Transcendence by C. J. Omololu Page A

ago,” I say. “Doesn’t even have a name.”
    Veronique begins unpacking her cello, and I wonder if the name ‘Bono’ stuck. “Well, you can blow it off if you want,” she says, “but that was seriously, crazy good. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with students like me. You should be playing on stages around the world.”
    I laugh. “You must be talking to my mother,” I say. “She says I was born to be a cellist.”
    Veronique looks serious. “Mothers have a way of knowing what’s best. Maybe she knows what she’s talking about.” She glances toward the back of the house, where I can hear Mom watching TV. She leans in closer. “It was great to see you downtown last night,” she says. “Did you enjoy the restaurant?”
    “Oh,” I stammer. “Um, yeah, it was great. Thanks for the suggestion.”
    “Glad it worked out.” She pauses, but doesn’t reach for the bow. “You’re such a pretty girl. And so talented. You deserve a nice guy who treats you well.”
    “Thanks.” I can feel my face getting hot. “I guess so. But really, we’re just friends.” I hope to God that Mom can’t hear our conversation. Anything that gets in the way of practice time is off limits in her world, and any kind of boyfriend is at the top of that list.
    We begin working on the aria from the Goldberg Variations when Veronique stops in the middle of a bar.
    “This part’s confusing,” she says, lifting her bow from the strings. “I can’t seem to get this phrase.”
    I point to the sheet music. “This one here?”
    She shifts the bow and points to another spot on the page. “No, this one.”
    Our fingers touch just slightly, and I feel a shock, like the ones you get when you’ve been walking on carpet in your socks.
    “Ow,” I say, flinching and pulling my hand back. Just as I speak, the smell of the ocean seems to fill the air.
    The noise and movement are overwhelming as we step off of the ferry and onto the crowded dock. It seems as if there are hundreds of horses, carriages, men, and women crisscrossing the dusty street in front of us in all directions, and I look for someone familiar to slow my beating heart. Everyone around me babbles in a language I don’t understand, and the thought of being lost in an unfamiliar country is enough for panic to set in. I have always longed to see the world beyond our tiny village, but every time I’m thrust into this cacophony of sights and sounds it becomes almost too much for my eyes and heart
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    “Welcome to San Francisco,” Alessandra says, appearing at my side. She smiles kindly at me and brushes some dust from her good skirts
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    “It’s so busy,” I say, my eyes darting from one scene to the next. “Have you been here before?”
    She shakes her head. “No, but trips to Paris, London, and New York helped me prepare.”
    “Paris!” I say, not able to even imagine something so grand.
    Alessandra leans toward me. “I played with Suggia there last spring.”
    I take in a sharp breath. “Is she as good as they say?”
    “Better,” Alessandra says with a grin.
    She glances over the busy street before us. “You didn’t get much time to acclimate before we set off on this tour—you’ll get used to it. Still, San Francisco possesses its own rustic charms, I would say.”
    “And two of this city’s most charming attractions look as if they’re in need of assistance,” Paolo says with a short bow, raising Alessandra’s hand to his lips. Turning to me, he makes the same gesture, his brown eyes glancing up with amusement as he grazes my skin. I shiver inwardly and cough in order to cover my reaction
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    I fear that Alessandra will be jealous of Paolo’s attentions, but she is already turning to the matter of our trunks, which are starting to pile up beside us. As we walk toward the luggage, Signore Luisotti races up, the conductor’s usual frantic nature replaced by near hysteria, his customary cigar already chewed down to a nub
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    “Idiots!” he