“I’m enjoying parts of it.” His eyes opened, laser-locked on mine.

I wanted to kiss him, to roll him over me, break down every physical barrier between us—but I pulled my hand back and pinned it safely beneath me. Not yet.

“What school do you go to?”

He draped his arm over my waist, smiling softly. “Farnwell Prep.”

“Why does that sound familiar? Did you already tell me—?”

“I might have. But no, it’s sort of famous. It’s where the president’s son went, lots of politicians’ kids. Fancy-fancy.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do!” His eyes wandered to the ceiling, like he could see a model of his campus hovering there. “It’s funny, I wasn’t sure at first. It’s very, ah . . . Anglo. But it isn’t that prep stereotype, either. Everybody’s nerdy, so everybody’s chill.”

“TJ?” I smiled.

“He might be more nerdy than most. All my core people have, like, obsessive interests, though, not just orchestra. TJ plays trumpet but he wants to design games. Seamus paints these amazing murals . . . It’s a good school.”

“Are all your friends orchestra people?”

He scratched his head. “That’s kind of the way it goes. How about you? Your . . . seven black friends?” Oscar smiled, teasing, but there was a current of intensity under it. “Are they orchestra geeks?”

“No,” I said, and he nodded like he’d expected that answer. I wasn’t ready to admit that none of those school friends were my “core people,” as he’d put it, so I said, “They’ve got pretty eclectic interests too. My friend Farrah is first chair in our school orchestra, but she’s not, like, going pro. She wants to be a medical researcher.” Curing cancer. Ha, I hadn’t thought of that. Go Farrah. “Honestly, Exton is a pretty standard private school—”

“That’s another nice thing about Farnwell.” Oscar propped himself up. “They let me veer off from my class schedule if I have a day that needs to be all music. Which is more than I can say for my parents.”

I frowned, surprised. “Are they not supportive?”

“They’re the most supportive parents in the world. But it’s all college all the time. My mom monitors our GPAs on, like, a week-to-week basis. She’s terrified that I’m not ‘well-rounded.’” He sighed. “She means well. She wants us to be safe in the world.”

I marked his choice of words. Not successful, not happy—safe.

“What about you?” Oscar asked gently. “The piano . . . was that something they pushed?”

I wished I could say yes. That it had been foisted upon me against my wishes. Giving it up would have been that much more cathartic.

Mom’s voice echoed in my head. Put her on mute.

“No.” I swallowed. “They never pushed anything on me.”

We were getting close to something I didn’t want to touch.