January began the arguing months.

Mom spent her afternoons at the library and on the computer and telephone. At dinner she'd tell us what she'd learned. "The schools in New York ... she'd say, or "As to teachers ... Tessie would have to audition, of course, but..."

One night she said, "I got in touch with Mr. Capianelli, and he said he'd be delighted to write recommendation letters for Tessie."

Another night she said, "I know New York is more expensive than Montana, but I could work part-time."

As Dad was doing more and more often, he looked at Mom as though she'd lost her mind. "Do you know how much our lives would change? Don't you understand that my clinic—our livelihood—is here? And even if I could start up in New York, what about Tess? Do you want her growing up in a place without open spaces? Without trees that don't have 'Keep Off' signs on them?"

"A place with art museums and concert halls," Mom said.

"We have those things. And there were reasons we chose to live in Montana and raise Tess here."

"You chose."

Then Mom dropped her voice back, like she really wanted to come to an agreement. "Tessie and I could try it out for a few months. And if we ended up staying, we'd still come home summers and Christmases, and you could do your vacations in New York."

Dad and I stared at her "You can't be serious," he said.

"Mom, no," I told her.

JANUARY SLIPPED into February which became March while Mom intensified her arguments and Dad dug in his heels.

Mostly I stayed out of it, practicing my violin so loudly that I couldn't hear either of them. Also, I practiced because it was one thing I loved to do.

That and my job at Dad's clinic on Saturdays. I loved doing that, too, and I had a lot of fun deciding how to use the money I earned. I bought CDs and saved toward new hiking boots. A few times I rented ice skates and tried to blend in with the crowd of kids darting about the town rink.

Then April came, and the arguments ranged further Dad seemed to be struggling to hang on to ground that he was becoming less and less sure of. Mom's California upbringing came into the arguments, and I heard her tell Dad, "Stephen, I've given your precious Montana a try. There's not enough for me here, any more than there is for Tessie."

I wanted to curl up in my closet, but I didn't. I settled near a door from where I wouldn't miss hearing anything, because I knew more was being discussed than just Montana.

"Any child belongs with her family," Dad said.

"I've told you and told you Tessie isn't just any child," Mom said. "Don't you want what's best for her?"

Later that evening, when Mom and I were alone, she said to me, "Tessie, I just want you to try New York. If you're unhappy, we won't stay. But if you don't give it a try, you'll never know what you could have done there."

As May went by and then June, it seemed as if every part of my life was being weighed; as if each piece was being put on one side or the other of an old-time balance scale. Dad and the clinic and my home went on one side, along with exploring in the woods and living in the only town I'd ever known.

On the other side of the scale there was just Mom and my violin and a chance to learn music the way people like Mt Capianelli said I ought to. Just those three, but in the end they seemed to weigh more than everything else.

Mom called a travel agent and booked one-way tickets to New York.