The doorbell rings again, but I’ve learned not to get my hopes up at the usual jingle. 

Old Master is never coming back. 

And I will never find a new Master.

It’s always the same routine: A little boy or girl comes into the shop, they look at violins but their parents tell them to “Play something more unique.” And then they choose another instrument, or rarely, they do choose a violin, but not me. Never me. 

I used to count how many days I spent at the shop, while I still had hope that a new, better Master would take me home. 

I stopped counting a while ago. 

I used to still believe that old Master would come back to get me, that she would see this was all a mistake. 

I stopped believing a while ago. 

I used to hope that this was all a dream. 

I haven’t stopped hoping for that. I don’t think I can. This entire place is nightmarish, with instruments displayed inside glass cases or hung on walls. All unplayed.

My life had been great, I had a great Violin Master who played me everyday, and I was never lonely or bored. We had made beautiful music together. Now I sit on a shelf, unplayed. Unchosen. 

The bell rings again. I don’t bother to pay attention to what the family is saying to the store owner at the front desk. I don’t have enough will in me to look at them. How can I force myself to watch them choose another instrument? 

But shockingly, a minute later I hear the creak of the door of my glass cabinet opening. And then the store owner is grabbing my neck and taking me to the family that had just entered. 

What’s going on? 

The family has a mother, a father, and a daughter. The store owner hands me over to the daughter’s shaking hands. If I had eyebrows they would furrow right now. She’s nervous. Why? Has she never played a violin before? 

A few minutes later, after the store owner has taught her how to hold a violin, it’s clear she has no idea how a violin works. The bow screeches against my strings and puffs of rosin infuse into the air surrounding me. AHH! What is she doing???!!!?!?!!? I desperately try to escape her grasp but fail, since I am a violin. Her bow moves side to side as she changes bow strokes and even the open strings sound dreadful as she plays. No! I don’t want her! Put me back! Please! 

I think I’m in shock. 

The car roars to life, and my case jostles around in the trunk as they begin the car ride home. She actually chose me. I wanted to be chosen for so long, but not by a beginner who can’t even pluck a single string correctly! 

This. Is. Terrible. 

I quickly discover that the girl’s name is Zemara, and she is in fifth grade. 

And that this is her first time learning an instrument. 

Why did a beginner have to choose me? I can’t stand listening to her play me, she doesn’t even understand where to put her fingers! And that’s the most basic thing! 

I sigh in relief when the orchestra teacher tells the class to pack up. 

“Tomorrow you will have to play measures 1 to 5 by yourself in front of the class” she says. 

I see Zemara gulp.

I would gulp too if I had a throat. 

Or saliva.

Zemara tries her best to practice once she gets home but there’s no improvement. She can’t seem to pluck fast enough with her right hand and a few notes are flat. I would wince if I had eyes. Why can’t she play well? It’s honestly not that hard. Old Master was fine at it. Immediately, I banish the thought. There is no old Master. 

Zemara keeps trying until her hands are red and I can see imprints of the strings on her fingertips. I can imagine all of the other violins in her class laughing at me. Joe saying: This is why my master is first chair. John saying: My master will get a one hundred on the playing test. Thea laughing: I always knew I was better. 

I have to fix Zemara and make her play better. 

But how? Old Master and I were such a good pair. We were always in time while playing music. We always worked together. 

Realization hits me like a physical blow.

I have to work with Zemara. It isn’t me and her, it’s us. 

Zemara’s mom pops her head in the room where Zemara is practicing, “Honey, it’s time to sleep. Are you almost finished practicing?” 

“Almost,” Zemara lies. We both know she’s nowhere near ready. “Just one more time,” She whispers to herself. 

This time when Zemara starts playing, I don’t fight against it, against her. I trust her and lose myself in the music, ignoring the simplicity of it and simply enjoying the feeling of being played again. Enjoying the feeling of having a Master. 

And she plays perfectly this time. 

Zemara is anxious and chewing her lip. I can feel her heart beating faster. It’s almost her turn. Zemara jumps a little when the teacher calls her name. Her breaths come faster and hands shake a little as she gets into ready position. I take what is the equivalent of a deep breath as she begins playing. The music doesn't envelope us as it did with old Master, but I’m okay with that. We both sway to the song a little, and too soon she’s done. And she gets a perfect score. In your faces Joe, John, and Thea! 

Though Zemara may not be advanced, I’m surprisingly excited to learn music with her. 

“You will have another playing test next week, but this time you’ll play the entire song,” Her teacher says.

I would smile if I had a mouth.