“I know what you mean,” I say, finding it hard to break his gaze. I blink and clear my throat. “So, where does all your sculpture knowledge come from?” I ask. “Do you read up on art trivia just to pick up tourists?”

“I do, actually,” Michael replies.

“I knew it.” I’m grinning too big again. “Okay, but what’s the real answer?”

“Well, I have a vested interest in Michelangelo because I was named after him.”

It takes me a moment for it to click. Michael, Michelangelo. My eyebrows rise.

“I applaud your valiant effort not to make fun of me,” Michael says.

I scrunch up my nose. “No! I was just… thinking about what kind of parents you must have.”

“Ha. The kind who read Machiavelli and Maimonides to my sister and me before we were old enough to read on our own.”

“I see. I was only getting Shakespeare at that age. My grandfather didn’t graduate me to the philosophers until middle school.”

“A kindred spirit! Have you too been raised constantly terrified to fall off the pedestal you’ve been placed on?”

“Oh, no. I fell off my pedestal long ago. I’m now officially ‘the disappointing one.’ ”

“You? Disappointing? The standards must be high.”

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. “You have no idea.” He really doesn’t. The standards I’m compared to are ridiculous. Kor is at Columbia with a growing collection of honors, has his artwork displayed in various prestigious galleries around New York City, and have I mentioned his recent Grammy nomination? Izzy’s in her first year at MIT, and an app she designed was just bought by one of the world’s most successful companies, Ozymandias Tech. Meanwhile, I—though I’ve been aggressively avoiding thinking about it—have already missed the deadlines on some of my (very mid-tier) college applications.

I brush my bitter thoughts aside and ask Michael, “What has you worried about falling from your pedestal?”

He looks away, talking to the statue instead of to me. “Sometimes… I want to question the status quo. Do what I think is right instead of what I’ve been taught is right.”

“What’s the worst that could happen if you do?”

“I’ll let people down, lose their trust.” He pauses and then adds, “Not know who I am if I’m not who I’m expected to be.”

It scares me just how well I know what he means. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this connected to someone this quickly. And that’s scary too, like holding something impossibly delicate, just waiting for it to fall apart.

“And what’s the best that could happen?” I ask.

He looks at me contemplatively without answering.

I teasingly poke his arm. “What happened to seeing the truest potential instead of the most negative outcome?”