by Wendy Mass
“Musicians sure are emotional,” Miles said.
“C’mon,” Daisy said. “Let’s go get seats up front. He’s going to need a big cheering section right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The young woman with the ponytail and the clipboard and the earpiece told Philip he was up fifth, directly following the girl who could memorize the order of a shuffled deck of cards in ten seconds, and right before the boy who played piano with his toes. Philip was glad to be going sooner rather than later. He probably should have eaten something.
While he waited his turn in the wings, he felt bad for his outburst in the closet. It had been silly. He was feeling sorry for himself, and how could he do that? He had three friends who were here for him. That was worth much more than realizing he’d been wrong about his mom’s chocolate squares all these years.
He peeked out the side of the curtain. He could see them sitting front row center. He’d sworn those seats had RESERVED signs taped to the back of them. But leave it to Daisy to get in there anyway. The judges’ table was only a few feet in front of them. The panel consisted of three women and two men of varying ages. He watched them each take turns shuffling the deck of cards before the girl took it back. She flipped through it card by card while the crowd shouted down from ten to one. Then she placed the deck back on the judges’ table and began reciting them in order. Three of clubs, nine of diamonds, king of clubs, two of hearts.
The judges ticked off each one as she got it correct. When she got to the last two, Philip could see her forehead break out in a sweat. He knew the lights were hot onstage, but that wasn’t the reason. She knew which cards were left, but she didn’t know the correct order. He did, though. He’d seen them before she set them down.
Ace of spades, jack of diamonds. Ace of spades, jack of diamonds. He repeated them under his breath, and a second later she blurted them out into the microphone. He had no idea if she’d heard him or not. He’d never, ever helped an opponent in anything. He must be getting soft. He couldn’t tell Andrew.
Each judge gave a nod, acknowledging she’d gotten all fifty-two cards in the right order. She got more applause than any of the contestants before her. She hurried offstage without giving him a glance. And now it was his turn.
The master of ceremonies was a tall man in a suit that Philip could tell from across the stage needed a tailor’s attention. Philip felt an unfamiliar flutter in his stomach as the man flipped to the next index card—the one that would have Philip’s name on it.
He shook out his right hand a few times and hoped it wouldn’t tense up before the end. None of the other musicians in the competition were performing their own compositions. It was risky, but hopefully it would pay off.
He took a series of deep breaths as the ponytailed woman gave him a gentle push onto the stage. He walked slowly, head high, with his bow hanging from one hand and his violin from the other in imitation of the videos he’d seen of professional violinists walking onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer began, “it is my pleasure to welcome Philip Ransford the Third to the stage.” The crowd clapped politely and the tall man continued. “He will be performing an original violin composition titled ‘Bioluminescence.’”
The audience murmured, clearly impressed. Philip took center stage, blinking in the bright spotlight. He tucked the violin between his chin and left shoulder, placed his fingers in starting position, and poised the bow above the strings. But he didn’t lower it. He couldn’t help notice the activity below him. Daisy was waving a poster over her head, but that didn’t bother him. In fact, it was pretty cool. No one had ever made that kind of poster for him before.
What he found distracting was the fact that one of the judges—the oldest of the women—had excused herself from the judges’ table. Her heels clacked on the floor as she walked up the aisle. The bright lights shining in his eyes didn’t allow Philip to see if she had left the room. Was he supposed to wait for her to return to the table?
“You may begin,” one of the other judges said. Well, he had his answer for what to do, at least. Maybe the lady just didn’t like violin music. Or maybe she had to go to the bathroom. You’d think she could have waited until the intermission.
He shrugged it off, tried to pretend he was alone in his mom’s old room at home, and began to play. Any shuffling or chatting abruptly stopped as the music filled the auditorium. When he neared the end, he hoped that somehow his arm would know how to hit the right strings for the last few notes.
It didn’t.
He ended by striking the strings with a flourish of his bow, then lowered the violin dramatically to his side. As he suspected, the audience didn’t notice anything was missing, or if they did, they didn’t care. They clapped loudly, a few whistled (he was pretty sure the whistles came from the three kids giving him a standing ovation from front row center), and some even stomped their feet. He had played his best. Or at least his second or third best.
As he walked off stage he could see the one judge returning to her seat like it wasn’t at all strange that she’d missed someone’s whole performance. The other judges turned over their voting cards, and the announcer prepared to introduce the next contestant.
Ponytail Woman ushered him back to a large dressing room to wait with the few others who’d already performed. She handed him a cup of cold lemonade and a brownie. He’d rather have had one of those chocolate squares that Logan had eaten, but he took the brownie anyway. Now that all their stock of candy was gone, he had to admit he was looking forward to eating real food again when he got home. Hopefully Marietta’s cooking skills had improved in his absence.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. “You were really good,” the girl who’d gone before him said. She pointed to a screen on the wall. “We can watch on the monitor.”
