The Stroke

The stage was cold, yet bright. The black walls illuminated the backdrop, left by the theater troupe, performing the previous month. Twenty something violinists dragged music stands and plastic blue chairs into place with screeches.
A traveling quartet had come into town and donated their "valuable" time to try to "help" high schools across the nation.
Two men and two women in their mid-twenties were dressed sophisticatedly in black. There was the second violinist, otherwise known as the Asian who couldn't speak in full sentences except for her frequently recited phrase, "Listen to the beat in your heart." The first violinist on the other hand was a skinny fellow who liked to make you move up and down while you played your instrument. The violin sections didn't know much about the cellist or violist, which they sensed was a good thing.
After putting their organized music folders on their chipped stands, the skinny violinist strolled out. "So everyone, your teacher said you needed to work on your bowing in this song," he made a back and forth motion with his right hand, "the stroke."
Renee tried to keep herself from breaking out in hysterical laughter, so she leaned over to her stand partner and giggled, "Did anyone catch that besides me?"