"Because it felt sad."
"Sad is a headline," she said. "Give me the article underneath."
Jack frowned at the keys. "Because the left hand is telling the truth the right hand doesn't want to say yet."
Ms. Blake nodded once. "Better. Now play it so I can read the article without you narrating."
He practiced between lessons in the student rooms, which required sign-up sheets and sometimes patience while wealthier classmates treated the schedule as a suggestion. Once, a boy named Pierce—tall, confident, always smelling faintly of expensive cologne—arrived during Jack's reserved hour and said, with a smile that was almost friendly, "I didn't think anyone actually used the Tuesday slot. Thought it was decorative."
Jack looked at him. "It's not."
Pierce raised his hands. "Relax. Joke." He lingered in the doorway. "You're the scholarship kid from the lobby story. People still talk about Harrison almost throwing you out."
"He didn't throw me out."