“Thanks,” he said, stepping closer to the screen. The boy playing piano with his toes was oddly mesmerizing. The camera must have been shooting from the side of the stage, because he could see the judges’ table and the first few rows of the audience.
“Guess she doesn’t mind piano playing,” Philip muttered.
“What?” the girl said.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
But she didn’t let it go. “Who doesn’t mind piano playing?”
“The judge,” he said. Figured he might as well talk, since they were stuck there until intermission.
The crowd clapped politely. The piano was wheeled away, and a girl began singing the national anthem. Her voice was full of richness and depth. It reminded him that the kids here were really the best of the best. This was no middle-school talent show.
The girl spoke again. “If you’re talking about the judge who left during your performance, I thought that was weird, too.”
“You saw?”
She nodded. “It’s even weirder because of who she is. I mean, all the judges are at the top of their fields—some are world famous, even. But out of all of them, you’d think she’d be the best at judging a violinist!”
That got his full attention. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know who she is?”
Philip shook his head. Piano Foot Boy came in and got his snacks. They all nodded politely at each other.
“Anne Turner,” the girl said. “She’s first violinist in the National Symphony Orchestra.”
Philip’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
The girl nodded and sipped her drink. Philip moved closer to the monitor. He’d watched a lot of videos of professional violinists over the years while he was teaching himself. Now that he could see her better without the glare of the stage lights, she did look vaguely familiar. He’d mostly focused on the musicians’ hands, though, so he wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t immediately recognized her.
“But why would she have left?” he wondered out loud.
The girl shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to stand in the back to hear better. You know, like how the sound would echo off the walls.
”
Philip considered that. It wasn’t a bad theory.
“Okay, everyone,” Ponytail Woman said, making a final check mark on her clipboard. “You have twenty minutes to go visit with your families. Dessert tables have been set up in the rear of the auditorium. It is mandatory to regroup back here for the second half. When the contest is complete, you will sit in the auditorium while the judges tally their scores and announce the winner.”
Miles and Daisy were waiting for him in the area between the front row and the stage. “Great job,” Miles said, pumping his hand up and down. Daisy gave him a hug. “Did you see the poster?”
He nodded. “Hard to miss.” He glanced around the crowded room. Everywhere, parents and siblings were hugging relieved contestants. A janitor rushed out to mop up the stage where a raw juggled egg had met its untimely end. “Where’s Logan?”
“He wanted to beat the rush to the dessert table,” Daisy said. “Here he comes.” They saw him weaving his way back to them, a plate piled high in each hand, mostly with those chocolate squares.
Daisy and Miles exchanged a worried look. They knew how hard it was for him to hold on to slippery things like plastic plates. They both grabbed a plate as soon as Logan got close enough.
“Ick,” Daisy said as her fingers stuck to the bottom of it. Miles tried to move his fingers, too. They kept sticking to different parts of the plastic.
Logan grinned. “It’s my new trick. If I put something sticky on whatever I need to carry, I don’t drop it!”
Miles licked one sticky finger. “Mmm, honey.”
“Good trick,” Daisy said halfheartedly. Philip gave her a wet wipe that he kept in his pocket to wipe down his violin’s chin rest. While she was wiping her fingers, he reached for one of the chocolate squares.
Logan began telling him how cool it was to watch him up there, and that he liked the title of the piece, and that Miles had recorded it on his vid com, but Philip only half heard him. The chocolate mint square tasted exactly as he remembered from when his mom made them. Mint and crushed cashews and marshmallow inside a pillow of soft milk chocolate. It was his strongest memory of her. If it was this easy to replicate the candy, it was a good thing Henry had talked him out of making it for the contest. The judges would have known right away, and he never could have won.
“Excuse me,” Logan said, calling out to a silver-haired woman in a blue-and-white dress standing a few feet away by the stage. She turned around. Philip could see the laminated badge on a string around her neck that said JUDGE in bold black letters. This was the judge who’d left! Was Logan seriously about to confront her?
Philip shrank back a little. It took a lot to make him feel intimidated by anyone, but first violinist of the NSO? That would intimidate anyone.
But instead of asking why she’d left, Logan surprisingly held up a chocolate square. “These are really, really good. You made them, right?”
The woman’s gaze shifted around their group. She gave a small nod.
Logan brushed his hair away from his eyes and said, “My family owns the Life Is Sweet candy factory, and honestly, these are really special. Would you ever consider selling the recipe? Or maybe going into business together?”
Miles and Daisy raised their eyebrows high at each other. Logan Sweet had suddenly turned into a businessman! The Candymaker would be proud of how well he was representing the factory.
Philip wanted to crawl into a hole. Here was arguably one of the best violinists in the entire world, and Logan was asking her about chocolate!
She glanced around at all of them again and then shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s an old family recipe. I’ve only shared it once… with my daughter.” Her eyes flashed to Philip and, inexplicably, filled with tears.
For a split second Philip thought she must have heard him play after all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen people get emotional after hearing music.
And then boom! A rush of images hit him, and he fell back into the nearest seat.
