There is no telling where artistic gifts come from, but once you know you have one you cannot shut it off and pretend it’s not in you. A gift, a special talent, can take you places—real places and mind places. A mind place saves you when you’re bored. It’s whatever you want it to be. Me, I just pull out my electric guitar, tune it, run my fingers up and down the neck, and watch my room, my homework, and my younger brother, Teddy, disappear as I fly on jagged metal sound.

Teddy’s talent is sports, and he can do them all, especially ice hockey. But me, I am tall for a seventh grader and extra light. Two of my legs equal the strength in one of Teddy’s. And he’s eighteen months younger. I am limber and quick, but don’t ask me to whack a puck or tackle a running back. It’s not for me to know why Teddy got the huge muscles of my dad and the smooth skin and shiny blond hair of my mom while I got the string bean arms and legs of Grandpa John, and the musical ear from heaven. Nobody else in the family can carry a tune. I have a mystery gene. And it takes me farther than my parents have ever been.

Last year it took me to New Orleans, Louisiana, for the national Quickfinger Guitar Contest—almost two thousand miles from my home in Wayland, Massachusetts. And it took me inside too—maybe two thousand miles inside—where I found something even better than hot beignets with powdered sugar. What are beignets? you ask. Yeah, I didn’t know either. At least not until I got to New Orleans.

When the plane landed at the New Orleans airport, I spotted palm trees lining the roads. I had never seen palm trees before except on TV or in photographs. My heart started beating so quickly I had to pat my chest and breathe extra slowly. Seagulls sitting on the tarmac made me think I was at the beach.

I wedged myself up the aisle of the airplane with the stream of slow-stepping passengers. My heavy daypack full of schoolbooks pulled at my shoulders, and my guitar case banged the seats. Walking up the gateway ramp, two men ahead of me wore alligator-skin boots and brightly colored polo shirts. They talked about bass fishing and stepped slowly, oblivious to the people behind them who tried to hurry into the airport. Their way of talking was slow and strange. The woman just in front of me had teased hair held high and stiff with hairspray. She waddled in tight purple stretch pants as she pulled two small children, one by each hand. I had to slow up to keep my guitar from bumping them.

I noticed that strangers talked to each other a lot in New Orleans. That doesn’t happen as much in the Boston airport. People keep more to themselves. In New Orleans, passengers stopped to jabber with the airline crew, and the lady in stretch pants kept telling people about her kids and calling everyone “baby,” or “dawlin’.”

“You all by yourself there, baby?” she asked me, looking really concerned. And when I told her I was meeting some people, she let out a long breath. “Okay, dawlin’. You take care now, you hear?” I smiled at her and just said thank you.

Coming through the gate, I immediately spotted an Asian American man holding up a sign with the words ERIC WIEMAN written on it. Next to him stood an Asian American boy who looked about my age but stood many inches shorter. The boy’s dark brown hair was cut in a sharp wedge at the back. He wore a plain white T-shirt, clean black jeans, and open leather sandals over bare feet. I knew these were my hosts for the next week. We had exchanged photos, letters, and e-mail. The man eyed my guitar and stepped forward.

“Are you Eric Wieman?” he asked in a soft voice. I could barely hear him.

I put down my guitar and extended my hand. “Yes, sir.” He clasped my hand and shook it weakly. His handshake was nothing like my father’s, which could pull your arm out of its socket. Dr. Woo didn’t look like he spent weekends hammering nails and sawing wood like my dad.

“Good. I am Dr. Woo, and this is my son, Ben.” Dr. Woo reached forward to lift my guitar. “Welcome to New Orleans.”

I looked at Dr. Woo’s small hand on my guitar case handle and said, too quickly, “Oh, no! I mean . . . thank you, Dr. Woo. I can carry it.” I put my hand next to his on the handle and tugged the case gently from him. “Thank you. I’ve got it.” I have this thing about carrying my own guitar. I don’t like anyone else to touch it. Something from them might rub off on the guitar and change it. I’m really superstitious.

