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Mark O’Connor on violin and Edgar Meyer on bass, all three of them classical ge niuses. And you should hear what they do with a bunch of old melodies.”
    “And you’re saying—”
    “That it flows both ways. Classical training is great, but there’s stuff way back in the mountains that’s just as important. Ask Bartok. Ask Sibelius. They know about folk music. I’m just saying you should use everything you’ve got. And your teacher would say the same thing. Unless he’s an idiot. End of lecture.”
    I nod and say, “Thank you, professor.”
    And he grins and bows stiffly.
    As I walk down to my practice room, I have to admit it’s good advice. Because it’s like I have one head that’s filled with fiddle tunes and denim overalls, and a newer head that’s all sheet music and crystal chandeliers and people wearing tuxedos and evening gowns. And sometimes I still feel like I have to stop being my old self when I play classical music.
    But this is not a problem I want to tackle tonight. Tonight I have a different task.
    At the bottom of the basement steps I imagine that it’s Tuesday morning. I’m walking along a hallway at Juilliard. Because I’m pretending that I’m actually taking my first audition.
    I walk into the room and close the door behind me. I prepare my bow and violin and test the tuning. I nod respectfully at each of the faculty members, and I imagine what they ask me to play first. Then I look briefly up at the ceiling to clear my mind, and I begin. And suddenly I’m also imagining that the lights have clicked off, that no one can see me. And it helps. It’s only the music. And I don’t stop for anything. I play.
    Getting into college is different for a music student. It’s not just, What were your grades? And it’s not, Which clubs did you belong to, and Were you the class president? And it’s not, What are your SAT scores?
    The question for a music student is so simple, only three words: Can you play? Can you walk into this audition room and play—today, right now—without messing up?
    And you only get one chance to get it right because that’s how you have to play music in the real world, in a performance. You practice and practice and rehearse, and when it’s time for the performance, you come on-stage and take your place. Then the conductor raises the baton and nods, and if you don’t come in on the right beat with the right notes and the right pitch and the right attack, then you’ve let down the conductor, and you’ve let down the other ninety-five musicians in the orchestra, and you’ve let down the audience. And, of course, you’ve stabbed your bow straight through the heart of the composer. Because the only question is, Can you play?
    On Saturday night I feel confident, and it’s good rehearsal time, almost two hours, with Sibelius winning the prize for my most improved composer, and Paganini a close second.
    When I come back up to the parlor, Robert is sitting in Grampa’s recliner, eyes closed, head tipped back, with his earbuds in and his iPod resting on the arm of the chair. I tiptoe over and look at the little screen to see what he’s listening to: Kind of Blue . It’s Miles Davis—jazz. And I remind myself that sometime I have to ask Robert how he connects his jazz with his classical playing. Because I’m sure he’s got a theory about that. I’ve known him less than two days, and it’s already perfectly clear that Robert has at least one theory about everything in the universe.
    I touch him on the shoulder, and he jumps like he’s been half asleep, and it takes him a second to recognize me. He pulls out the earphones and I say, “Your turn. To practice.”
    “Great,” and Robert gets out of the chair and heads downstairs.
    First I finish loading the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, and then I put clean sheets and pillowcases on Grampa’s bed, and open a window to air out the room. As I put clean towels in the bathroom, that’s when I notice that