Today's Reading
My sister smooths down her strands and bats her eyes under clumps of mascara. I drop my viola case on the ground.
"Seriously, May. Take it off. 'Now.'"
"Don't 'seriously' me. It's a headband. You'll live." She points at her sweater. "And it matches."
Before I can snap back, I hear the 'click-clack' of Mom's heels as she trudges back to us, her phone waving wildly in our direction.
"Does no one see what time it is? Late. We are 'late'."
I shake my head. "I'm not moving until May takes it off."
My sister scoffs. I can't believe she doesn't care. Dad taught us the rule about the color white. She always followed it when he was alive. And besides, she could wear a purple headband. Or pink. Or blue. Or, better yet, red. 'That's' a lucky color. It's like she actively wants me to bomb my solo.
Our mother's eyes dart from May to me. She rubs her temples and takes long, deep breaths. We wait for her verdict.
"May," she says, "for your sister's sake, please take off the headband.
You look fine without it."
"But—"
"Nope. No. End of discussion. Let's go."
With that, Mom barrels back through the double doors, and May rips off her headband, scowling. We lock eyes, and I wait for her to say it: 'Dad's superstitions were ridiculous. You're ridiculous. No one cares about those silly Chinese wives' tales except you, and that's because you're immature and naive and you refuse to grow up.' But she doesn't say anything. She just stomps into the lobby.
I kneel down to pick up my viola case, its handle heavy in my palm. This whole concert is turning out to be a disaster before it's even started. Maybe 'that's' a sign. Maybe I should just go back to the parking lot and hide behind the car until the whole thing is over. I shiver. Even though it's early April, the air is sweet and humid. I shouldn't be cold. The glittery polka dots on my taffeta dress feel rough under my palms. It's the same dress I wore to the winter holiday concert a year and a half ago. We played the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's 'Messiah' with the choir, and the moment the first note rang out, Dad stood up because it's supposedly a tradition going back hundreds of years, from when some British king stood for the Hallelujah Chorus at its premiere.
Dad insisted it was important to respect traditions, even though the king was long dead and he wasn't even 'our' king. 'I' thought it was embarrassing— Dad towering over the seated audience with his puffy hair so everyone could immediately tell we were related. I cowered behind my music stand as he bobbed his head to the squeals of the off-key choir.
Eventually, everyone else stood up, too, either because they shared some strong feelings about respecting a dead king from the 1700s or they thought he was getting an early start on giving his kid a standing ovation. By the end, you could hardly hear the out-of-tune sopranos or my many mistakes amid the crowd's premature roars and applause.
After the concert, we all got ice-cream cones from the shop down the street, and Dad bragged to my classmates' parents that he was a trendsetter. I didn't say a word. All I wanted to do was go home, bury myself under the comforter, and pretend the whole thing hadn't happened. But if I could go back in time, I'd look up from my melting vanilla cone and wrap my sticky arms around Dad's stomach and tell him: 'Yes, you're a trendsetter. You're the coolest dad ever.'
I clench the taffeta in my fist and focus on the parking lot so I don't cry.
...
