This story is copyrighted to Adrienne Wolter in 2003 and onwards. It was written on Wednesday, November 12th, 2003.

Although this story does feature a girl who is a cellist and is a part of a chorus, it is not autobiographical.

Concert

My parents have been divorced for almost two years now.
I used to think they were the most perfect, wonderful parents in the world. They really drove me to do well and make a life for myself to build onto. We were a happy, three-person family and that was all that really mattered, in the end.
But since they broke up, I’ve noticed more and more imperfections, the things that they balanced out when they were together. My mother, so frail and invisible, who runs away from her problems but makes me feel proud of who I am all the same. And my father.

“Dad! I need a ride!”
It was the third time I had called up the stairwell. How many times had I reminded him in the past week that I needed to be at my high school by eight? But the concert would start in ten minutes and he had yet to come downstairs.
I bitterly guessed at what he and his girlfriend were doing. The thought was making me more and more impatient.
“Dad!”
He yelled down at me to go myself. I stared up at the wall up in the hallway, unable to believe him. “Walk?”
“Walk there! You knew about the concert, you get there yourself! It will only take you ten minutes!”
He appeared at the top of the stairwell, and I saw the impish face of his girlfriend next to him.
“I can’t walk there! The concert starts in–” I glanced at my watch, “–seven minutes!”
“Then run!” he yelled back. He was turning around, returning to his room.
“But–”
He turned around and glared at me, daring me to speak. Swallowing, I did.
“Fine! I’ll go and sing and play for people who appreciate it more than you do! Funny isn’t it?” I asked him. “Funny, how people I don’t even know appreciate it more than my own father does!” And before he could think of something to yell in retaliation, I had turned, narrowly avoiding hitting my instrument on the banister, and left the small room.
So I was to be found, two minutes later, walking as fast as one can wearing a formal skirt and blouse, carrying a cased cello in one hand, and a bag of sheet music in the other.

The road was pitch black, and several people honked their horns at me; I was wearing all black, because that was the attire for the concert. I had a heavy, navy-colored coat on.
On that walk I thought a lot of bitter thoughts about my father. The same man who had congratulated me on becoming first seat cellist in 7th grade. The same man who had obsessively video-taped my chorus performances in elementary and middle school. As a tenth-grader, I still could not understand how a person could change so much in less than two years.
And I thought a lot about my mother, who had attended every one of my concerts for both orchestra and chorus, up until this one. She had been happy to go, she had always loved hearing me play my cello and sing in the high school chorus. Now, as muddy snow splashed up on my dress from a car that didn’t see me, I began to consider for the first time in my life not showing up for a performance.

I made it to the concert ten minutes after it had started, and the security guard would not allow me to join the orchestra. My seat was empty, on the very edge. How unimpressive it must have looked.
I joined the chorus in my mud-stained black skirt, having peeled all the mud I could get off off of my dress. We sang beautifully. The end.

Dad never drove me to a concert again, and the path from home to school in the dark became as familiar as in the day. I still play with ferocity and sing with dedication. I do because I will not give up what I love to do because he doesn’t support me.
I just feel more confident because I know that people I’ve never met are happier to hear me.