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you play cello right-handed?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Isn’t it hard?”

      He looked up from his writing. “I don’t know any differently. I play all my instruments right-handed.”

      “What else do you play?”

      “Anything with strings.”

      “Violin?”

      “Yep.”

      “Are you a prodigy on violin like you are on cello?”

      “Why? You want to exchange violin for French lessons?”

      “No, Chris. I think I’m hopeless.”

      He studied at my face. “Violin’s a hard instrument.”

      “You’re diplomatic. What else do you play?”

      “Viola, bass, mandolin, guitar. I started guitar when I was about twelve. Picked it up like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But then my mother died and I was taken into custody by an old-fashioned aunt. She thought electric guitar was a very rude invention. I was instructed to find a more suitable instrument. You want to do Tuesdays and Thursdays here?”

      “It really would be more convenient. Are you still in contact with your aunt?”

      “Nope. She died two years after my mom.” He looked up. “Natural causes, Terry. She was in her sixties.”

      “I didn’t say anything.”

      “You had a look on your face.”

      “Just because a sixty-year-old woman seems old to be your aunt.”

      “Yeah, she was old and old-fashioned.” He flipped his hair back again. “But she wasn’t without her good points. She fancied herself a real classy lady. I was a punk when I went to live with her. She reinvented my life. Sent me to private school, taught me about music and art. She even gave me diction lessons. I useda towk like a real Noo Yowkeh.”

      I smiled. “You should have given your accent to Blake Adonetti.”

      That got a laugh out of him. Encouragement. I was on a roll. I said, “Yeah, Blake’s trying very hard to be the resident street guy. Someone should tell him that street guys don’t drive Porsches, they don’t have neurosurgeons for fathers, and they don’t live in ten-thousand-square-foot houses. They also don’t mousse their hair.”

      He said, “How do you know Blake?”

      “I tutored him for a couple of months—chemistry. His dad harbors hope that Blake’ll be a doctor.”

      Chris said, “You tutored him, you tutored Bull.”

      “Yeah, also Trish and Lisa for a while. I went through most of your group—”

      “They’re not my group.”

      His vehemence took me by surprise. I looked away. “Sorry I pigeon-holed you. It’s just that our class is so large, one is more or less defined by one’s clique.”

      He said nothing.

      I kept blathering on. “I mean everybody has to hang out with someone. Being a B.M.O.C. is infinitely better than being president of the nerd squad, the honored post occupied by yours truly.”

      He was still stone-faced. I gave up. “I’ll need your backpack … to see what classes you’re taking.”

      He dropped his knapsack to the floor. “Funny how we see ourselves. Guys I know don’t find you nerdy. Matter of fact, they think you’re very pretty. Just a little … frosty. But that’s okay. It’s good to be picky.”

      I felt myself go hot. He told me he’d see me tomorrow. I nodded, keeping my eyes on my shoes. I knew he’d left when I heard the screen door slap shut.

      3

      In school, Chris stayed with his crowd, I stayed with mine. I’d have liked to talk to him, but one never crosses party lines unless invited to do so. And Chris didn’t hand me the scepter. So I looked on from afar, seeing him laugh with the beautiful people, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs. A righteous-looking troop—both girls and guys being lean and lovely—typecast for a syndicated TV school serial. I guess I would have played the odd girl out. Because that was what I was.

      The dismissal bell rang and he made it to my locker before I did. He waited as I rearranged my books, then carried my backpack as we walked to his car. I reminded him that we didn’t have to pick up Melissa today. She went to gym with a friend whose mother drove them both. Jean did the pickup.

      By six in the evening, I was expected to have finished the laundry, set the table, and prepared dinner. Afterward, Jean would load the tableware in the dishwasher. Unless, of course, she and my father had plans for that evening. Or Jean had a date at the health spa. In that case, my stepmother assigned cleanup to Melissa. Which meant she assigned it to me. When Jean yelled at me, I shined her on. But I hated it when Jean yelled at Melissa.

      As talkative as Chris was yesterday, he was quiet as we rode to my house. Last night, I had gone through his backpack, scanned his textbooks, and flipped through his spotty notes. He wasn’t much of a student, but he was a great artist. His sketches seemed to be a cross between Matisse and Picasso. Just a few well-placed lines and there was an image. Amazing to me because I couldn’t draw a straight line.

      I also discovered that he smoked and believed in safe sex, judging from the loose packets of condoms. He might be a practicing Catholic, but he was practicing other things as well.

      As soon as we settled in, I made coffee. Sipping java, we went through his subjects one by one. He was way behind in his classes, and it took me some time just to find out his level. Once I did, we started with Geometry. My gift was numbers. I’d already completed advanced-placement calculus for seniors, and was doing studying on my own. His level of math was a cakewalk for me.

      Chris wasn’t a terrible student. His attention tended to wander, so we took frequent breaks, but at least he was methodical. After two hours, he thanked me, paid me, and left.

      The next evening I drove to his apartment. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect what I saw. His unit was on the top floor of a four-story building. He had a balcony that looked out on a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Valley. It was something out of an uptown movie set.

      In actual size, the place was compact. The living area was a small open pocket separated from the kitchen by a bar-top counter. Under the counter were two high leather stools. The place had white carpeting and was furnished with a five-foot black leather sofa, a glass coffee table, and one skinny-looking modern red chair. The walls held two large, abstract canvases—one was minimalist, the other was covered in color. In another world, I might have asked about them. But I wasn’t here in that capacity. I came to do a job.

      As he put up coffee, he gave me spare details of his life. He had moved out to Los Angeles a year and a half ago. Initially, his guardian had helped him financially. But now his work was enough to support him. He was completely independent, having turned eighteen around six months ago.

      We studied at the countertop, sitting on stools. He asked me if he could smoke while we worked. I told him yes and thanked him for his consideration. He not only smoked, he also drank. Not much, just a couple of shots of Scotch over a two-hour period, but it bothered me. I didn’t like it, but it was his house. I was only hired help.

      The next week went smoothly. He was always on time and always respectful. I would have liked more, but it was obvious he didn’t. That might have been painful, but rejection was nothing new to me.

      A couple of times, I somehow got sidetracked, found myself telling him my dreams. I wanted to be a doctor, do top-notch research. I wanted independence and respect. He was a good listener. He’d missed his calling as a shrink.

      After a few weeks of tutoring, he called

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