Logan said, “Well, if you change your mind, please think of Life Is Sweet.”
The woman gave another small nod, but she didn’t turn away from him. Logan shifted his weight from foot to foot. Was she waiting for a business card or something? It took longer than it probably should have for him and Daisy and Miles to pick up on Philip’s distress. It was the raspy breathing and clammy white skin that finally did it.
“Philip?” Daisy asked, shaking his shoulder. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Philip stared past her at the woman. She had more gray hair than when he’d last seen her, and it wasn’t on one of the violin concert videos he’d watched. She hadn’t excused herself from judging his performance because she needed a bathroom break, or to hear it better, or any other reason he’d considered. She did it because the rules of every single contest he’d ever been in were the same—a contestant cannot be related to a judge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Philip tried to get his mouth to form words, but all that came out was “Gr… ah… wha…” So he stopped trying. Even though the room was full of contestants and their families chatting and laughing, all he heard was his heart thumping in his ears.
“What’s going on?” Miles asked, looking from one to the other. The judge stepped cautiously over to Philip and lowered herself into the seat beside him. She put her hand on his arm. Instinctively, he jerked it away and shifted to the far side of his seat.
“Philip!” Daisy scolded.
But the woman held up a hand. “It’s okay. I deserve that.”
Daisy shook her head. “Why? Because you left during his performance? It was really great, by the way. He’s the best young violinist in the nation.”
She nodded. “I agree. I wasn’t half as good at his age. But if I had to guess, that’s not why he’s angry.”
Philip sprang up from his seat. “Where have you been the last decade? How come I didn’t even know you existed?”
Shocked, his friends backed away. “What’s going on?” Logan asked in a shaky voice.
“Guys,” Philip said, gesturing back and forth between them and the chair. “Meet my grandmother.”
Their jaws fell open.
The woman stayed seated with her fingers laced tightly together. “Annette Turner Rickman,” she said quietly. “You can call me Anne.”
Philip didn’t want to call her anything. He began to pace between the seats and the stage. “Did you even know Mom died? Why didn’t I know about you? How did you know I’d be here?”
People had started to notice. The violin boy and the judge were fighting! Daisy snapped into action. She reached for both Philip and this judge, who was somehow his grandmother, and marched them both out the side door of the auditorium and into a classroom, where she closed the door. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said to Anne, “but my friend here deserves answers to his questions.”
“I know he does,” she said calmly. “I’m just waiting for him to finish asking them.”
Philip glanced around at the room—a history classroom, judging by the many posters of past presidents. Logan and Miles stood pressed against a wall, scared, or freaked out, or just trying to be supportive and invisible at the same time.
Anne held out what looked like an ordinary black flash drive. “Your mother trusted me with this, and it’s something I’ve treasured. Please, take it.”
Philip crossed his arms.
Daisy stepped forward, took the device, and slid it in her pocket. Anne gave her a grateful look.
“I’d like those answers,” Philip said. He had a hard time meeting her eyes, but he forced himself to. Up close she looked so much like his mother. It felt like someone was trying to pull out his heart with a rusty pair of pliers.
“You’re almost grown up now,” she said, “so I’m going to give it to you straight. Marshall—my late husband and your grandfather—owned a paper business. Cardboard boxes, mostly. He built it from nothi
ng, working day and night to grow it into something big that employed dozens of people. Your father—barely out of college and eager to prove himself to his own father—offered to buy Marshall’s company so he could sell off the pieces to our competitors. Marshall refused, but your father was relentless. One by one he destroyed every relationship your grandfather had built with his suppliers over decades. Marshall lost his business, and his employees lost their jobs.” Anne paused to catch her breath.
“And then your father met Karen, our only daughter and your mother. Beyond all reasoning, they fell in love. And why not? Phil was dynamic, handsome, brilliant, and charming. Everyone could see that he truly loved her and perhaps even regretted what he had done to our family’s business, but there was no undoing it at that point.”
Daisy hung on every word. This was better than a soap opera! She glanced at Philip. He, too, seemed rapt. His face was dark and angry, but he didn’t take his eyes from his grandmother’s face.
Anne sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk and rubbed at weary eyes. “I’m sure you can guess the rest. She married him and broke her father’s heart. Karen always believed Marshall would come around, but he never did.” She let out a long, shaky breath. “Don’t get me wrong—I was deeply hurt by your mother’s choice, too. How could I not be? But I couldn’t close her out like Marshall did. Karen would send me updates on you and your brother, pictures and little video clips. She’d insisted on naming her firstborn after me, so that’s why you got to be Philip Ransford the Third, instead of Andrew inheriting the name.”
Philip had always wondered about that but never questioned it. Having his father’s name had opened many doors over the years.
“And I got to meet you both a few times, too,” his grandmother was saying. “Once Karen was even able to bring you to my house when Marshall was out for the day. Sneaking around was very stressful for both of us. But for Marshall, who wore that grudge and anger like a second skin—well, he had it even worse. For him it was like his daughter had died.”