Under a Painted Sky by Stacey Lee Page A

boys’ saddlebags so she won’t have to see them.
    â€œMy brother taught me this recipe,” Andy says proudly. “It’s called Snap Stew.”
    After we lick every fish bone clean, Cay wipes his mouth with his bandanna and announces, “Now ain’t you glad we brung the nippers along?” He turns his gaze on West, who has the grace to flush at being called out.
    I weigh the snake jaw in my palm.
So, Snake, you did me a good turn after all, though one lucky turn does not a lucky person make.
I tuck the bone back into Cay’s hatband, then replace the catgut in my violin case.
    Lady Tin-Yin’s polished maple shell gleams under the sun’s final rays. An Italian built the instrument, but Father gave her the Chinese name, which means “violin from heaven.” She is the most precious thing I’ve ever owned, and now the only thing I own besides my boots. I lightly pluck the G, thinking again of Father, whose philosophy followed the open strings.
G
for grace. My throat constricts at the sound of the lone note floating up to heaven.
    Next, the D-string,
D
for discipline, the note of empowerment. That one always comes out a bit cranky, like it doesn’t want to wake up. Then the A-string,
A
for acceptance of the way God chose to outfit us, skin color and all. And
E,
not for excellence, but for exquisite, the standard by which I play.
    When I come out of my thoughts, everyone is watching me.
    â€œYou gonna saw for us?” asks Peety.
    Andy nods at me.
    Discipline, I think, sniffing up any mistiness on my face.
    Two flat boulders form a step under the shade of a junior-sized dogwood. I plant my bottom on the higher boulder and rosin the bow. I start rolling up my left sleeves, but the sight of my reedy arm makes me roll them back down. Definitely not manly.
    Blowing off the excess powder from the rosin, I run the bow over each string and wind the pegs as necessary. Then I play the D-flat scale, my favorite. Sounds good, so I get to my feet. My audience falls silent.
    My showmanship only comes out when I hold the violin—with Lady Tin-Yin in my arms, I don’t care who watches. A peace comes over me, something I call my violin calm. I become someone else, someone quite entertaining, I like to think.
    I compose myself with a deep breath. I put the wood to my chin, and launch into Paganini’s Caprice no. 24.
    When Father first showed me the sheet music, I told him I couldn’t do it.
    â€œYou’re right,” he said, chopping vegetables with his cleaver.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhether you think you can or you can’t, you’re right. Have a pea shoot.”
    By the end of the week, I had mastered it.
    The piece features crisscrossing strings, which look more difficult than they really are. I work in several triple stops, three strings played at once. Mr. Trask, a clarinetist himself, brought tangerines just to hear me play those triple stops. I would’ve played them anyway, but I think he brought those rare treasures to show me what he thought of my playing.
    When I finish, no one claps. They all stare at me. Andy swipes her sleeve over her eyes and turns her face away from the boys.
    â€œAin’t never heard a fiddle like that,” says Cay, his jaw slack.
    Peety’s head bobs up and down. “You got some skills.”
    West glares at his boots.
    Time to lighten things up.
This one’s for you, Father, because banjo was your first love.
Then I tear into “Oh! Susanna,” which no one can hear without dancing, especially Cay, who does a polka.
    Our spirits are high as we ready for sleep. We arrange ourselves like cigars again in the same order as last night.
    We hear another howl tonight—this one not a chorus of
yip
s but a single lone cry. A wolf. Wolves grow twice as big as coyotes, and can take down large animals like moose. I sit up and shiver. The howl repeats, this time closer.
    â€œHoly moly,” says Andy.
    West