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"You were so great!" Mom comes up behind me, her itchy sweater rubbing against my bare arms.

"Thanks," I say, though I don't think she can hear me over the ever- growing crowd flooding the lobby with their programs and photos and praise.

My sister leans against the wall, her fingers touching the crown of her hair like she's reaching for the headband unceremoniously dumped into her purse. She must still be mad at me for making her take it off because Mom elbows her until she mumbles, "Good job, Freya," while staring across the lobby at Lucas Vanderpool's rat face.

"Thanks," I say again.

Mom beams. She's trying really hard to be peppy, I know. To make up for Dad not being here.

Anyway, they're both lying. I was not great or even good. I sucked. I made four glaring mistakes, and I'm pretty sure Stephanie Schmidt winced when I finished.

I can't think about how I humiliated myself in a holiday concert dress for too long, though, because Darley and Billie start attacking me from all sides.

"You killed it, girl!" Darley screeches, kissing my cheek. She pulls out the program from underneath her armpit and waves it in front of my face. "Look, under Allegory Spirit-whatever, it says your name. Freya June Sun, soloist. I took a pic and snapped it to the entire soccer team."

"Oh, that's very sweet of you, Darley," Mom pipes up. "Did any of your teammates come to the concert?"

Darley shakes her head. "Nah," she says, "but I'm sure they will next time. Now that they know my best friend is a violin prodigy."

"Viola. And not a prodigy," I correct her. Not even close.

Billie stuffs her problem set into her tote bag. "We really enjoyed the concert," she says.

"Ya, she didn't look at her homework once while you were playing,"

Darley teases. "Darley!" Billie swats her arm.

"For a whole five minutes! A record!"

My friends continue to play-fight each other while Mom looks at them, disturbed. My mother grew up with my Chinese immigrant grandparents, and play-fighting was not part of anyone's vocabulary back then. She squirms and glances toward the double doors as May examines her nails.

Outside, the sky has turned dark—squares of murky navy peeking through the lobby windows. I wonder if the red birds have returned to the parking lot or if they've given up on me and are halfway to Canada. Judging by how the concert went, they're probably in Niagara Falls at this point. It hurts to think of Dad's pained face if he were here, his disappointment at my poor playing.

"Freya!"

I turn, scanning the dozens of orchestra kids and their families packed around me until I see a hand waving in the distance. I'd recognize that hairy arm and silver watch anywhere—most days they're accompanied by a conducting baton. Mr. Keating. Probably calling me over to finally tell me the truth: I screwed up that solo. I've let him and Dad down.

Mom tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. "Go talk to your conductor. We'll see you outside."

I nod and try to smile as Mom, May, Darley, and Billie fold into the horde headed for the exit. After last year's spring concert, we all went out to Happy's Drive-In—the place where the crispy chicken tenders are served on sticks with shoestring fries packed in the middle, which somehow made them yummier, more special. Darley, Billie, and I shared a table while Mom and Dad sat in the booth behind us so they could give us "privacy." We giggled about the band boys and their awkward, too-big suits. Darley stage-whispered that Aaron Pecker farted so powerfully she could hear it from the third row at the climax of the Pirates of the Caribbean theme song, and Billie laugh-snorted her soda all over the table. Even May was happy. She'd gotten a bunch of her upper school friends to join her at Happy's, and they'd spent the meal talking about protesting climate change or something. When May isn't crushing on dull boys, she's usually protesting something, and these days she won't shut up about global warming.

That night had seemed endless. We had stayed at Happy's until the world turned inky black and Mom had insisted she drive my friends home rather than wait for their parents. In the parking lot, the spring air had felt cool on our shoulders, the gravel scuffing our shoes. No one had cared that we'd be exhausted at school the next day. Not even my parents. Everything had been perfect.

Tonight, we'll all probably go home in our separate cars. Billie's mom will come to pick her and Darley up. We're definitely not going to Happy's. I haven't had chicken tenders on sticks since last summer.

I make my way through the lobby crowd, past the line for milkshakes and other treats at the PTA-run concession stand. Stephanie's father crouches to take a photo of her against the awards case, her shiny lipstick grin matching the pink flowers on her dress. "Smile!" he says. But he doesn't have to tell her. She's already grinning from ear to ear.

I shuffle through a crush of parents and kids who forgot to put away their instruments so they're swinging their French horns around like expensive weapons. No one listens to me as I mumble Excuse me and Sorry and Please, I just need to get to my conductor so he can tell me how much I suck.