“He’s not the only one who thinks he knows everything about everything,” Adam singsongs, side-eyeing his mom. It might seem like he’s annoyed or embarrassed, but he’s got a mischievous light-footedness to his feelings. He’s having fun. Mrs. Hayes is ready to play along, opening her mouth in mock-offense to say something, but I beat her to it.

“Oh, you mean you?” I quip. I feel a thrill of satisfaction from the surprise that darts through Adam as his eyes snap to me.

“Oh-ho!” Mr. Hayes slaps the table like I’ve scored a point. “He’s got your number, doesn’t he, boychik? You should keep this one around.” He shakes his finger knowingly at Adam before tapping his nose.

“Oh my god, Dad,” Adam groans, the blush on his cheeks like a glowing sun setting over a desert. He looks at me and laughs and I feel my face grow hot too. But it’s not embarrassment—Adam is pleased. Proud that I’m fitting into his family, impressing his parents. And I feel a smaller-scale warmth from them too—they’re glad that I know how to joke with them.

The approval makes me self-conscious again. I really want to impress his parents. I want them to like me. I want to know Adam even better than I do. I want him to take his dad’s advice and keep me around. Just like that, telling him about what I can do feels unnecessarily risky.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, as the conversation moves back to college and schoolwork, Adam and his parents debating the schools they should go see on spring break.

“Adam, you can’t just tour Yale over and over,” Mr. Hayes says. “It’s good to look at other schools. You never know, you might find one you like just as much.”

“I doubt it,” Adam grumbles.

“Still,” Mrs. Hayes says, “you don’t want to put all of your eggs in one basket.”

“Yale, huh?” I ask, a little hurt. This is the first I’m hearing about it, and it sounds like something Adam’s been dreaming about for a little while.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know it’s a hard school to get into but they have one of the best English programs and, I don’t know, it’s worth applying.” Cold air sweeps into me and I brace for the wave that’s about to wash over the table. But it doesn’t come. Instead, it’s the sludge. Pitch black, oozing, burning cold like dry ice.

He doesn’t think he can get in. That’s why he’s never mentioned it to me.