ut a big
bite of steak into my mouth and was chewing thoughtfully. I even
recall we were listening to something by Prokofiev.

"Daddy, I'm going to switch," she said quickly with an air of
non-chalance.

I paused, finished chewing, and then fell right into the pit. "That's
fine, honey..." Another pause. She wasn't looking right at me, and I
leaned over to try to catch her eye. "You're going to switch what?"

She stabbed at her steak, fork delicately held in her left hand just
like we'd taught her all her life. "To viola." She slid a small piece
of steak into her mouth and started chewing.

I gagged, and put down my fork, but she kept on chattering with her
mouth full, trying to convince me before I could even voice the
beginning of an objection. Finally she appealed to my conceit. "You
want me to be a great musician, right Daddy?"

I tried to agree that had been our hope, but I was still trying to
catch my breath.

"Well, I'm sitting third-desk right now. Do you know what that
_means_?" she whined. "I'll never get anywhere in a concert career.
You have to sit first-desk--or be the concert mistress."

I coughed a couple more times. "But you're doing fine," I insisted.
"You're the best."

She gave me her old half-frown, pulling down one side of her mouth and
screwing up her eyes, then rolling them away toward the ceiling.
"Daddy," she said, "I'm not the best. Mary is the best." She pushed
another piece of steak onto her fork. "I'm sitting third desk with
Deadpan Wang." She got that dreamy look again, and balanced her fork
on two fingers. "But if I switch to viola--they're always in greater
demand you know, because fewer people play viola, Daddy--I could be
sitting first desk."

"Look," I told her, "you've already won a couple of competitions, are
you going to throw all that effort away, and take up... the _viola_?"
I actually gulped.

"_You_ might call it winning," she shot back, "but I've never taken
better than second place."

"What about the cello?"

"Daddy," she whined again, putting down her knife and picking up her
milk. "The technique is too different--you should have started me on
cello ten years ago."

"Does your mother know about this?"

She twirled her fork among her green beans and wouldn't meet my eyes.
"No." She looked up with knotted eyebrows. "She doesn't care."

"Jenny, she does too..." I let that trail off lamely and we ate in
silence for a while.

Now, I had n