Then I walk from my childhood bedroom, down the hall, to the top of the staircase. Gripping my violin tightly by its neck, steeling my heart, I prepare to throw it down the stairs with as much strength as I can muster. It’s a hardy instrument, and I can’t just dent it. It must be injured to the point where it’s unplayable. That’s the entire point of this.

I count to three in my head, throw it, and watch as it sails through the air. There’s a moment when I think it’ll bounce down the stairs and land on the ground without a dent and I’ll have to throw it again and again, maybe jump on it a few times like it’s a trampoline before it sustains suitable damage. But my violin does the unexpected upon contact with the marble floor.

It shatters into tiny pieces.

Gasping, I drop my bow, run down the stairs, and frantically sweep up the fragments with my fingers. The neck broke clear in half, and the body of the violin is nothing but splintered bits of wood. It no longer resembles an instrument. One of the strings snapped. The others lie limp and lifeless on the marble at the base of the stairs along with the pegs and bridge and unidentifiable debris.

There is no way I can fix this.

This violin will never sing again.

Uncontrollable sobs spill from my mouth. I can’t stop them. I can’t silence them. The hurting inside me will be heard now. It won’t stay quiet.

“Anna, Priscilla says you should—”

I look up to see Faith taking in the scene with her mouth hanging open. I don’t try to tell her the lie that I prepared in advance, that I “accidentally” dropped it.

My violin is dead. I killed it with my own hands.

I took a beautiful innocent thing, and I murdered it. Because I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

I’ve destroyed everything good in my life.

Because I can’t say no.

Because I’m still trying to be something I’m not.

“I’ll be right back,” Faith says before hurrying out.

I’m almost hysterical with tears and trying to piece my violin together like a 3D puzzle when Faith returns with Priscilla in tow.

“Oh my God,” Priscilla says as she considers the carnage. She considers me for a tense moment before she seems to lose some sort of internal battle and continues in a resigned voice. “Stop doing that. You’re not going to fix it, and you’ll just give yourself splinters. And relax, okay? It’s not the end of the world. Mom wanted to get you a new one anyway. I’ve been talking to a bunch of dealers.”

“You were going to get me a new violin?” I ask, letting the violin shards fall from my fingers to the floor.

“Yeah, I think I’ve found the right one. We’re negotiating the price right now,” she says.

I know I’m supposed to be grateful that she’s not ignoring me anymore. I’m supposed to say thank you for the violin.

But it feels like someone lit a fuse inside me. I’m burning, about to explode.

I can’t stop myself from asking, “You were going to buy it without asking me what I thought?”

“Mom wanted it to be a surprise. Plus, she didn’t want you involved. She knew you’d get your heart set on the most expensive one, and that’s not how you get a good deal. Don’t worry, I tried out the one I like, and it fits me fine. It’ll be comfortable for you, and you know I have good taste,” Priscilla says, like I’m upset over nothing and I need to see reason.

But matching a violin to a violinist is a tricky task. Not only does it need to have the right fit and weight, but the unique voice of the instrument needs to resonate with the musician’s ear. No one can hear that but me.

Most important, I didn’t want a new violin. I liked my old one, the one that’s nothing but scraps now. If everything had gone according to plan, they’d have replaced my old one and expected me to play it regardless of my wishes on the matter.

And I would have. With a smile on my face, no less.

Because I can’t say no.

Priscilla rubs her forehead tiredly. “What are we going to do now? You can’t perform tonight with that.”

“Do you still have your old violin from high school?” Faith asks her helpfully.

Priscilla’s eyes widen, and she grins like the sun just came out. “I do. It’s on the shelf in my closet. You’re an angel. Thank you.” She smooches Faith directly on the lips and bounds up the stairs.

Laughing and smearing an arm over her mouth, Faith runs to get a plastic container from the kitchen and then crouches down next to me to help me with the mess. “The timing is perfect, isn’t it? Priscilla told me about the violin they’re getting you. It’s Italian and very old. That’s all I’ll say.”

I look down at the violin pieces on the ground, too overwhelmed to put my thoughts together. Everything is wrong. Everything. I tap my teeth over and over, trying to get back to normal, but it doesn’t help. This wild hurting inside me won’t go away.

This day, this interminable day. Why isn’t it over yet? I need it to be over now.

Right now.

Right. Now.

RIGHT. NOW.

Priscilla hurries down the stairs with a violin case in tow and holds it out toward me like it’s a prize. “There. Tune it up and come on out. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

I clench the remnants of my violin in my hands until the jagged ends pierce my skin and bite out the words, “I can’t play.”

Priscilla heaves an annoyed sigh and looks heavenward. “Yes, you can.”

“I can’t play,” I repeat.

“You’re so frustrating,” Priscilla says through her teeth. “You need to do it for Dad. It’s his birthday.”

“What’s going on in here?” my mom asks before she appears on the opposite end of the hall and walks toward us, followed by Julian and a handful of curious relatives.

“She’s refusing to play. She dropped her violin, so I gave her my old one. And she still won’t do it,” Priscilla explains.

“I can’t play,” I repeat again. “I told you why, but you won’t—”

“You want to know how to deal with your anxiety? You tune your violin, you take it out to the stage, and you play your song one note at a time until you’re done. That’s it. You just do it,” she says. She even smiles, like it’s funny that I don’t understand something so obvious. After extracting her old violin from its dusty case, she holds it out for me to take. “Go out there and do it, Anna.”

This is the end for me. I don’t wage any internal battles against myself. It’s not as simple as she says. Not for me. And she won’t even try to understand. She just wants me to do what she says, like I always do.

“No.” I say it firmly and deliberately despite how strange it feels on my tongue.

For the span of a heartbeat, two, she looks at me like what just happened defies comprehension. Then she hisses, “You’re being a spoiled little—”

“I’m not doing it,” I say in a raised voice so she has to listen to me.

Priscilla visibly recoils at my public show of disrespect, and my mom utters a sharp, disapproving, “Anna.”

“You see what I’m dealing with?” Priscilla cries.

“You won’t play for Ba?” my mom asks, looking bewildered at the idea. “You need to play his song for him. This might be your last chance.” Her expression collapses with pain, and tears shine in her eyes.