was the exciting prospect of college ahead of him- sleeping in late, parties, girls, and most of all, freedom. No more unrelenting reminders from his mother. One thing he was sure he wouldn't miss: his mother's shrieks that carried well up the stairs, through the hall, through his bedroom door, and into his ears- "ARE YOU PRACTICING VIOLIN YET?!"
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He hadn't touched his violin for a week. One week turned into two, and two into a month. Soon, it had been three months since he had practiced. He kept glancing over to the corner where his violin case lay, telling himself that was plenty of time to practice later. But things kept coming up- he had to study, or he was too tired. He felt squirmy every time he thought of his mother.
Back home for winter vacation, he knew what was coming. His mom automatically asked him to play for her, of course. However, as he started to play, he realized something was wrong. He couldn't remember the first chords of the song- the song that he had practiced for hours straight in preparation for a concert. Shrugging this off, he rummaged through his music folder and pulled out the sheet music. It felt as if he were learning how to read all over again. It all looked oddly foreign to him. He took a deep breath, and began to play once again. His hand, once so adept at finding chords on the strings, faltered. The hairs of his bow did not slide smoothly over the strings as they usually did, and halfway through the song, his violin let out an off-tune, high-pitched squeal that must have surely deafened his mother. As he brought the song to a close, he looked at his mother guiltily. He fully expected her to start yelling at him in rage.
"You practiced!" cried his mom, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a big kiss on his cheek. Having never touched a violin, she could no more tell the difference between a sharp and flat note as he could between her cries of joy and outrage.
Somehow, this made him feel even worse than if she had yelled at him.
"Yeah," he replied. His mouth was suddenly very dry. He glanced down at his violin. It felt as if a weight had just dropped into his stomach. "I guess."
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