Scholarship girl.  Had to be with those clothes unless she was trying for the hipster look and ironically failing to look ironic.  That was going to be a problem.  It was always a problem.  Mary's lips firmed at the thought.  And was she crying?  Mary could cry, she was the audience, but the artist was supposed to have a certain somber, professional reserve.  Or maybe she was a Suzuki kid, who could do one or two pieces exceedingly well but were utter pants when it came to something else.<br/><br/>The compliment fell on deaf ears.  She was tired of being told she was pretty, she was rich, she was lucky, she was going places.  Everyone had something to say and none of them really meant anything.<br/><br/><strong>"If you're done knocking the furniture over, pick it up and play something else,"</strong>Mary demanded, then stepped inside the room and shut the door.<strong>"Something from <em>Scheherazade</em>,"</strong>she challenged.<strong>"Or do you need the music?"</strong>Mary fished an iPad out of her purse and stroked it to life, quickly navigating to the iBooks store and carelessly dropping forty dollars to purchase it.<strong>"Here.  Start at the second movement,"</strong>she instructed and set the iPad up on a music stand that was standing just inside the door.<strong>"You can read music, can't you?"</strong>Mary sat down on the edge of the girl's bed, rumpling the blanket, and waited with a challenging look on her face.