“What happened?” he asked.
Stephen gave him an incredulous look. “Nothing came out.”
“That’s not the same as nothing happening.”
“You sound like my father.”
Lucas was not sure whether that was criticism.
Stephen looked down at the folded music inside the case.
“He’d tell me I was trying to play the whole song before I played the first note.”
Lucas sat on the edge of the bench, leaving space.
“Was he right?”
“Usually. It was unbearable.”
A laugh escaped him, followed by a sharp breath that almost became a sob.
Lucas waited.
Stephen lifted the trumpet again. His hands shook.
“Can you show me where to breathe?”
Lucas leaned toward the music.
Harold’s pencil marks covered the page, but they were not the kind Lucas expected from a band musician correcting a student. There were circles around rests, small arrows between phrases, and notes written in the margin.
BREATHE BEFORE YOU NEED TO.
DON’T CHASE THE NOTE.
LET IT COME TO YOU.
Stephen touched one line with his finger.
“He wrote those when I was thirteen.”
“You kept the same music?”
“He did.”
Lucas looked at the worn fold in the page.
“Then he thought you’d come back to it.”
Stephen swallowed.
“Or he couldn’t throw anything away.”
“Could be both.”
That answer seemed to help.
Lucas demonstrated one breath without raising his own instrument. Stephen copied it. They did it again.
