Page 70 of The Golden Scoop

My head inches closer to the writing. Grant R, 15. Linden High.

“Hey! Isn’t that where you went to school?”

“It is,” he says. There’s something new in his voice. Personal. Maybe a little raw.

“Is that why you contribute to this specific organization? To better your roots?”

“Mostly.” He shrugs, but I can tell there’s more behind his words. A week ago, I would’ve pushed, but we’re not the same anymore.

“Sounds to me like yes dressed up as a deflection.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Have you ever been to a museum before? We’re supposed to be observing.”

“Occupational hazard,” I mutter, deciding to give him some leeway. “What happens to the paintings after this?”

“They go up for auction tonight. Profit made gets put into a college trust fund for the artist.”

“That can be… life-changing,” I whisper, beginning to understand why we’re here.

His eyes flick to mine, and for a second the noise around us fades into something distant. Something shifts. Again. We’re too aware of each other.

True to his word, he’s the first to look away.

“Come on,” he gestures toward the doors to the main hall. “Dinner will be served shortly.”

I’m following him around certain that I look like a lost puppy. It’s easy to pretend when it’s only him but sitting at a table full of strangers gives me the jitters.

Matt leans in slightly, coming to a pause at the threshold.

“Rule number one,” he murmurs near my ear. “Never look overwhelmed. Even if you are. Fake it ‘till you make it.”

“I’m not overwhelmed,” I whisper back, clearly lying.

“You’re blinking so much your eyelids are going to give out. It’s your tell.”

“How do you even know that?”

“We’ve played poker before.”

I huff. “Like one time. Thank you for letting me know never to play with you again.”

“Damn. I threw my deck of cards into my backpack in case strip poker came up.”

“You wish, Matthew.”

“You know I do.”

He moves us further inside, swallowed by clusters of people trying to find their assigned seats. There must be at least two hundred guests, yet everything is hushed. Laughter rises in soft bursts, polite and practiced. They’d be horrified if they heard me when I come across a funny video at home.

A waiter glides past us with a tray of champagne flutes, and Matt takes one, handing it to me before grabbing his own.

“Drink.”

“Is that another rule?”

“It’s survival if you want to make it through dinner.”

Matt makes it sound worse than it is. Our table is filled with four other couples. Three of them older, two in finance, the other pair run a real estate company. We make some small talk, mostly them asking me about my very mundane job. You know, the wonders of having a boss I have to answer to.