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to go, you’ll learn everything there is to know about the lives of the composers. Who was in love with whom, who died of syphilis at age thirty-one, who had a morbid fear of the number thirteen . . .” Mr. Rossi hesitates, apparently noticing that I’ve checked out on this conversation. “You are a senior, right? That’s what it said on my class roster: ‘Beatrice Kim, senior.’ ”
    I nod.
    â€œSorry . . . I simply assumed . . . So you’re not applying to conservatory, then?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œIt’s just that I don’t run across people your age who can play the Schumann Fantasy like that. Or at all. You have ‘piano performance major’ written all over you.”
    â€œThanks. Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of . . . um . . .” Quick, make something up. “Pre-law.”
    â€œPre-law?”
    My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. It’s a text from Plum: I’m done. Where are you? Meet me out front.
    â€œI have to go,” I say, rising to my feet.
    Mr. Rossi glances at his watch. “Actually, so do I. I’m due at a meeting that starts—started—five minutes ago. It’s probably not good to keep Principal Oberdorfer waiting.”
    â€œSee you in class, then.”
    â€œYes. See you in class,” he replies. “Beatrice?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThe rest of the Schumann. Could I hear you play it sometime?” He sounds shy and hesitant, like he’s asking me out. My heart feels hot and fluttery.
    â€œI’m still working on it,” I murmur.
    â€œGood. I can offer you more unwanted advice, then.” He smiles, and I have no idea if he’s joking or not.
    I’d better start working extra hard on that last movement.

S EVEN
    â€œHave you ever been friends with a teacher?” I ask Plum.
    We are sitting on her bed getting ready to take the verbal section of a practice SAT test. A bowl of grapes, a plate of warm shortbread cookies, and two mugs of Earl Grey tea are on a tray between us. Plum’s phone is set to timer mode, and she has sharpened about a hundred pencils.
    â€œA teacher? Not really,” Plum replies as she reaches for her tea. “No, that’s not true! I was bored at my old school—Dad called it ‘underchallenged’—so he and Mom arranged for this college TA guy, Marcus, to tutor me privately. Marcus was supposed to make me read Finnegan’s Wake and stuff like that. But most of the time we’d just get Starbucks and talk about our favorite TV shows.”
    â€œSounds fun.”
    â€œIt was! Why are you asking? Wait, is this about Kit Harington?”
    I attempt a casual shrug. “I kind of hung out with him today, after school. Well, not hung out, exactly, but had a conversation with.”
    â€œI knew it!”
    â€œKnew what?”
    â€œYou like him,” Plum says with a sly smile.
    â€œSeriously, no. He may be cute, but he’s also old. And a teacher. He’s super smart about music, that’s all.”
    â€œIf you say so.” Plum picks up two identical pencils, compares them, and sets one down. “He’s technically a sub, right? He’s here because Mrs. Singh had her twins this summer.”
    Mrs. Singh. I have a vague memory of the old music history teacher who was also in charge of the student orchestra and several chamber groups. I can picture her at the spring concert, the curve of her ginormous belly barely camouflaged under a maternity outfit. “When is Mrs. Singh coming back?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I heard a rumor that she might not come back at all. So maybe your Mr. Rossi is going to be permanent?”
    â€œHe is not my Mr.—”
    â€œHey, I just had the best idea! You should ask him for a letter of recommendation. I bet he’d write you a really fantasticone, since you’re a musical genius.