Slowly, on legs that didn't feel entirely like his own, Darius stood. He wasn't sure what you were supposed to do after something like that, so he did what he'd seen the violin girl do: he bowed. The applause surged again, warmer, and somewhere in the roar he heard Harper whooping his name, and he laughed β a shaky, disbelieving laugh β because the borrowed blazer suddenly didn't feel too big anymore.
Chapter Thirteen
The Fallout
The applause finally thinned, but the room didn't settle. It couldn't. The air in Founders Hall felt charged, rearranged β like the furniture of the evening had been quietly moved while nobody was looking.
Darius made it down the stage steps on unsteady legs. Before his feet hit the floor, Harper had flung both arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked him sideways.
"That was β you were β I don't even have words, and I always have words!" she said, bouncing on her toes. "Did you see Dr. Pierce's face? He looked like somebody handed him a winning lottery ticket!"
His mother reached him next, plates finally set down somewhere, and cupped his face in both hands. "Baby," she said, and that was all, and that was everything. Her eyes were shining. "Your grandmother would have β " She stopped, laughed a wet little laugh, and hugged him hard.
Around them, the whispers were already rippling. Darius could feel them moving through the hall in currents β guests leaning across tables, phones lighting up like fireflies. At least a dozen people had filmed the performance; he'd seen the little glowing rectangles out of the corner of his eye while he played, and now those videos were traveling. A girl from the violin program showed her screen to two others, and all three turned to stare at him. A man in a tuxedo was already typing with his thumbs, fast.
"They're putting it on the class group chat," Harper reported, peering over someone's shoulder. "Spencer's group chat. It's everywhere already."
Darius's stomach did something complicated. Part of him wanted to sink through the marble floor. Part of him β a part he didn't entirely recognize β stood a little straighter.
Then Preston's voice cut through the murmur, loud and bright and wrong.
"Okay, but seriously β that was a stunt, right?" Preston said, standing near the head table with his hands spread in a showman's shrug, a smile plastered across his face that didn't reach his eyes. "Come on. Nobody's buying the miracle. Somebody planted him. Probably a music-school ringer they snuck in to juice up the donor video."
The words landed in a small pocket of silence. A few kids laughed β Spencer's laugh came a beat too late and sounded nervous.
Harper went still beside Darius. Then she stepped forward, into the open space between the tables, and her voice carried clear across the hall.
"Preston Hale, are you serious right now?" she said. "You dared him to play one scale an hour ago. You literally told him he couldn't read music. And now that he played something beautiful, your big theory is that it's fake?" She folded her arms. "That's not an argument. That's just you being mad you were wrong."
A ripple went through the watching students β a few gasps, a few grins. Darius felt heat climb his neck. He wanted to tell Harper she didn't have to do this, and he also wanted to hug her again.
Preston's smile flickered. "I'm just saying it's suspicious," he said, a little louder. "Some kid off the street sits down and plays like β like that? Please. Somebody taught him, somebody coached him, somebody β "
"He's not off the street, he's a person," Harper shot back. "And yes, somebody taught him. Teachers do that. It's called learning. You should try it sometime."
That got an actual laugh from the crowd β a real one, warm and surprised. Preston's face went blotchy red. He opened his mouth, but whatever he'd been about to say died before it reached the air.
Because Richard Hale had stood up.
Preston's father didn't say a word. He just looked at his son β a long, level look, cold and flat as a frozen pond β and the color drained out of Preston's face in a way that made Darius's chest ache despite everything. Richard Hale's gaze moved past Preston, across the room, and settled briefly on Darius. It wasn't warmth. It was assessment, sharp as a scale. Then he turned and walked toward the bar, and the conversation at the head table resumed a fraction too quickly.
Preston stood alone in the middle of the space he'd claimed, his showman's smile gone. Spencer hovered at the edge of it, uncertain, and for a moment the two of them just looked at each other β and Spencer looked away first.
Darius watched Preston's shoulders draw in, the polish cracking at the seams, and felt something unexpected and unwelcome: not triumph. Something closer to pity. He remembered the painted-on smile at the dinner table, Richard Hale boasting loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. He pushed the thought away. He had enough of his own evening to survive.
His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.
Caleb: *bro. BRO. somebody sent me the video. you are UNREAL*
Caleb: *mom is crying again btw*
Caleb: *when u get famous remember who shined ur shoes*
Darius laughed β a real laugh, sudden and bright β and some of the tightness in his chest loosened. He typed back with thumbs that still trembled faintly from the pedals: *tell mom to stop crying, she's embarrassing me*.
Across the room, Dr. Pierce was making his way through the tables toward him, and he wasn't alone. With him walked a woman with a kind, tired face and a notebook β the kind of notebook that meant business. Darius's mother saw them coming and straightened her volunteer vest, smoothing her hair with one quick, nervous hand.
"Here we go," Harper whispered, squeezing his arm. "Try to look like you meant to do all that."
"I didn't mean to do any of it," Darius whispered back.
"Even better," she said, grinning. "Modesty. The donors eat it up."
Chapter Fourteen
The Invitation