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concerned about her.”
    Her? They must be talking about me!
    â€œOh yeah? You want me to stay home more, but what about you? Maybe it’s my turn to have a life finally.”
    â€œI just think she shouldn’t be alone so much. It’s not right.”
    â€œIt’s a little late to worry about that, don’t you think? Ten more months, and she could be living on her own. I have to have something in place for myself, and I’m not going to get an opportunity like this again.”
    I step into the kitchen. Mom is standing at the stove, wooden spoon poised in the air like a conductor’s baton. Dad is across the room from her, holding a mug. Their backs are to the door.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask.
    They swing around to look at me, embarrassed. They glance at each other. “It’s nothing,” Mom says, turning back to the pot on the stove.
    â€œSounds like something to me.”
    â€œHow was school?” Dad asks.
    â€œWere you talking about me?” I ask.
    Dad sighs. “Yes, we were.”
    I see my mom glance sharply at him.
    â€œWhat were you saying?”
    â€œI was saying I’m a little concerned that you’re alone so much now that your mom’s working nights.” He looks back at her, but I can’t read his expression.
    â€œI’m seventeen, Dad, not seven. And I’m fine. Better than fine.”
    â€œI don’t see you hanging out with any friends.”
    â€œI made two new friends today, as a matter of fact.”
    He smiles, but it’s forced. “That’s good.”
    â€œDo you want me to hang out at the mall or, even better, at the park, drinking and doing drugs?”
    â€œNo, of course not, but you need to have some fun.”
    â€œI’m having fun. Dance is fun. I don’t have time for hanging out.”
    He nods. “Okay, Legs.” But I know he doesn’t buy it. He thinks I’m a geek who can’t make friends. The truth is, I haven’t had time for them. Between music and dance and school, it’s all I can do to keep up. Athough I do hang out with Angela between dance classes.
    â€œI’m going to my room to study.”
    â€œHow ’bout we go to a movie tonight?” he asks.
    â€œCan’t. Dance class.”
    â€œTomorrow night?”
    â€œDad, I dance every night except Saturday, Sunday and Monday.”
    â€œAnd now you’re dancing at school too?”
    I nod.
    â€œThen maybe you could skip the odd evening class when I’m at home.”
    I realize he’s telling me that he wants to spend more time with me. Or maybe he’s just feeling sorry for me. For some reason, tears spring to my eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
    I leave the kitchen, but I don’t go to my room. Instead I go down the stairs to the music studio. Hearing them argue like that—about me—is too weird. It’s the second time this week I’ve walked in on something. There’s so much tension between them.
    Mom’s harp stands majestically in one corner of the studio. I sit down at the piano and stare at the keys. My right hand rests on them, and I pick out a simple tune. I haven’t practiced in six months, maybe more. I completed the academy exams and then quit, cold turkey. The last argument around here was back when Mom wanted me to continue studying. I told her I’d completed my part of the bargain. I was done with studying music.
    My left hand automatically joins my right on the keys, and I find myself playing Grieg’s “Morning Mood.” It comes back to me as if I’d played it just yesterday. I lean into the piano and pound the keys, enjoying the full range of emotion the music triggers. It comes so effortlessly, and for a few minutes I enjoy the sensation, completely losing myself just as I do when I dance.
    But then the piece is over. My hands drop to my lap after the last trill.
    â€œThat was beautiful,