When Ms. Chirazo leaves the room to take a phone call, I lean into Alex and say, “Hey, how was Boston? Did you check out Berklee?”
Alex looks up from his paper. “Nah, I didn’t get a chance. Our schedule was packed.”
“Alex, you dummy! Why didn’t you at least stop by?”
“I didn’t see the point.”
“What? Why not?”
Alex leans back in his chair and taps the table with his pencil. “If I were going to apply to a music program, I’d do USC. Los Angeles is, like, the center of the music biz. And the emphasis there is more on contemporary songwriting, not classical, which is what I’m interested in.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, there’s no point, because I’m not applying to any music programs.”
“But you love music.”
“Sure. But, like my mom was saying, it’s not like you’re guaranteed a record deal or anything like that if you graduate from a music program. If I do a business program, I’ll be set. And I could still take a music class as an elective.”
I give him the side eye. “Business? Since when do you care about business?”
“I have to think long-term, Kat. And with my dad’s contacts, I could—”
“But you want to write music.” I shake my head. “And sure, nothing is guaranteed, but that’s what makes it awesome, you know? The fact that it isn’t!” I glance around the room. Everyone’s looking at me. Probably because I’m getting loud. I lower my voice and say, “You’ve got to go balls to the wall because you love music. Fuck everything and everyone because you’re going to give it a shot regardless.”
Alex wants this. I can tell, because he doesn’t say anything to me right away. He stares off into space for a second, working it over in his head. Then he frowns and says, “You know, even if I got in, I doubt my parents would pay for it. They don’t exactly envision a life for me as a starving artist. My dad’s always talked about me working for his company when I graduate college.”
“Alex, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you’re f**king rich. You’re going to have money no matter what. You already have a safety net! Your parents aren’t going to let you starve in the street. Apply to USC. What can it hurt? Maybe you won’t get in. I don’t know. Maybe you suck. I’ve never heard your stuff.” I elbow him and he laughs.
“Because it’s hard! I’m shy!” He drops his head in his hands. “And . . . what if I’m not any good?”
I groan. “Stop being such a little bitch and give it a shot. What do you have to lose? So they reject you. So what. Then you pick yourself back up and you go to business school like your daddy wants. But you’ll never know unless you try.”
“I guess.”
I think about mentioning how I’ve heard Oberlin has a kickass conservatory, but I swallow it down. My life is complicated enough. I put my hand on his back. “Go for it. Balls to the wall. California or bust!”
He scratches his head. “Maybe I’ll look at Berklee. At least if I went to school in Boston, I’d have Lillia there.”
I feel a pinprick in my chest. “Dude, you said USC is the program for you. Don’t shoot for second best because of a girl.”
Alex looks startled. “What? That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Oh no?”
“No! Geez, lower your voice, Kat. I like Boston. And we just . . . we had a nice time hanging out. That’s it. It’d be nice to have a friend there.”
“A friend,” I repeat. “That’s what you guys are. Like you and me.”
He cocks his head to the side and looks right at me. “I’ve never hooked up with Lillia.”
I lean back in my chair, pleased. “Send in the USC application, Alex. You need to start going after what you want.”
Ms. Chirazo comes back in and shoots me a warning look like she knows I’ve been goofing off. Of course she’s only looking at me and not Alex, because she thinks Alex is a freaking redheaded angel.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I hang around after school on Friday to go to a Spanish tutorial that Señor Tremont is holding in advance of our midterm. I get to the classroom first and worry for a second that maybe I got the date wrong, but then ten other kids from my class arrive and sit in the same seats as they do in sixth period. They’re the students I’d expect to see here, ones who never, ever, ever talk in class. Like me. We’ve all perfected the art of staring down at our desks when Señor Tremont asks for volunteers to do conversations with him.
The only one who isn’t here is Señor Tremont.
Ten minutes go by, then fifteen. The halls have emptied out and quieted; the noise comes from outside. I unzip my school bag, open my Spanish textbook, and review the stuff Señor Tremont covered in today’s class. But the others are way less patient. After twenty minutes, one of the other kids makes a big, huffy show of standing up. He says, “What the eff, man?” and a few others push back from their desks, ready to follow him out.
But then Señor Tremont bursts through the door with a cell phone in his hand. He shouts excitedly, “Mi esposa está teniendo un bebé!” the words coming out faster than the dialogue in the Spanish soap operas he lets us watch on Fridays.
The students stare at each other like Huh?, because we don’t have a clue what Señor Tremont is saying. Did he forget that this is a remedial session? Señor Tremont doubles over laughing and translates it for us.
“My wife is having a baby!” With this news, the entire mood of the room shifts from annoyed to happy in a second. Everyone claps for Señor and cheers him on as he shoves his papers into his briefcase and sprints out the door. The whole thing brings tears to my eyes; I’m not sure why. Maybe because I have this feeling that Señor Tremont will be a good dad. Or because I miss my parents. It’s probably both.
On my way out of the classroom, I see Lillia down at the other end of the hall. I can tell it’s her because of her hair. No one in our school has hair as long and as shiny as Lillia Cho.
I open my mouth to call out for her, but then change my mind. Lillia’s probably on her way to the pool to swim with Reeve. I hang back but keep her in my sights. And I follow her, to be sure.
Lillia walks through the snow to the new pool building. She doesn’t use the same side door we used to, back when she, Kat, and I would meet up to plan our revenge schemes, back when the pool was being renovated. Instead she follows the sidewalk to the main double doors at the front of the pool building. By the time I reach them, I see Lillia make a left into the girls’ locker room.
