“Do you think you’ll challenge Asma for first chair next year?” he says.

Wait . . . what? I was hoping he’d mention that I looked nice today instead of bringing up the fact that I’ve been second-chair viola to Asma Aziz since our freshman year.

“Why do you ask?” I say, frowning a little. Did he even notice that I’m wearing mascara and lip gloss?

“Just saying you should think about it. You’ve been practicing so much and you’re as good as Asma now.”

I warm at the compliment, but I’m not as convinced as he is. “Challenging for first chair is a big deal, though.” Milo doesn’t have to worry about any of this because he has been first chair cello since forever. He’s symphony-caliber good, but he’s never flashy about it either, which is a big part of his appeal. (Sigh.) But if I were to challenge Asma, I would have to do scales and sight-read and perform an assigned piece of music in front of the whole class. Thinking about that makes me want to shrivel and hide, which is why I’ve never done it.

“I’ll help you with the sight-reading if that’s what’s holding you back,” he offers.

“Yeah?”

“Definitely. You deserve that spot.” He bumps shoulders with me, and I try not to smile too widely.

A decent crowd has gathered for the concert. A few minutes past two, the first violinist greets everyone and tells us about Adrian Gogic, a nineteenth-century composer who was born in what’s modern-day Montenegro. I know most of this already because Milo is obsessed with Montenegrin music. His parents emigrated from Kotor to attend grad school in the US, just like mine, who moved from Shanghai to go to Georgetown. That’s something that connects him and me, being first-generation kids. Milo might blend in with the other white kids at school, but he understands what it’s like speaking two languages at home and having parents who don’t always get the nuances of trick-or-treating or the tooth fairy.

The quartet strikes up their first piece, and Milo’s attention immediately shifts toward them. The two violinists may carry the melody, but his eyes zero in on the cellist, tapping his fingers against his thigh to pick out the notes. I don’t want to stare but it’s hard to look away.

I think my crush on him started the first time I saw him play, way back in the sixth grade. Even then he was impressive—his technique already on its way to perfect—but that wasn’t what hooked me in. It was watching him with his cello, how he touched it with so much care. It gave me shivers. It made me think, I want someone to love me the way that boy loves the cello.