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tapped her knee. “Ready for Mozart?”
    Minna sat up, gripping her cello by its neck. She stared at the music, thinking about Willie and her mother and father. Did she know them at all, even the slightest little bit?
    â€œI’ll never be ready for Mozart,” said Minna.
    â€œAh,” said Porch, “but Mozart is ready for you, Minna Pratt. Come on, let’s do K. 158. Your favorite key.”
    Minna couldn’t help smiling. Porch was right, it was her favorite key. Sometimes, most of the time, Porch knew Minna as well as anyone else did. Except for McGrew; McGrew who knew, for instance, that in spite of Minna’s grumbling, in spite of her complaints, Minna played the cello because she wanted to.
    Porch picked up his violin.
    â€œLet’s play the repeats,” said Porch. He turned to look at Minna. “And we will play it wonderfully. In tune. With or without a vibrato.”
    And they did.
    â€œHey!”
    Porch and Minna looked up, startled. Imelda stood in the doorway. She pointed to Minna.
    â€œ She’s here. Am I late?”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” said Porch. “Just come in and tune.”
    Orson skidded in behind Imelda, Lucas behind him. Minna could tell that Lucas had frogs in his pockets, just by the way he took off his jacket. He held up two fingers. Two fingers, two frogs. He smiled slyly at her.
    â€œThe whole caboodle,” commented Orson. “That means the whole pack of us,” he told Minna. He unlocked his case and took out his violin, running his fingers up and down the strings to make wailing sounds.
    â€œDo you know,” said Imelda, “that Mozart once fainted because of a horrible noise? It’s a fact.”
    Porch sighed.
    â€œI can believe it,” he said. “Let’s get to it. Music, that is.” He raised his bow. “The whole caboodle.”
    After scales they begin the Mozart, the dreaded one that Minna does and does not love. The allegro goes well, but the andante looms and Minna frowns as she waits. She has eleven measures of rests, the longest time in the world, the mournful, wonderful eleven measures as the violins and viola wind about each other. She lifts her bow and slips in, pianissimo, fine for a while until she comes to the sixteenth notes that are hers. Hers all alone. She can hear that her fingers are not stretching, not reaching. Porch nods at her encouragingly. “Repeat now,” he says, and she bites her lip and repeats, trying to force her fingers to obey. Better. The repeat is better. Nearly in tune. Is there such a thing as nearly in tune? At last there is the coda, peaceful and solid. And then, with sudden wildness they fall into the presto, Orson bowing so vigorously that the bow shoots from his hand, retrieved by Lucas, handed back with laughter. Imelda sits primly and makes soft mistakes. Lucas plays calmly, eyeing his jacket on the floor. It moves a bit, two frogs in the pocket. Minna plays in tune. No vibrato. She looks up quickly. No light over her head.
    â€œGrand,” said Porch, leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. “Quite grand, in fact. Minna, much better, that difficult part.” He spoke a musical code. “Press hard, those fingers, left hand.” He looked at Orson. “I do think that the presto was a bit too presto.” Orson smiled.
    â€œNow,” said Porch. “I have an announcement.”
    Everyone looked up.
    â€œThere is a competition eight weeks from now. Eight, a long time.” He stood up and folded his arms across his chest. “For the first time this competition includes musicians of your age. About ten quartets will perform. Less experienced fiddlers.”
    That’s us, thought Minna with a cold flash of fear. Less experienced.
    â€œAnd,” said Porch with a smile, “I think you are ready. I know you are ready.”
    Even me with no vibrato?
    â€œI don’t know,”