by*ustin3her illustratedby +athryn-itter...with lessons from the music teacher and a seat in the...

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“How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” my dad asked for the

millionth time since I started taking violin lessons.

“Practice, practice, practice,” I muttered, in answer to

his old joke. Carnegie Hall in New York City is only the most

famous concert hall in the world.

I was fortunate enough to have parents who supported

nearly every new hobby I tried. We had closets full of ice

hockey sticks, tap shoes, ski poles, roller skates, and more.

The collection included basketballs and reeds for basket

weaving; there were model airplane parts, and at least two musi-

cal instruments topped off the pile that overfl owed my closet.

Now I was attempting to learn a new instrument. Let me

tell you, the sounds that came out of that thing were not pretty,

at least at fi rst. I made quite a ruckus with my new violin.

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My parents had warned me that this would be the last new

thing I would try and give up on too soon. I assured them that

I would give it my all.

We were all astonished when I discovered that I didn’t

want to give up the violin after a few weeks. Unlike so many

other things I had begun and then lost interest in, I loved the

violin! I practiced for a few minutes before school each

morning, and I picked it up fi rst thing when I got home. I

liked everything about it—the smell of the rosin for the bow,

the satin feel of the wood under my chin. I loved the way the

strings bounced when I plucked them.

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I was using a violin we had rented from school. It came

with lessons from the music teacher and a seat in the school

orchestra. Within a few months, I was fi rst chair, the best

violin player in the orchestra, and not long after that, my

music teacher started giving me small solo parts whenever

we had a concert.

I worked hard, but I also seemed to possess a talent for

the violin. I found that I loved playing for others, too.

Even before I started playing the violin, I had always liked

observing the street performers around the market in the city.

Lots of tourists came there, so it was

an ideal place for the performers

to congregate. People left coins and

bills in a basket or a hat for

each performer as thanks

for being entertained.

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One Saturday regular at the market was a mime with a

painted face. Sometimes he would pretend he was trapped

inside a box, trying to get out, but the funniest thing was to

see him follow people down the block. They wouldn’t realize

he was behind them, and he had an amazing knack for

mimicking people’s walks and gestures.

The juggling fool was my favorite performer. She could

ride a unicycle while she juggled a pineapple, a skateboard,

and a tambourine. She always wore an outlandish hat and

would rattle the tambourine each time she caught it. Then,

when she fi nished juggling, she would ride off with her

unicycle, perched on top of her skateboard!

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After a couple of years of violin lessons, I felt confi dent

about my ability to play for an audience, so I approached my

parents with a plan.

“If you’ll let me get a permit and perform at the market,

I promise to save half the money I earn for college,” I said.

Well, they could hardly say no to that idea. It was what my

dad called a win-win situation.

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Most Saturdays, my mom and I would drive to the market.

I staked out my own corner where there was an abundance

of tourists, and Mom always set up a folding chair near me

so that she could watch. I could see the tourists nudge each

other as they strolled by. “That kid is really good,” I often

overheard them say. If they really liked my playing, they

dropped some quarters or a dollar into my open violin case.

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I wasn’t nearly as fl ashy as the other performers, of

course. When I fi rst started performing, I played things I knew

people would like. “Turkey in the Straw” was always a hit.

Later, as I improved, I played more challenging pieces.

One day, an elderly man stood and watched me play for a

long time. I could see him close his eyes and nod along with

the music, as if he knew it well. Then he scribbled something

on a small card and dropped it into my violin case.

On the way home, while counting out the tips I had

accumulated that day, I found the card the man had left. It

was a business card with his name and phone number, and

in pencil he had written, “Have your mother call me.” I read his

name and the message.

Mom gasped.

“Who is it?” I demanded.

“Just one of the most famous violin teachers in the world,”

she proclaimed. “Everyone calls him Maestro. It means

‘master’ in Italian. It’s a title of respect.”

“What do you think he wants?” I inquired.

“I haven’t got a clue, dear,” Mom answered. She was

speechless for the remainder of the ride home.

