Free Sparkers by Eleanor Glewwe Page A

sir,” Shaul interrupts, “even if the Assembly discovers new spells to cure the dark eyes, how will that help halani? We can’t afford healing spells.”
    Some of my classmates gasp. The District Hall representative stands frozen on the dais with his mouth open.
    â€œClass dismissed!” shouts Aradi Mattan. Everyone starts talking at once, and I make my exit, glad to escape. Deep down, though, I admire Shaul’s boldness. New healing spells
won’t
be of any use to Leah if her family can’t pay for them.
    It’s Thirdday, so while some of my classmates stream down the hall, I go upstairs to meet Aradi Imael as planned. As soon as I walk through the door, she hands me a Qirakh application and an audition pamphlet. On the front of the pamphlet is a Xanite flag. Inside, fragments of text jump out at me: dates, procedures, the required number of octaves for different scales. Solos and sight-reading. I fold it back up, feeling queasy.
    â€œWe should choose a solo today,” says Aradi Imael. “Why don’t you take out your instrument?”
    While I tune, she fetches her own violin and plunks a pile of scores onto the conductor’s stand. The possibilities seem infinite: countless sonatas by the great Atsani masters, works by more obscure composers like Toviah Adam, and even some modern compositions.
    In the end, I select a piece by the philosopher Shevem.
    â€œIt’s an unusual choice,” Aradi Imael says. “Shevem’s music tends to get forgotten, what with everything else he did. It’s sure to surprise your judges.”
    She probably hopes that will work in my favor, since the other students will doubtless be performing famous concertos beyond my ability.
    Before I leave, she has me attempt a few tricky sections under tempo. She listens and watches, sometimes playing along with me until the notes begin to feel familiar. At the end of the lesson, in addition to the music for the Shevem, she hands me another book,
Medsha Excerpts for Violin: Volume I
.
    â€œPractice sight-reading out of that, but focus on your solo,” she says with an encouraging smile. “See if you can learn the notes this week. Let’s meet again after school next Fourthday. In the meantime, mail in your application to reserve an audition time.”
    â€œI will,” I say, clutching my new music. I’m determined not to mess up my one chance of getting into secondary school this year. “My thanks, Aradi. For everything.”

8
    E arly the next morning, Caleb is stewing squash and I’m dashing off the conclusion to an essay that’s due today when a thumping at the apartment door makes us both jump. Answering it, I come face to face with Sarah’s willowy tutor. She is bareheaded, her brown hair parted severely and smoothed back into a knot at the nape of her neck.
    â€œChannah?” I say, astonished. “I mean, Gadi . . .”
    â€œHadar,” she finishes. “Good morning.”
    I invite her in, but she doesn’t want to leave the landing.
    â€œI’m in this part of the city on personal business this morning, so Sarah asked me to deliver this,” she says, passing me an envelope.
    I unseal it and unfold a note written in an elegant hand.
    Dear Marah,
    Sarah has asked me to invite you to our home for dinner this evening. I apologize for her fancies and urge you not to feel obligated to accept her invitation. We would, however, be delighted to have you.
    Nasim Faysal (Sarah’s mother)
    Nasim Faysal. A Xanite name. So Sarah’s Xanite? I wouldn’t have guessed, but it’s not easy to distinguish Xanites from Ashari.
    â€œIf you accept the invitation,” Channah says, “I’ll come back at five o’clock to take you to dinner.”
    She knows as well as I do that kasiri and halani hardly ever socialize. The rare friendships that do spring up tend to be between well-off halani and kasiri of modest