"My piece was accepted!" I exclaim to my mother as I read the note. She nods proudly.

"My baby is a composer!" She says back to me. I give her a huge hug. I can't believe the New York Philharmonic chose my piece to play!

The first thing I do after I find out is head to the fire escape. There, I rap on the window of my best friend's room. "What—"

"I was chosen as for the Very Young Composer program at the New York Philharmonic!" I yell to her.

"Quiet! You're gonna wake Tim." She looks back to see if her little brother was still asleep. Luckily, he is. May climbs out the window and closes it. Then she screams. "Omg! You're like gonna be famous!" We both scream together until the true New Yorkers stick their heads out of their windows and shake their fist at us.

"Ahh!" We whispers-cream.

"Cheyenne, wouldn't it be soo cool if there was a scout there and he recruited you to like, make compositions all the time and pay you like thousands of dollars and you lived in a mansion—" May rambles on about fortune and fame. I shake my head and laugh.

"I don't think that will happen, but this is definitely amazing." I say. I then tell May good night, and hop back in my own window. My mom has pinned the letter to the fridge already. "When do I need to be there?" I ask, grabbing an apple out of the wicker bowl on the island.

"Next weekend, actually." My mom squints at the tiny print. She must have forgotten her glasses somewhere. "Hmm…let's hope you can make it there."

"What's so important about next weekend?" I ask.

My mom shakes her head with disappointment. "You're babysitting next weekend for Mrs. Tyler down the hall, remember?"

"What? You would make me skip this once in a lifetime opportunity to babysit rotten kids?" I say angrily.

"You're the one who quote end-quote said, 'I need the money'." Mom says

"Can't I cancel? I'm sure May can take over for those hours I'm gone." I bite into the apple viciously.

"I'm not raising a quitter." Mom says sternly and I feel like spitting fire.

"I hate you!" I yell and march to my cramped room and slam the door. There, I sob. How dare she say that I was her little composer than say I couldn't go! This isn't fair!

"Cheyenne," My mom says gently from outside the door.

"Go away." I mumble into my pillowcase. She opens the door anyways.

Immediately, the door runs into a pile of clothes. "Cheyenne I told you to—" She then stops abruptly. "I've thought about it," she starts, "and I've decided I'll take over for you on one condition."

"Anything!" I sit up excited. "Tell me you love me." She says. I smile and run up and give her a hug.

"I love you, Mom."