After I took the guitar, Ben glanced at his father, tightened his eyebrows, shrugged slightly, and then smiled at me again. “We are happy you will be staying with us,” he said. “We love musicians.” He sounded kind of rehearsed. I wondered if his father had told him to say that.

Ben stuck his hand out to shake mine. He had a firmer grip than that of his father.

“Thank you for inviting me, “ I said back. “I’ve never been to New Orleans before. In fact, I’ve never been anywhere really except my grandparents’ place in Vermont. I can see I’m wearing the wrong clothes.”

Ben and his father looked at my heavy ski sweater. “Yes. You may want to take that off. It’s about seventy degrees outside,” Ben said.

“Seventy degrees in February?” I gasped. “It’s freezing at home. This will be great.” I put down my guitar, pulled off my sweater and stuffed it in my pack. I stared at my heavy leather hiking boots. “I guess I should have e-mailed you about the weather. I have sneakers in my duffel.”

Dr. Woo motioned us to walk. “Let’s get your baggage and bring you home to meet my wife and daughter.” We started up the airport corridor.

“We got all the letters from you and your teachers. You sound like a brilliant guitar player.” Ben shuffled beside me in his sandals. He had to move his legs quickly to keep up with my long strides.

“Oh. Well.” I answered him absently. “I hope I’m good enough to win a new guitar.” The billboards and shops on both sides of the airport intrigued me. I read words I had never seen, like b-e-i-g-n-e-t-s. “What does beeg . . . nets mean?” I asked, pointing to a sign above some shelves of yellow boxes.

Dr. Woo chortled. “Oh. That’s pronounced ‘ben-yays.’ Beignets are fried dough, usually powdered with confectioners’ sugar. A real New Orleans treat.”

“I love ‘em,” Ben announced. “You dunk ‘em in strong coffee or hot chocolate.”

Dr. Woo frowned. “Terrible for you, really.”

“Who cares, Dad?” said Ben, then turned to me. I’ll take you to the French Quarter sometime, Eric, and you can try some at Café du Monde. It’s a famous place.” Dr. Woo shook his head at Ben, but I saw a half-hidden smile.

“The French Quarter,” I said. “Isn’t that where lots of musicians play outside near that big church? I read a little about it.”

“St. Louis Cathedral. Right. Big church.” Ben exhaled a burst of air through his nose.

“Church. Cathedral. Sorry, I don’t really know the difference.” I said.

“We’ll take you there,” Ben said, raising his eyebrows and looking at his dad.

Dr. Woo tilted his head at his son, and pressed his lips together, squinting his eyes. “Yes, we’ll do all that after we get settled and find out about Eric’s competition schedule. Ben, you have school on Monday, and Eric may have to practice. First things first. Now, about the luggage.”

We stepped onto the escalator that drew us down into the baggage claim area. As the automatic steps sank under me, I looked down and noticed a boy even taller than I am pulling a guitar off a conveyor belt. I froze and sucked in my breath. I felt a weird shiver inside me . . . like I was supposed to see this kid for some reason.

The boy suddenly lifted his head as if he, too, felt something startling. He caught my eye as he stepped out from the crowd. His sharp chin tightened as he flipped his thick, dark brown hair off his face. Suddenly he noticed my guitar and paused for a fraction of a second, his black eyes frozen on my case. Looking away swiftly, he lifted his face high. I kept my eyes on him. I wanted him to look at me a second time. I felt like he was thinking exactly what I was thinking.

I was sure of it.

The competition!

He had also come for the guitar competition.

I felt a flutter of panic and almost stumbled on the bottom step of the escalator. I steadied myself. Then, I remembered why I was in New Orleans. Not for beignets. Not for the French Quarter. I was there for the biggest guitar competition of my life, in one of the biggest music towns of the world. First prize was a new electric guitar and free summer music camp. That’s what I wanted. I wasn’t going to blow it.

When I looked up again, the boy with the guitar was gone. Shoot, I thought to myself. I wanted to study what I was up against.