The Music He Carried

Darius grinned despite himself and pocketed the phone just as the servers swept in with the next course — something with steam rising off it that smelled like butter and rosemary. Around him, the hall glittered on: crystal, candlelight, laughter pitched exactly right. On the far side of the room, Preston Hale laughed at something his father said, and the sound carried, bright and sharp as a tapped glass.

The Steinway waited under its spotlight, patient as a held breath.

And Darius, twelve years old in his brother's blazer at the back table, sat a little straighter in his chair.

Chapter Eight

The Dare

Dinner arrived in waves, and Darius ate like the food might be taken away — which, at a gala, felt entirely possible. The chicken was the best chicken he'd ever tasted, the skin crisped golden and the meat falling off the bone. The rolls were warm enough to melt the butter on contact. The sparkling water tasted like regular water that had been startled. At the staff-family table, the bus driver told a story about a goose on Route 9 that held up her whole morning run, and the maintenance man laughed so hard he had to set down his fork, and for a little while the hall's glitter felt far away and harmless, like a television playing in another room.

Then Richard Hale's voice rose above the clink and murmur, the way a trumpet rises above an orchestra whether you want it to or not.

"—top of his class, and I don't mind saying it," Richard was telling the next table over, one arm draped along the back of his chair like he owned the room, which, Darius supposed, he partly did. He had the kind of voice that expected microphones to appear. "Youngest debate captain in Harrington history. First chair in the youth symphony — well, second chair, but the first chair boy graduates in June, so." He laughed, big and easy, and the neighboring tables laughed with him. "The boy works like a grown man. That's the Hale standard. No coasting. Not in my house."

Preston sat beside him, smiling. It was a perfect smile — teeth, crinkles, everything in place — and it looked about as real as the plastic fruit in a dentist's office. He pushed a roasted potato around his plate with his fork, making neat little tracks in the sauce. When his father clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to rock him sideways, the smile didn't move.

"Chip off the old block," somebody said, and Richard beamed like he'd been handed a trophy.

"Wait till you see what he does with the spring business competition," Richard went on, warming to his theme. "I've got him reading market reports, can you believe it? Thirteen years old. Most kids his age can't find their own shoes." More laughter. Preston's fork made another track in the sauce. "I'm telling you, that boy is going to run something someday. Mark my words."

Darius looked away. He didn't know why his stomach had gone tight. Preston had everything — the name, the money, the father who bragged about him to strangers. So why did he look like a kid holding his breath? Why did his smile look painted on, the way clowns' smiles were painted on, bright and a little bit sad underneath?

The thought scattered when a shadow fell across Darius's table.

"Well, well." Preston stood there with Spencer and two other boys from his table, all of them arranged in a loose half-circle, the way kids arrange themselves when something interesting is about to happen. His perfect smile was gone now, replaced by the smirk Darius was starting to know too well. "The man of the back table. Mind if we join you?"

Before anyone could answer, Preston pulled out the empty chair beside Darius and sat — backward, arms folded over the chair back, casual as anything. Spencer took the next chair, quick and eager. The other two hovered behind them.

"I've been thinking about our conversation," Preston said. His voice was light, friendly even, pitched to carry just far enough. "About the piano. You seemed very... interested in it earlier. Standing there staring."

Darius set down his fork. "It's a nice piano."

"Oh, it's more than nice. It's a Steinway. Concert grand. Costs more than most cars." Preston leaned in, confiding, like they were friends sharing a secret. "Here's what I'm wondering, though. I bet you can't read sheet music."

The table went quiet. The bus driver and the maintenance man exchanged a look over their water glasses.

"Not play," Preston went on, holding up a hand like a showman displaying an empty palm. "I'm not even asking about play. Just read. Like, if I put a page in front of you right now — could you tell me what it says? Or would it look like..." He tilted his head, thinking hard, enjoying himself. "Spaghetti?"

Spencer laughed — that same too-loud, too-fast laugh, the laugh of someone who'd decided a long time ago that laughing with Preston was safer than anything else. One of the other boys grinned. A girl from the next table turned around in her seat, sensing a shift in the air the way animals sense weather. Then another kid drifted over, dessert plate in hand. Then two more. A small ring began to form around the back table, faces bright with the particular attention children give to a game where someone might lose.

Harper appeared at the edge of the ring, her dessert fork frozen halfway to her mouth, chocolate on her chin. "Preston," she said, warning in her voice.

"What?" Preston spread his hands, all innocence, the picture of a boy asking a perfectly reasonable question. "It's just a question. A bet, even. I'm saying he can't do it." He looked at Darius, eyes gleaming like wet stones. "Unless the answer's embarrassing. Is the answer embarrassing?"