"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.