“Holy shit,” I say.

Priscilla smiles at me. “Impressive, right?” She elbows Anna again, affectionately this time.

Anna makes a point of stuffing her mouth with the biggest wonton in her bowl, but even as she acts like she’s ignoring us, I can tell she’s paying close attention.

I start the video and watch as a woman in a black dress, unmistakably Anna, carries her violin across the stage. And trips on a cellist’s music stand, almost falling over. Flustered, she rights the music stand, picks up all the sheet music that fell to the floor, and stuffs it back where it was.

“So, so sorry, Mr. Music Stand. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Video Anna says, patting the music stand while the offended cello player stares at her with his mouth hanging open and the crowd breaks into laughter.

Next to me, Real Anna presses a hand over her eyes. “I have a bad habit of talking to inanimate objects.”

That’s so like her that I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. It only gets harder when Video Anna reaches center stage and self-consciously addresses the audience. “Hi, thank you, everyone, for, um, coming here tonight. I regret to inform you that world-renowned violinist Daniel Hope and several of our finest San Francisco Symphony violinists were in a car accident earlier today. Rest assured, the doctors say that while there are some broken bones, Daniel, along with everyone else, is expected to make a full recovery and play again in the near future. Anyway, because of this, I’ll be, um, soloing for you tonight. My sincerest apologies to those who came here to listen to Daniel. I’m disappointed, too.”

There’s a long pause, and the camera zooms in on faces in the audience, showing their grimaces and expressions of regret. Then Anna nods at the musicians behind her on the stage and lifts her violin to her chin. Her posture straightens. Her eyes focus. Her awkwardness falls away.

She plays.

And she defies every single expectation that the first part of the clip could have led someone to have. She’s not the Asian equivalent of a dumb blonde. She’s not a second-rate backup player.

Anna is talented.

The music builds like a storm and pours from her violin with a violence that’s all the more impressive for how controlled it is. Her fingers are precise. They don’t slip. Her movements are perfectly fluid. But more than that, what I hear and see, what draws me to her more than anything else, is passion. She’s lost to the music. The look on her face, it’s pain, it’s pleasure, joy, sorrow, everything all at once.

She’s beautiful.

When the video finishes, I can’t speak.

“Amazing, right?” Priscilla says.

I clear my throat and swallow before I say, “Yeah.” I look at Anna, and it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time all over again. “I had no idea …”

She meets my eyes for the barest second before she glances away. “Don’t look at me like that. After that beginning, I only needed to be passable to impress people. I’m just a regular violinist.”

“I don’t think you’d have gotten a hundred million views if you were just passable,” I say with a laugh.

“It’s the story that people like. Airhead girl exceeds expectations.” She grimaces and carries everyone’s bowls to the sink.

“It’s more than that. You—”

Priscilla grabs my arm and shakes her head at me. “Just leave it.”

I’m not sure why I should leave it, but I figure she knows Anna better than I do. Switching topics, I ask, “Do you want me to get your violin for you? You usually practice every day, right?”

She turns the water on and washes the dishes by hand, keeping her head bent over the sink. “That’s really nice of you, but no, thanks. I can’t practice here.”

Priscilla aims an impatient look at her sister. “Oh, come on, that’s an excuse if I ever heard one.”

“The piece isn’t coming along well. I don’t want anyone to hear me,” Anna says.

Priscilla makes a scoffing sound. “I’ve heard you play a million times.”

“I know. I just …” Anna doesn’t finish. She focuses on stacking the dishes on the dishrack and wiping down the stove and counter.

“You should play for Dad. He’d love that,” Priscilla says. “Actually, his birthday is coming soon. We should throw him a party, and you should play his favorite song. I’m going to tell him and see what he thinks. I know Mom will be excited. We can put him in his wheelchair and take him outside, too.”

Priscilla hops down from her barstool and disappears only to reappear on the baby monitor’s screen.

“What do you think about having a birthday party, Ba?” she asks, her words gentle, like she’s speaking to a baby. She sits next to him on the bed, picks up his hand, which is curled up in an uncomfortable-looking way, and massages it. “We’ll invite everyone over and cook—okay, probably cater—and Anna will play the violin for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Their dad doesn’t respond.

“Wouldn’t you, Ba?” she presses him. “You’d like that, right? Ba? A birthday party? We’ll put you in your chair, and you can get around?”

Without opening his eyes, he makes the barest moan, and she beams.

“We’ll do it!” she says. “Did you guys hear that? Dad wants a party.”

Anna turns the baby monitor off and looks out at the nighttime darkness beyond the window, a deep frown on her face.

“You okay?” I ask, walking to her side.

“I don’t think I can play if there’s a party,” she says.

“You don’t want to?”

She flattens her hands against the granite counter and then fists them. “It’s not that. I do want to. It would be a good thing to do. I just don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated,” she says with a tight sigh.

“Complicated how?”

She glances at me for an instant before she looks down at her hands. “Over the past six months, I haven’t been able to make it all the way through a single piece. I play in circles, starting, making mistakes, returning to the beginning, making new mistakes, over and over. I can’t finish anything I start. Something in my brain isn’t right.”

“You can’t mess up … and just keep going?” I ask, reminded of that first night when she couldn’t finish the date with me because it started off wrong.

She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t.”

“Why, though?”

“People have expectations now. Because of that video. They think I’m a big deal,” she says.

“You are.”

Her eyes turn glassy, and her mouth turns down at the corners. “I’m not. But I keep trying to earn things for real this time.” Her tears spill over, and I pull her into my arms and hold her, wishing I knew how to make things better.

“Why do you think you didn’t earn it before?”

“I got that solo spot because Daniel Hope got hit by a car, and all the violinists who would have been next in line, too. And then after that, the composer, Max Richter, invited me to tour in Daniel’s place because his ribs were broken and my video went viral, which was only because I tripped and talked to the music stand. That’s some horrible kind of luck, not hard work, and definitely not talent,” she says.