Starling twisted the pegs on the neck of her mandolin wondering how she should break her father’s heart. She’d never broken his heart before. Sure, he hadn’t liked all her boyfriends and he’d yelled at her few times about her grades but this was different. This was what he lived for and she was turning away from it.
“Check, check one, two,” her father adjusted his microphone as he spoke. His hair was thinner now, Starling thought but he’d worn the shirt she’d bought him last Christmas. It made him look slimmer. It also made her feel guiltier. Starling twisted another peg as her mom started tuning her fiddle. Her mom was probably the best musician of all of them, but it was her dad’s passion that kept them going.
“You almost ready?” the guy who ran the festival asked. He was a pot-bellied man in a cheap white shirt.