Page 33 of These Secret Years

“I was kidding,” he says flatly, switching back to his beer and draining half of it.

“Kidding about flunking algebra?”

“No, that really happened.”

“What about your other classes?” I ask.

“I managed to pass. So, you’re a football dynasty and a mathlete?”

“I’m just good at school.”

“Everyone likes you, too, I’m assuming,” he says.

My face and neck heat. “Not necessarily everyone.”

“If you’re talking about me, I do still like you. I doubt you were worried about that, but in case you were, don’t be.”

“I was,” I admit.

“Not sure why it would matter.”

“Because I like you.”

He gives me a look I can’t interpret as anything but exhausted. “Okay.”

I’m surprised he doesn’t ask why again, but maybe I’m making progress. In an effort to get my boner to relent, I ask, “How’d you meet your girlfriend?”

“She was in my music theory class.”

“Is she a musician, too?”

“She plays cello.”

“Does she want to do it, like, professionally?”

“Not anymore. Half of what they’re trying to beat out of all the musicians is the desire to pursue a performance career.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because USM isn’t exactly Juilliard.”

Out of curiosity, I ask, “Is there some reason you’re not at Juilliard?”

“My resume sucks, and at USM I’m on sort of a scholarship.”

“What’s a ‘sort of’ scholarship?”

“It’s like a private thing,” he says before draining the rest of his beer.

“You want another?”

“Sure.”

“Are you gonna eat a hot dog?”

“I don’t eat meat, and I’m not really hungry.”

I doubt the part about him being hungry. He’s been here for I don’t know how many hours, he’s six-feet tall, and probably doesn’t weigh a hundred and seventy pounds. His body has to want more than half a hot dog bun, but I don’t press. Maybe he had a protein bar when I wasn’t looking.