I’m writing so fast that my wrist is cramping. I know the answers, or at least I thought I knew them, but the questions on the quiz are more in-depth than…well, I knew better than to think I’d get off as easy as a multiple choice quiz or even a fill-in-the-blank, but I did not expect I’d have to delve into the subtlest nuances of the events leading up to World War I. I expected questions about…hard, obvious facts. This is something different, and it’s making me feel stupid.

“Time,” Professor Hart says blandly. “Books to the front, please.”

I hurry to squeeze in one more sentence, but I’m not even sure my essay has stayed on topic. Will he take points off for not sticking to the main idea? My concluding paragraph is an absolute garble, I’m sure of that much.

Something pokes me in the back. It’s Creepy Elevator Guy from the dorm, his hat turned backwards, nudging me with a stack of blue books to pass to the front of the lecture hall. I keep seeing him around, always smirking at me like he has a secret. I take the books, scribble the final word in my own, and pass the stack forward. My hands are sweating. The mental exhaustion in the room is palpable, thicker than glue.

“That is the first of four essay tests you will take in this course,” Professor Hart says from the front, leaning on his desk. “The last is your final and will be twice as long as the one you just took. Please be sure to review the material from the entire semester before the final, as it will encompass all that we have studied.” He checks his tarnished silver watch, which looks like it might actually be a relic from the World War I era. “Thursday we’ll begin the discussion of the events that led to Hitler’s rise to power and the subsequent outbreak of World War II. Dismissed.”

I gather my things slowly. I’m not sure I made even a low B. I suppose it technically doesn’t matter since the class doesn’t count toward either of my majors, but the idea of breaking my long record of straight A’s makes me nauseous. Liza would tell me to calm down, stop obsessing, but my grades and cello are all I have. I send her a quick text: Think I bombed a test.

“That bitch was deep, wasn’t it?” I turn around and it’s him. Again. He’s pulled the brim of his hat back around to face front.

“It was fine,” I say, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Excuse me.”

He shrugs coolly as I push past him. I’m meeting Daphne at the gym for a class, and I don’t want to be late. She warned me the classes get crowded and she wants a “good spot,” whatever that means.

Halfway to the gym I get a response from Liza: I’m sure you did awesome. You shouldn’t always think the worst.

---

“Daphne, I think you’re intentionally trying to make me look stupid.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just try it. You might think it’s fun.” Her workout clothes are sleek and new, and I’m wearing old cotton shorts and a ratty tank over a sports bra, newly purchased especially for this occasion.

A tiny woman with a high ponytail and six pack abs bounds to the front of the room, slides a headset onto her head, and docks her phone into a stereo system. The room erupts with a hip-hop beat.

The class lines up as if on command. The instructor speaks into her headset with exactly the kind of sprightly, high-pitched pep I would expect from someone wearing hot pink leggings, and leads us through some warm-up exercises. I’m surprised to find that I can keep up, more or less, and that Daphne was right—this is sort of fun. The thump of the music is energizing, and it feels good to move my body.

Then the instructor runs us through what looks like some kind of cheerleader dance routine, teaching us in eight-count segments, and this is where I can’t keep up. I look over at Daphne, who’s hitting every move as flawlessly as the instructor. A cheerleader and the homecoming queen. Figures.

I ignore the little sting of jealousy and force myself to refocus on the instructor. I’m not a terrible dancer, I’m just not used to memorizing physical movements like this. It doesn’t help that I’m fairly out of shape. Daphne keeps smiling over at me with her face all lit up, like “Isn’t this fun!?” I feel like an idiot, but I can’t help laughing at her enthusiasm. Her perkiness is almost contagious.

The class ends in time to prevent me from embarrassing myself with a heart attack, though I’m doubled over with my hands on my knees, practically hyperventilating. I feel like someone’s scraped out all my muscles and I’ve got nothing left to keep me upright.

“So,” says Daphne, dabbing at her neck with a small, fluffy towel, “did you love it?”

I don’t have a fluffy towel. “Uh…I got a good workout.”

“Isn’t it so great? Will you meet me here every Tuesday?”

“Easy there, Sparky.” I laugh. “Sure, I’ll meet you as often as I can.” I look down at my sweat-drenched body. “I guess I should probably buy some workout towels, though.” I’m as wet as I was when I came out of the river with Garrett. My chest squeezes when I think of him, at the image of him all seal-skinned and dripping, fresh from our swim with the manatees. I haven’t heard from him since then, though it’s only been two days.

“They have towels at the front desk!”

Of course they do. I sigh.

“It’s just new to you. No biggie!”

She is relentlessly perky. We leave the fitness room and descend the stairs to the main floor. As we’re passing the front desk, Garrett comes through the main entry doors and I almost jump out of my skin. I know we attend the same school, and he obviously works out, so why would I be surprised to see him here? But I am surprised, petrified really, like a squirrel frozen in the path of an oncoming semi.

Daphne follows my gaze. “Oh…is that…?”

I nod. He’s spotted me and is coming our way, with his usual swaggering confidence, his mouth set in a placid closed-lipped smile. And here I am all splotchy and sweaty and reeking, of course I am, wishing I could swallow myself in my own skin like a hedgehog.

“Hey, Malory,” he says.

