He squints and looks at me, leaning his elbows casually on his knees. “Is that what you think?”
“Yeah,” I say. My voice gets quiet. All of a sudden he’s making me nervous. “I mean, you never do homework and you’re always giving teachers a hard time. Are you even applying to college?”
I pull another Twizzler out of the bag and busy myself with tearing it down like string cheese.
“Didn’t know you paid so much attention to me, Rosaline.” He tilts his head to the side and gives me a lopsided smile.
I open my mouth to talk, but he holds up his finger.
“For the record, I do the homework. I’m here, aren’t I? And I don’t give all teachers a hard time, just the ones that could use it. And as for college?” He raises his eyebrows. “I already got in.”
“But early admission decisions don’t come until next month, at the earliest.”
“I got in this summer,” he says. He flops his knees down to the ground and grabs the candy bag.
“We were juniors.”
“Mhm,” he says, chewing. “Good point.”
“You can’t even apply to college junior year.”
“Yep,” he says. “All true.”
“What is it, then? Continuing education courses? Having to repeat high school doesn’t count as college.”
“Thanks for your concern,” he says. “But actually, no. Juilliard.”
My jaw drops so far, I think I might have to manually pick it up off the floor. When I finally start speaking, it comes out like word vomit: “What? Are you kidding me? Why?”
Len laughs. “The surprise I can take, but ‘why’ feels a little harsh.”
“I’m sorry, but are you being serious?”
“You want to see the acceptance letter?”
I eye him closely. It’s impossible, but I also don’t know why he’d lie about it. It seems like the sort of thing he’d like to keep quiet, actually. But Juilliard?
“Isn’t that the school for prodigies?”
“Prodigy,” he says, tapping his chest. “Right here.”
“In what?”
“Okay.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Piano.”
It makes perfect sense now. Why he’s so smart but doesn’t care about school. “You kept playing,” I say.
I stand and extend my hand to him. He gives me a curious look but lets me help him up. I march him, in much the same way Mr. Davis did Rob this afternoon, down the stairs and into the den. My mom and Rob’s mom have disappeared from the kitchen, probably outside. When he sees the piano, he starts laughing.
“You kept it,” he says.
“Yeah, my parents always thought maybe I’d come back to it.” I sit down on the bench and face him. “Will you play something for me?”
He interlaces his fingers and spins his thumbs, like he’s considering it. “Yes,” he says, “but only if you’ll play something for me first.”
“I’m not the one who just got into Juilliard.”
“Actually,” he says, “I got in this summer. So it’s been a while.”
