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her, and sent herself into the C like a search. Then she descended into sound — B, A, G, the notes peaceful, long and even, shadows at dusk. Swinging upward, she shifted into minor intervals, the notes growing stronger, deeper into themselves — thoughts rising out of her body, a sweet blue voice stroking her mind: You’ll be okay, honey, just you wait and see. You’re a sweet child, a good child, you never meant any harm. Your daddy knew you loved him ...
    Eyes closed, Sal knew when the girl slowed her hitting by the way the air unclenched and loosened into easier breathing. Opening her eyes, she saw the girl still striking at her own head but slowly, like a toy winding down. Although her eyes were closed, the girl had shifted so that she now sat facing Sal. Gradually, as Sal continued to play, the girl’s fists stopped connecting with her head and she rocked with her hands upheld and loosely clenched. When she finally opened her eyes, she stared about herself as if confused, her pale blue gaze not quite focused, returning again and again to Sal’s general direction as if asking a question. Sal didn’t know what the question was, much less how to answer it. Heck, from the look in those unfocused eyes, Sal wasn’t sure the girl even saw her. Resting the clarinet bell on her knees, she watched the girl rock, more gently now, both hands limp in her lap. She was thin, her coal-black hair obviously dyed and cut in ragged chunks, as ifshe’d done it herself. Once again, she was wearing black lipstick, but the rest of her clothes were gray. Why the black lipstick and hair if she wasn’t after the usual image? She didn’t look tough.
    The girl sighed heavily, something leaving her. Then, without speaking, without even glancing in Sal’s direction, she climbed clumsily to her feet and walked away.
    “Whew!” said Brydan. “Music tames the savage beast, eh?”
    Startled, Sal felt his voice pull her back into the reality of Wilson Park, the scuff marks left by the grade nine toughs in the grass, and the raw throb the clarinet had imprinted into her lower lip. Everything felt dreamy and indistinct, as if she was halfway between worlds, still riding the effortless blue voice. Without replying she dismantled the clarinet, placing each piece carefully into the velour-lined case. Something deep and beautiful floated within her body, changing shape like clouds — a deep singing peace, slowly fading.
    “Since exactly when have you been able to play actual music, Sally Hanson?” Brydan demanded.
    Sal shrugged and slid the clarinet case into his wheelchair pocket.
    “I swear you’ve been possessed by the ghost of Benny Goodman!” Brydan sat, openly staring. “No, worse, you actually practiced all summer!”
    “I just visualized it.” Sal picked up her bike.
    “Visualized what — a phantom embouchure? Pavvie hears you playing like that, he’ll stick you on first.”
    “Then he won’t hear me.” Mounting her bike, Sal pedaled off quickly. “Firsts have to practice.”
    Brydan caught up with her, arms pumping. She slowed her pace.
    “Who was that girl?” she asked. “D’you think she’ll be all right?”
    “Tauni Morrison?” asked Brydan. “She’s always been weird. Freaks easy, but she should be okay if people leave her alone for a while.”
    Sal could relate. “I think we’re going to be late.”
    “No kidding. It’s twenty after nine.”
    “It is?” She gaped in astonishment.
    “You were playing for half an hour.” Brydan gave her an odd look. “Didn’t you notice?”
    A delicate fear winged through Sal. How could something rise out of her and change everything, just like that? Where had that beautiful playing come from, those lovely sounds that had trickled through her like willow trees stroking water? They were gone now, lost, like everything else in her life that had blessed her, then disappeared. Grinding her foot hard against the pedal, Sal put on a burst of speed.
    “Hey!” hollered