His sneakers squeaked as he walked across the floor, sticking out in his slightly wrinkled button-up shirt and hand-me-down slacks. Kids floated by him dressed in clothes that looked brand-new, laughing in little groups, whispering behind manicured hands. Jaylen tried not to notice. He tried not to care.
"Hey," a voice called out.
Jaylen turned and found himself face-to-face with a boy who looked like he had just stepped out of a catalog: Colton Bishop—dark green polo, expensive watch, slick hair. He wasn't alone. Three other kids flanked him, including a boy named Brandon Fielding, whose dad happened to be one of the school's biggest donors.
"You lost or something?" Colton smirked.
Jaylen shifted awkwardly. "No, just looking around."
Colton's eyes narrowed, bouncing from Jaylen's scuffed shoes to the old backpack slung over his shoulder. Brandon leaned in and whispered something to Colton, making the group snicker.
Jaylen felt his cheeks burn. He turned away and walked toward the piano, hoping they'd leave him alone. He didn't come here to fight; he came here for the music.
The closer he got to the piano, the more everything else faded. It was so beautiful, it almost didn't seem real: deep black, polished to a mirror shine, its keys like rows of perfect teeth. He stretched his fingers out, just hovering above the keys. He wasn't thinking; his heart was doing all the work.
Gently, he pressed a note. Then another. The sound floated into the air, pure and clear. He didn't notice Colton and Brandon whispering behind him. He didn't notice a few adults glancing over. For a second, it was just him and the music.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"