Mom gave me my Christmas present early: tickets for the two of us to holiday performances at Lincoln Center.

I looked at them—an opera, a ballet, a symphony concert. She'd even thrown in an evening at Carnegie Hall, which wasn't even a part of Lincoln Center They'd be wonderful performances, and from the close-in seats she'd bought I'd be able to see faces and hear even the quietest, most individual sounds.

I told her, "Mom, I can't use these. Christmas week is when I go to Hawaii."

"I've been thinking about that trip," Mom said. "I don't see how you can make it. You've got SATs to study for and exams coming up in January. It's going to be hard enough for you to keep up on your violin, without your taking a week off from practicing."

"Dad's not going to understand."

"That depends on how you present it," Mom said. She handed me a piece of stationery and a pen. "I'll tell you what to say."

APPARENTLY MOM was right: Dad didn't argue, so he must have understood.

But I went to bed crying more nights than not, between then and Christmas. First I cried because I'd be missing the wedding Then I cried because I was just as glad I wouldn't be at it. I cried because I might not like Meg and Amy. I cried because they might not like me.

I cried because I missed seeing Ben outside of school. Mom had begun telephoning me at four o'clock every day—just to say hi, she said, but I knew the real reason was to check up on me, and I cried about that.

I cried because I kept making mistakes in orchestra, and because I could guess from the pleased expression on Kendall's face that she thought we'd soon be switching seats.

I cried because Mr. Stubner asked why I'd begun playing like an automaton, without putting any of myself into my music.

I cried because half the people at school were snappish and pinch faced over one thing or another The dancers were all either worn out from performances of The Nutcracker, or else they were upset at not having parts. Hie voice students and musicians who took private engagements were exhausted from doing holiday parties.

Teachers got provoked, and there was even a rumor that Gabriel Nageo, a senior flute player bad gotten fired by his flute teacher for not taking directions.

"I don't think teachers can fire you," I said, when some of us were talking about it after orchestra.

"No?" Kendall said. "Then you tell me why Gabriel's dropped out of school."

I didn't have an answer to that any more than I did to anything else.

I just knew I was miserable, and that it was at least partly because I'd been so rotten to Dad. I wondered if he'd ever forgive me.

I got my answer on Christmas Eve, when the apartment buzzer rang while Mom and I were eating dinner A delivery man brought up a large insured box that Mom had to sign for.

When we opened it and took out layers of packing, we found a gift-wrapped present with a card that said, "Merry Christmas to my dearest daughter Tess, with love from your old man."

"I'm not going to wait for tomorrow," I told Mom. I could guess from the box and careful packing what my present just might be. With shaking hands I pulled off the ribbon and gift paper and opened the inner box and then the case inside. Dad had sent me a violin.

I peered through one of the instrument's f-shaped sound holes, read the label, and caught my breath. Dad must have been saving and saving for this. I'd expected to wait years for a violin so good.

I was so afraid to break even a string that I took forever tuning it. And then just as long examining the fine bow, tightening it, running rosin down it.

Cautiously I played a few short notes and then longer and fuller ones, not wanting to be disappointed. I was thrilled at the violin's rich tone. And when I finally dared play my best, I heard my best sound better than it ever had.

"Mom, did you know?" I asked.

"No. I wish he'd consulted me," Mom answered, setting her mouth in an unsmiling line. Then she added, "It's a lovely present." She gave it a speculative look. "You could start a career with that."