“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe?”
“I signed up. Mr. Lowe said I could.” He put his spoon down. “I don’t know if I’ll actually do it. I might chicken out.”
“What are you going to play?”
He looked at me. Then he looked away.
“You’ll see.”
I wanted to push. I wanted to say, please tell me, please let me be ready. But something in his face stopped me. He was holding himself very carefully, like a glass that was filled right to the top.
“Okay,” I said. “You’ll be great.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
He almost smiled. Then he picked up his bowl and put it in the sink, and grabbed the guitar case, and went out to the car.
The gym at Lincoln Middle School smelled like floor wax and coffee. They’d set out rows and rows of folding chairs, and there was a long table in the back with donuts and juice boxes. A banner hung over the stage, made by the sixth grade art class. HAPPY FATHER’S DAY in big, uneven letters, with handprints all around the edges.
