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There are no stragglers anymore—just rows and rows of cars under a hazy, muddy yellow sky. I am trying to remember my solo's opening notes, but all I can think of are streams of vanilla ice cream sliding down the spaces between my fingers like blood. Somewhere in the lobby, Mom is screeching my name. I stare at the sinking sun.

"Please," I whisper, "don't make me play."

Not a single car honks in response. I drop my head and stare at my feet. And then, in a reflection of my Mary Janes, I spot it. A red bird. No, two red birds. I look up and see the pair perched in a small tree on the edge of the sidewalk. Their wings are pulled tightly against their backs—bright blobs that can't be missed. As I get closer, the bigger one croaks lightly. I've never seen birds like this before. Not in Westchester, where every animal is gray or brown and boring. Not even in Orlando, where the birds are merely shadows hiding from the stifling heat. Somehow, these red birds remind me of the paper envelopes Dad slid under our plates at Chinese New Year dinners, the block of red rosin I use on my viola bow, the stories Mom and Dad used to tell over sweet jasmine tea that came in red tins. I do a mental calculation. A pair of birds, the color red. Lucky all around. Dad's finally done it. He's sent me a sign.

I step closer to the tree, and the birds dive into the air, swooping upward and skimming the school's rooftop solar panels. In an instant, they're gone. I press my viola case against my side. I know what I have to do.

When I stumble through the double doors and into the rehearsal space (which is really just the middle school cafeteria), Mr. Keating breaks out in a grin so wide you'd think it was Yo-Yo Ma waltzing down the aisle instead of me, a short, nerdy seventh grader with dress sparkles stuck to her cheeks.

"Ah, Freya," he says as the entire room turns to stare at me, "just in time."

I offer an apologetic half smile as he beckons me to the piano so I can tune my instrument. I make my way over and take my instrument out of its case. Even though my back is turned, I just 'know' the rest of the orchestra is glaring at me and muttering stuff like: 'Oh, look, it's Freya June Sun, the girl who's never on time yet somehow always nabs the solo.' (Well, they're probably not that succinct, but you get the point.)

Stephanie Schmidt, the concertmaster, sniffs from her seat in the first row. I don't need to look at her to know she's the unofficial leader of the orchestra's glares. The solo in Senaillé's piece Allegro spiritoso is meant for either a violin or a viola. Everyone 'thought' it would go to Stephanie— particularly because she's been not-so-quietly playing it during our five- minute breaks—but, no, Mr. Keating just 'had' to give it to me.

Our mustachioed conductor bangs out an A, the piano note echoing against the cinder block cafeteria walls. When I squeak out my own note on the viola, the screech of my bow bounces off the ceiling. I don't know why we have to warm up in the cafeteria. Why couldn't Mr. Keating pick someplace with worse acoustics, like a janitor's closet, which could never fit forty-five people so I'd have to just sit the whole thing out? Or, better yet, why don't 'I' go hide in the janitor's closet and accidentally lock myself in so I won't have to play?

I try to concentrate on tuning—twisting the pegs this way and that, slowly inhaling the smell of rosin and boy sweat and yesterday's cafeteria meatloaf. My eyes focus on my viola's deep cherrywood body until it blurs and all I can see are those two red birds in the parking lot, appearing like magic. Lucky in every way.

The last time I had luck like that, I was in fourth grade. I had to give an oral presentation on what I thought was the eighth wonder of the world for social studies. The night before, I was completely unprepared, had maybe four sentences written, and could barely remember the words Niagara Falls (my chosen "eighth wonder"). I thought I was going to throw up. But then Dad came into the kitchen while I was face-planting on my textbook and told me about the history of the number eight.

"It's the luckiest number," he said, "because in Mandarin, eight is pronounced ba, which sounds like fa. And fa means 'fortune.'"

"Uh-huh," I had mumbled, ignoring him in favor of permanently stamping my forehead with textbook ink.

"I'm serious," Dad insisted. Then he started rambling on and on about how the number eight is associated with success and wealth, so my presentation would have to go amazingly since it's on the eighth wonder of the world. There was no possible way I could fail or vomit or both.