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A week later, Mom picked me up after school, and we

drove to a part of the city I’d never been before. After she

pulled my violin out of the backseat, we ventured up a walk

to a house.

Inside was the man who had left his card. As we

introduced ourselves, Maestro shook my hand. I felt very

grown up, all of a sudden.

“Please, let me hear you play something,” Maestro

requested. I knew that this was not the moment for “Turkey

in the Straw.” Instead, I played a classical piece I knew that

was both challenging and impressive.

“Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.” He paused. “You will excuse us

please.” That was all the man said, as he nodded in the

direction of the hallway. I went out and sat on a chair. I

strained my ears, but I couldn’t hear what he and my mother

were saying.

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On the way home, Mom asked, “Just how serious do

you think you are about the violin? Maestro would like you

to become one of his students, but if you do, it will take

more effort than anything you have ever done. You will have

to give up almost all of your other activities and practice

several hours a day. Don’t answer me just yet; think about it.”

I did think about it. Unfortunately, I was thinking about

it as I was standing on my skateboard the next day, too.

I thought maybe I could play my violin while I was skate-

boarding, like the juggler at the marketplace.

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Maybe I wasn’t so grown up after all. The board went one

direction, while my violin and bow went another. My elbow

went someplace elbows are not supposed to go.

Right away, I began to fret about my foolishness. I

worried that my parents would be upset with me and that

Maestro would be disappointed in me. I knew they all had the

right to be. I wasn’t being responsible about the rented violin

or about my own safety. Fortunately, the instrument was not

damaged, and my elbow was not badly broken. Overall I was

pretty lucky. However, I did have to stop playing the violin for

a couple of months while my elbow healed.

Once my arm was better, I began practicing the violin

again. It took a few weeks to get back to being as good as

I had been. At that point, I decided I wanted to become the

best violin player I could be, so I gave up skateboarding just

to be on the safe side.

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That was all a few years ago. I’ve been

studying with Maestro ever since. He believed

in me, in my talent. He told my parents that I

was one of the most promising

students he had ever taught,

which was quite something to

live up to. Since then I have

worked as hard as I can to

play well.

One day last year, Maestro

surprised me with a gift. “I

have something for you,” he

said. “As you know, I can no

longer play the violin myself

since my injury. I want you to

have this.”

He handed me the most magnifi cent violin I had ever

seen. When I played a few arpeggios, it made the

sweetest tones I’d ever heard. My music sounded better

than I dreamed it could. As I played that violin, I felt my life

had changed.

The real test came last week. A few months ago, I was

invited to participate in a violin competition at Carnegie Hall in

New York.

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The trip was going to be expensive. I had plenty of help,

however. The kids in my class decided to hold a bake sale,

and although we raised a lot of money, it was not quite

enough. Then we held a car wash which put us over the top.

Both my parents would be able to come with me.

I was prepared for the competition. I knew every note

in my piece inside out, and with Maestro’s violin, I felt pretty

confi dent as I walked onto the stage.

I didn’t win the competition, but I did come in second.

I played the best I could, but one other person was simply

better than I was.

Now, at least when I grow up, I can tell my own kids I

once found my way to Carnegie Hall. I’ll tease them like my

dad used to and ask whether they know how to get there. You

know the answer, of course—practice, practice, practice . . .

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Think Critically

1. In what ways do the other characters support the narrator?

2. The narrator calls the plan to perform and save money for college a win-win situation. Explain what the author meant by this term.

3. Why do you think the narrator does not seem upset after losing the competition?

4. What lessons do you think the narrator learns, besides how to play the violin?

5. Suppose you were the main character. How would you have felt at the end of the story?

Social Studies

Becoming a Maestro Make a list of activities in which you would like to become an expert. Choose one activity. Do some research on this activity. Find out the steps you should take to improve your skill. Then make a chart to show the steps.

School-Home Connection Share this book with your family. Then discuss with family members the

kinds of support you give each other and how that helps you achieve certain goals.

Word Count: 1,624


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