The sky is crying.

Rain comes down in blurred sheets, slamming against the pavement like thousands of marbles. The smell of wet asphalt is strong in the air, but I ignore it. Mom is late today. Again. So I’ll wait out here – catch a cold or some disease, if that’s what she wants.

I’m soaked thoroughly after just a few minutes outside. My tangle of brown hair knots into thick ropes, and my dark jeans are stiff with the cold. Cursing this weather, I cradle my music binder and hunch my back, hoping it won’t get too wet.

I find refuge under one of the large pine trees lining the parking lot. Everybody else in my orchestra has already left, gone to their warm and happy homes. I’ve already thought of the angry remarks I’ll say once I get on Mom’s car. It’ll be just enough to make her feel bad, but not push her too far.

A clear high-pitched note pierces the air.

I glance around, startled out of my reverie. My eyes fall on a tall, lean figure hidden in the adjacent tree – only a dozen or so feet away from me. It’s a boy. His arm carefully saws against his violin, tucked between his ear and shoulder.

He breaks into a slow, mournful song. The chords clash with each other, twisting themselves into an agonized melody that raises the hairs on my arm. Then his wrist jerks his bow impossibly fast, his fingers punching the fingerboard with unnecessary force. The music is angry now, almost violent.

I wonder who he is.

Every once in a while he pauses to shake the rainwater out of his violin, but otherwise his song remains undisturbed. I stare harder at him, and realize that he’s shaking. His whole body is swallowed up in slight tremors, and I don’t think it’s from the cold.

Suddenly the violin drops from his hands. The music cuts off with a squeak. His head is bent down, his dark hair falling in his face. I can’t tell what he’s doing, but I’m struck with a notion that I don’t want to know.

“Leila!”

Mom’s voice. I swing around, my heart pounding unreasonably, and I see my mother’s Pruis idling by the drop-off zone, several dozen feet away. When did she come? I run through the last couple of minutes in my mind, but I don’t remember hearing her car drive up.

I nod quickly to Mom, and I can’t help but look back. The boy locks eyes with me. His eyes are dark and bruised, eyes that have seen a blacker world than mine. The look that passes between us in that moment is one that I won’t ever forget.

Mom calls my name again, now impatiently. I hurry to her car, and for once, I have nothing to say.