Page 2 of These Secret Years

I’ll give the RA some credit. It’s obvious he didn’t use AI to write this.

Deandre switches from pushups to mountain climbers. Those do cause him to breathe heavier, but he’s still able to talk. “You don’t know anyone here, right?”

I lie down on my bed. Watching him is exhausting. Setting the flyer aside and reaching for my violin, I rest the neck on my pillow and stare at the strings close-up, running my fingertip gently across the bridge. “No, but classes haven’t even started yet.”

“What’s that?”

“I said classes don’t start until tomorrow.”

“Right, well, now you can maybe meet some people who might be in them.”

It’s nice of him to show concern about my social life, but I’m more concerned about finding my way around the huge campus. I’m concerned about college algebra and long multiple choice tests. While my “scholarship” isn’t exactly contingent on my GPA, I could easily flunk out. I want this chance, but school has never come easily to me. Not the way music does.

In the space beneath the taut strings on the new violin, a melody forms in small rectangles. It’s classic at first—rectangles usually are—and then come harsher bursts, like stars. Something strange and discordant takes shape. It emerges in a pattern I watch as my gaze jumps between depths and distances along the fingerboard. I hear it as well as if it were being played aloud. A rough strike flattens the space, a stop breaks, and then, a long, high harmonic cuts straight through my breastbone. I release a puff of a breath.

I could write it down for practice, but I don’t need to write it to remember it. I already know exactly what comes next, too. This, maybe, is also a form of insanity. The kind only one person in my life has ever claimed to understand.

I blink away thoughts of him and turn my back on the violin—his gift to me “until next time.”

“Let’s talk about what you’re gonna wear,” Deandre says.

I glance down at my joggers and the old high school orchestra shirt I have on. “I have to dress up, too?”

“What does look sharp mean to you?”

“What does it mean to you?” I throw back.

“Ordinarily, it’d mean a suit, but for an UNO championship in a dorm lounge, I’m gonna go with jeans and a clean shirt.”

I’ve seen his wardrobe. It’s better than mine by miles. Name brand and designer everything down to his socks. I have one suit from a mall in Grand Rapids, but nearly everything else in my closet is from thrift stores. Not that I haven’t found some good stuff, but nothing I’d call sharp. Adrian keeps my nice clothes at his house because he bought them all.

“I have pants and clean shirts, too.” My stomach is attempting to consume itself. I could go get food, but it’d take effort I don’t feel like spending. Free snacks at the mandatory UNO tournament are only a couple of hours away, and since I have to be there anyway, I tell myself I can wait.

“There’s these two twins—they share a room down the hall—Dillon and Derek—huge dudes. You’ll like them.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re likable.”

“Because they’re huge twins?” I ask.

“Nah, they’re funny.”

“Are they identical?”

“Of course.”

“They’re on the football team?”

“O-line.”

I don’t know what that means.

“The red shirt quarterback lives on this hall too. Haven’t gotten a read on him yet. He’s either quiet or an asshole. I can’t tell, but that’s why this UNO shit is good.” Deandre blows out a breath, drops to his knees, and sits back on his heels. He’s covered in a glossy sheen of sweat, making his dark skin look polished like smoky quartz. He shakes some of the displaced twists from his eyes. Most of them are chin-length but the ones framing his face hit around mid-cheekbone.

His brown eyes gleam with a hint of mischief that always seems to be there no matter what he’s talking about. He’s also always smiling, or his mouth has a natural smile to it. The opposite of a resting bitch face. He’s good vibes personified. I’m guessing he’s one of those people who has the ability to have fun wherever he goes by virtue of the fact that he’s there.

“Red shirt quarterback?”