Ethan Wong, an ex-prodigy violinist, thinks it's not meant to be.
After his latest mental breakdown at his last violin competition, where he placed tenth out of ten contestants, he's not sure why his music professor appointed him the soloist for th...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
We ate in relative silence. Or as silent as a college athlete obsessed over pizza could be. On the other hand, I was a silent eater, mildly amused at how Cameron made a mess. While not the greasiest pizzas I've seen him devour, the pepperoni had curled into perfect oil troughs, splashing onto his cheeks as he ate.
This was precisely why I had gone for a hot dog; less messy and relatively easy to eat—except there had been more toppings than I anticipated. Not to mention, I wouldn't have to worry about the oil upsetting my stomach later. Performing with nerves, existential dread, and an upset stomach was not something I wanted to experience tomorrow.
Cameron scarfed the pizza down, only slowing down with the crust. It reminded me of the late-night drives we used to go on, scarfing down McDonald's French fries and McChickens at midnight after a game or performance. It wasn't like we had a curfew on non-school nights, but we'd shovel the food down like a starved person so we could just sit and chat in the parking lot. Most of those nights ended in a kiss under the strobing street lamps.
Part of the hot dog's relish and onions fell onto the foil, startling me back to the present. Why did those memories have to resurface?
"Your advisor seems fun," he broke the ice. "On the younger side? Alan, was it?"
"Mid-thirties, and yeah."
He nodded, taking a sip of his water. "He's pretty easy-going. He let you room with me, even though I could have been lying about the whole high school bit. That, and let you go out for food without a chaperone."
"It's not like we're in high school," I reminded him. "Besides, I haven't seen your advisor or coach around."
He shrugged. "You're right. Coach Barnes probably has meetings with the other team and press before the game. Apparently, he played with the rivaling coach back in college, so reporters are probably eating it up right now since it's the championship game."
"Championships?"
Cameron smiled. "Yup. Last major game of the season, and for most of the team, the last at Yale. Last chance for any of us to get scouted professionally. Our pitcher and catcher are already getting offers."
I still had no clue how that worked, even when scouts would come to our high school games with clipboards. Cameron had tried to explain it to me before, but it seemed strange and different than our auditions. Who's to say any of those members truly wanted to play after college or high school? "And you?"
"Me?" He tilted his head.
"Scouted or whatever."
"Oh," he said. "I haven't, actually."
I resisted the urge to say anything. Cameron had been a star athlete in high school; his skills and records were what got him into Yale in the first place. But, there was no telling whether he had kept that streak all throughout college, even if the news of him being Mr. Hotshot had spread to my school.
