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shakes and tilts to a crazy slant.
    I run to the door and chain it, my hands shaking. And then I slam the Fox lock in place, the long steel rod that leans between the door and a slot in the floor. Uncle Hank might have a key to the deadbolt, but Grampa added Fox braces to the three outside doors just a month ago. And there are only two keys, Grampa’s and mine. And the brace-release locks have Medeco cylinders—pick-proof. New York turns everyone into a lock expert.
    I scramble downstairs, trot past my bedroom, past the door to the basement, through the laundry room and into the utility room, and I put the brace rod in place against the door to the backyard.
    My pulse is still racing, and as I go back through the utility room, the compressor on the big freezer kicks in and I nearly jump out of my shoes. I’m at the ground floor door and I only have thirteen minutes to get to my lesson. I use the straps and put my violin on my back. I put the brace rod into its groove, and when I close the door and turn the key in the cylinder, I hear it settle into place with a solid clunk that seems to echo through the whole empty house.
    “Perimeter secure, sir.”
    I trot over to Broadway, and I flag a cab because I have to be on time for my Friday lesson. I have to be. Grampa would want me to be on time. Even if it meant that I had to leave my beautiful daffodils gasping in the kitchen sink.
    And I am on time. I make it to the third floor studio with only a minute to spare. Because I will have my lesson today. I will play my best for Pyotr Melyanovich, and he will teach me to play even better.
    I have earned this tightrope, and I will move ahead. I will get to the next level—no wishing, no dreaming, no luck.
    Cause and effect.

chapter 4
    FAMILIAR FACE
    A good lesson is when my teacher doesn’t scold me. A great lesson is when Pyotr Melyanovich smiles or nods.
    Friday’s lesson is better than great. When I play the runs and the double stops of caprice number 17, there is a smile. When I plunge into the third movement of the Sibelius concerto, after eight measures, there is a nod.
    I’ve heard other kids at my school talk about their private teachers, and our experiences are all so similar. Any one of us would walk through fire if we thought that would make our teachers approve of our playing, or compliment the tiniest bit of progress. It’s scary how much power Pyotr Melyanovich has over me, over my life and how I feel about myself as a musician. I want this strange little man to be so proud of me, proud to call me his student, proud that I’ve begun to master another difficult piece, proud that his teaching has helped me ace an audition.
    A smile and a nod. A superb lesson.
    On the way home I stop at the café on Broadway to give myself a small reward: cocoa, cake, and Yeats.
    As I try to decide how large my cocoa should be, it occurs to me that it’s nice not to have to rush home to see how Grampa’s doing. And immediately I’m ashamed of myself for having such a selfish thought. But then I have to admit it’s still true.
    And while I’m having my little truth-telling session, I notice a guy behind me in line. Actually there are three guys: one wearing a greasy Mets cap, one in a suit and topcoat talking too loud on his cell phone, and one wearing khakis and hiking boots with a trumpet case hanging from his shoulder. He’s the one I mean, the boy with the trumpet.
    I’m in a booth a few minutes later and I’ve got my book open, and the trumpeter comes and stands there until I look up.
    When I first got to town, I thought that there were West Virginia rules, and then there were New York City rules. But now I know that’s not true. People are people. Still, I decide I should go with the old city rule that applies to a moment like this: Don’t be too nice.
    I give him the stony eye. “This table’s taken.”
    He shakes his head, smiling. “Just a quick question.” He points at my violin. “I thought you might be