I sleep in the guest room since Amy's taken over mine and wake up the next morning to clear sunshine and different sounds than I'm used to. Here there're no horns or sirens; there's no city roar.

The nightstand clock says 11:30—I never sleep so late!—and I realize Dad and Meg must have left for work hours ago. I listen for Amy and then remember her mentioning something about spending the day with a friend. Getting out of the unfamiliar bed, I feel oddly out of place, and the sensation grows as I go through the house, looking at it in a way that I couldn't last night. I know I've got a right to be here, but there's just enough difference from how it used to be to make me feel like an intruder.

Things I expect to see are gone, replaced by things that I don't know, like a new countertop in the bathroom. And framed pictures from the Hawaii wedding that Mom decided I shouldn't attend because, she said, I couldn't afford the time.

I pause at the doorway to Dad and Meg's room, which still has the furniture from when it was his and Mom's. It's been rearranged, though, and the patterned wallpaper and heavy drapes are gone. Now it's just dark wood, white walls, and uncovered windows looking out at trees hung with a half-dozen bird feeders.

The changes are jolting—as though I closed my eyes on the past and opened them to find it changed—and they remind me how little I know about my new stepmother It takes effort to push down a worry that we might not get along.

When I get to my old room, though, I burst out laughing Amy's version of leaving it neat was to pile a foot-high heap of stuff on her bed and cover it with the spread. I pick up a stray sock and shove it in with her other things.

And then I see the pictures under the glass top of her desk, and my stomach does a little flip-flop. It's a collage of photos cut from a teen magazine article about my academic school, which is just for kids who are studying to be performing artists or already have professional careers. Amy has mounted them on colored paper and used gold ink to write in our names and what we do.

I trace the faces through the glass and wonder if I'll ever see them again.

There's one of Kiah, Eleni, and both Amys in their leotards and ballet slippers. And there's me with my violin, standing next to Kendall, whom I'd just as soon not see again.

I find the group shot that's my favorite. Ben, my best friend in all the world, is in the middle of it, one hand supporting his cello and an expression on his face like he'd rather be playing it than posing.

Ben doesn't even know I've left New York. Besides cello, he plays a pretty good string bass, and when I got back from Germany he was already off on his summer job, touring New England with a jazz group. He called four or five times, but I let him talk to the answering machine.

Out of habit I glance at my watch and calculate the practice time left in the day. Then I remember I don't have to do that anymore. The whole afternoon and evening lie wide open, with no new music for me to learn and nothing old to polish. I can leave my violin case closed the way it has been for the past two weeks.

The sheer freedom makes me feel a little giddy.

Or maybe I'm just hungry, I think. Should I have breakfast or lunch?

In the kitchen I drink orange juice while looking at another photo. This one, which is on the refrigerator door, is of me when I was three and a half; or almost. I'm wearing a bathrobe and cradling my new violin the way I might a doll. Mom's neatly printed label has almost faded away, but I can still make it out. I was Tessie back then. Occasionally still am.

Then I spot a note from Dad propped against a cereal bowl. "I'll pick you up at lunchtime—noon sharp—so we can buy you some camping gear."

I start to hurry down the hall and then have to backtrack to answer the phone.

"Tess," Mom says, "why didn't you call and tell me you'd arrived safely? Anyway, I want you to know that I've spent the entire morning straightening out the mess you left behind."

"I didn't leave a mess."

"Most importantly, I've gotten your violin teacher to understand that you're on a needed mental health break—"

Mental health break! "But that's not true! Why would you tell Mr. Stubner that?"

"So he'll keep a place in his schedule. I'm keeping doors open for you."

"You had no right."

"But they won't stay open forever so don't dawdle too long in coming to your senses. And don't let up on your practicing You don't want to get further behind than you can help."

My gaze swings to the microwave display that says 11:48. I think, Dad will be here in twelve minutes. Again I calculate the hours I have left in the day. It's a habit hard to break, and I feel guilty for even trying to. Or maybe the unsettled feeling inside me is dismay at how easy it would be to give in to Mom.

I know that if I stay on the phone with her she'll soon be telling me what music to work on. And then, before I know how she's made it happen, I'll be on another airplane, on my way back to New York and a life I don't want anymore.

Making my voice steady, I say, "I can't practice for several days at least because we're going on a camping trip. I'll call when we get back."

And then I hang up.