The Color of Sound: Chapters 7–10

Before I leave the library, where the internet is back up and running, I spend a little time on one of the computers, searching for helpful information about time travel. There’s nothing that really comes close to my situation—at least nothing that seems legitimate and not sketchy.

So I don’t tell Shanna not to cry, but I do ask what else she and her mother fight about. Now I just have to know.
“My bat mitzvah,” she says right away, rolling her eyes.

“Yakov? I thought your name was Jack.”
He chuckles again, a tinny copper color that I realize now is more awkward than amused.

I pick out enough English to get the gist: A new Jewish daughter has been born.

There’s something about the gentle music in the room, the warm tones of fuchsia and magenta enveloping me. The improv exercise is comforting in its repetition.

“Actually,” I say, clearing my throat, “I’m kind of taking a break. From the violin.”
Sunita nods. “For the summer? That makes sense.”
And instead of saving face and leaving it at that, I let the whole thing tumble out.

I try to laugh it off, like that one word is the thing that has me shaken. Like I didn’t, for a splendid second, think that I’d found a kindred spirit in Mason, a fellow time traveler, someone who could help me unravel the mystery of Shanna and tell me what in the world it means.

Maybe that’s what Shanna and I are doing—playing the same piece of music over and over until we get it right. Except I don’t even know what “getting it right” means in this situation. With violin, it’s playing without mistakes, avoiding dissonance, achieving perfect harmony. With Shanna...

“So,” Mom says once we’re out on the main road, “how is it going so far? This visit. How are you enjoying your time in Connecticut?”
It’s as if she’s the concierge of a hotel and I’m a guest. Is this how mothers are supposed to talk to their daughters?
“It’s okay, I guess.”

Later, once I’ve said goodbye to Shanna and started walking back toward the house, I turn it all over in my mind like a fugue—trying to sort out my thoughts like the multiple crisscrossing themes of the music.

“It’s Rosie, Grandma Florence,” I say quietly.
“Ah, my Rosie. Did you bring your violin?”
I shake my head. Suddenly I feel a sadness I didn’t know was percolating inside my chest. It’s green and blue and gray, like the ocean on a winter day. “I’m sorry, I don’t have it with me,” I say.

As I listen to the strident, robust violins play the opening notes, I think of Grandma Florence, trapped in her bed, and my fingers begin to move as if they’re making the notes of the song on the soundboard on my violin, the bow making the tones sing out.

He’s beautiful—there’s no other word for it—and he moves so gracefully and confidently, as if he knows exactly who he is and what he’s doing at all times. I’m partly envious, but mostly I’m just smitten.

He’s beautiful—there’s no other word for it—and he moves so gracefully and confidently, as if he knows exactly who he is and what he’s doing at all times. I’m partly envious, but mostly I’m just smitten.

Sunita shakes her head. “Not a mistake. It becomes canon. It’s part of the scene. It’s true in the moment, and you go with it.”