“Garrett. Hi.” I want to take Daphne’s tiny towel and hide behind it. “Uh…this is my roommate, Daphne.”

He gives her a friendly nod. “Nice to meet you, Daphne.”

“Hi, Garrett.” She’s practically splitting her own face in half with her I-swallowed-a-canary grin. It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes at her. Or slap her.

Garrett looks at me. “I was going to message you. How about dinner at my place this Saturday?”

“Sure. Should I bring anything?” I’m still avoiding Daphne’s stupid grin.

“Just yourself.”

“Sure I don’t need special equipment? Sneakers? Skis? An alpaca?”

Garrett’s eyes are crinkling like he wants to laugh, but he lifts an eyebrow and gives me a mysterious look that completely excludes Daphne even though she’s standing only inches away. “You never can predict,” he says.

We watch him go, his back muscles flexing through his Under Armour T-shirt with each relaxed swing of his arms. Outside, a breeze rustles the treetops overhead—fall is trying hard to break through the heat. The coming days will still be warm, but a pleasant kind of warm, not so unbearable as before. Performing downtown will be significantly less sweaty.

On the way back to the dorm, Daphne nudges me. “Okay, so, I get it, about Garrett.”

“I know,” I say. “Magnetic as hell, isn’t he?”

“He’s good-looking, like, to an absurd degree. He looks…I dunno…carved.”

“Chiseled. Like art.” I’m embarrassed to put it that way, but it’s true. Garrett looks like he belongs in a museum.

“Totally. So…you say he took you for a walk—in the woods?”

“We swam with manatees.”

She laughs. “Now I understand your alpaca joke. That is weirdly romantic.”

I nod, but my heart is racing now, and I’m afraid to speak. I know I’m too caught up in my feelings for Garrett, that it’s too much, too fast for the few times I’ve seen him. But maybe I can’t help it—maybe it’s an involuntary indebtedness, a kind of instinctive response to having my jagged pieces sewn up so nicely in a single afternoon. But how can I explain that to Daphne? It barely even makes sense to me.

“Thanks for inviting me to that class today,” I say brightly. “Even though I kind of suck.”

“You kicked ass for your first time. I was impressed.”

“You’re like…a pro. Have you danced your whole life or something?”

“Dance and cheerleading, yeah. My sister and I did both since kindergarten. That silly class makes me feel like I’m connected to her. Is that dumb?”

“Not at all. I have songs I play on my cello that were my mom’s favorites…” I concentrate on the cracks in the sidewalk as they disappear beneath my feet. I haven’t told her about my mom. We walk in silence for a minute, then turn up the walk to the dorm.

“Well, anyway,” she says. “I’m glad you came. I miss you. You’re always studying or practicing.”

“Well, I am double majoring.” Together we climb the dorm steps.

“All the more reason to set aside a little time to come shake your ass with me for an hour. You deserve a break!”

Smiling, I shrug and pull out my key card. “You’re right. I’ll try to do better.”

I hold the door for Daphne, and in my peripheral vision I see Creepy Elevator Guy stretched out on a blanket on the lawn next to the dorm with an open textbook in front of him. As if he can feel me looking at him, he lifts his eyes from his book and stares right at me with bland recognition. It’s like, he sees me, and he sees that I see him, but we’re not going to acknowledge each other. I guess he’s finally given up. Fine by me. I look away and hurry through the door.

---

“Scales again…ugh, I want to play more than just scales. This is so embarrassing.” Bethany is cowering behind her cello as if she thinks I’ll morph into a monster and bite her head off.

“You trust Yarvik, right?”

She nods.

“Okay then. Play.”

She plays G melodic minor, three octaves, with long, connected half notes, adding vibrato to each note. The strings of the open baby grand piano ring in sympathy as she climbs down her fingerboard to the top of the scale, lingering on the highest note, then descends again.

“See,” I say, “you’re definitely doing better. The vibrato proves you’re capable of playing without shaking…before you know it, Yarvik’ll have you playing actual music.” I wink at her.

She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“Can I play my new Popper etude for you?”

“Of course, but I won’t be much help. You’re so amazing.”

“I’m really not.” I cringe. “I just practice a ton.”

“Oh, no, you’re good.” She gives me a wide-eyed, incredulous look. “How do you think you’re able to support yourself by playing in the street?”

I wave my hand like I’m shooing a gnat. “Oh, those people don’t know if I’m good or bad. They’re just out shopping and probably feel sorry for me or maybe think it’s cute that some kid is out trying to make money on the street.”

“Malory, do you seriously have no clue how good you are?” She pushes her cello forward and stares hard at me.

“I’m tenacious.” Tenacity is very good at masquerading as talent. “My cello teacher back home told me success is ten percent talent, ninety percent hard work. I practice more than everyone else. That’s really all it is.” I shrug.

She’s still looking at me skeptically. “Well, I suppose that practicing thing makes sense. But, for the record, I think you’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being realistic.”

She slaps her forehead and lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh my gosh, it’s like arguing with a skinny girl about whether or not she’s fat. Just play the darn Popper.”

I play the Popper. It’s a virtuosic finger twister that requires every ounce of concentration I have, and by the time I’ve finished, Bethany’s got her lips pursed and is shaking her head, eyeballing me like, “See?”

But all I see is this gorgeous instrument that isn’t really mine.