Being the best came with its cons. People underestimated you. Why? Because you were pretty. A pretty girl who looked like she’d never touch a bass, let alone any other instrument.

But upright bass? Pfft. Sure.

But you were fucking good. Discipline. Sleepless nights. All of it. You were the best.

And the best of the best went to Jundeheim. A private academy at the outskirts of a state two away from your home. Where the best musicians were.

You were put in a jazz ensemble. Piano, bass. Tenor and alto sax, two guitarists and a drummer.

The official jazz combo of Judenheim. That was you. And you guys were supposed to be a big ass deal. Performing in the MET museum, in France and London, Japan, Egypt…recognized, everywhere.

And you were in it.

2 hours. Each week.

“Your intonation is that of an amateur.” Your coach tells you with no hint of jokes. Straight criticism .

It was silent. You’ve always been amazing. The best. Now you were like everyone else.

You left that day, eyes stinging, throat like a barbed wire wrapped it.

“He’s always like that. It’s not personal.” You hear from behind you.

It’s Armin. A German boy. He’s the pianist.