Efa
The first day of the band practice feels weird in a good way. We don’t know which songs to do at first. I am tuning my violin when my favorite song comes to mind. I played it a lot growing up.
“Melody, that…that song.”
I stop playing and give the princess a stare. She likes using that name despite my objections.
“Efa, sorry,” she corrects herself and pleads, “Please play it again.”
“It’s called stiffkey blues,” I tell her. My mother loved this song. I remember playing it every day and night when she died until that monster broke my violin.
“We call it something else. Please teach us. This is the band song from now on.”
I shrug and give them a crash course of the notes.
An hour later, we sound better, but it could be improved. Jess and I exchange looks when we notice a lot of
