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able to tell me how far I am from Manhattan School of Music.”
    I’m still made of marble. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. North on Broadway to 122nd Street.”
    “Great. Thanks.” He’s got a nice smile. Straight brown hair. A good face. Doesn’t talk like he’s from New York. Of course, neither do I. Almost nobody here is actually from New York, not originally.
    Before he turns away, I want to ask him what he’s doing at Manhattan School. But I don’t, and he’s headed toward the door.
    I go back to my Yeats anthology, where I’m into this batch of poems that he published in 1899. The ones about this woman he loves are my favorites, and I keep coming back to a poem called “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.” Grandmother put an exclamation point in the margin, and I’ve added one of my own.
    Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, . . .
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
    I look up and I blink my way back to the coffee shop, because the boy with the trumpet is standing there again, still smiling. “I know this table is taken, but could I just sit a second and finish my drink?”
    I nod, and he moves my violin and sits across from me.
    I try to read, but I can tell he keeps looking at me. I can feel my face beginning to turn pink.
    Then he says, “You were at Tanglewood last summer, right?”
    I nod. “Yes.”
    “I knew I’d seen you before. I’ve got a good memory for faces. And other things. I’ve just got a plain old good memory.”
    I say, “Were you there for the orchestra session?”
    “Yeah, and the brass workshop too. It was a great summer.”
    I nod. “For me too. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. The violin program was really intense. I didn’t socialize much.” Which must make me sound like a total music geek. Which is pretty much true.
    My face still feels warm. I ask, “What are you doing at Manhattan School?”
    “Today? Nothing, just looking around. And maybe I can get into a practice room. They don’t like trumpet playing at my hotel. I’ve got an audition at Manhattan on Tuesday. And then one at Juilliard, and another at William Paterson over in New Jersey. Are you studying at Manhattan?”
    “No, I’m in high school, a senior. You too?” He nods, and I say, “But my teacher’s a professor at Manhattan. And I’ve got an audition coming up there too. After Juilliard.”
    He nods slowly. “Welcome to crunch time.”
    I nod back. “Exactly.”
    “I’m from Chicago,” he says. “How about you?”
    “I live two blocks from here. With my grandfather.”
    “Cool.”
    I don’t mention that I’m actually from West Virginia. On Friday, I’m a New Yorker. Cool.
    He takes a last noisy pull on the straw in his empty cup, puts it on the table, stands up, and says, “It was great to see a familiar face. Maybe I’ll see you at auditions. My name’s Robert. Good to meet you.” And he holds out his hand.
    I shake it and say, “I’m Gwen. Good to meet you too.”
    Still holding my hand he says, “I know you’re busy, with auditions and everything, but there’s a concert tonight at Lincoln Center. And there’s an extra ticket. Sorry I can’t invite your grandfather too, but do you want to come?”
    It’s a nice smile. Still, I shake my head. “I really have to practice tonight. But thanks.” And I smile back.
    His smile gets even nicer, and he shrugs. “No problem. Well, look, I’m at the Empire Hotel, right across from Lincoln Center. And if you change your mind, just call me. The room’s under my dad’s name, David Phillips. And I’ll be there till seven-thirty, okay?”
    He still has my hand. I nod. “Okay.”
    Except there’s no way I’m going to miss that much practice time. But I don’t let that thought show on my face. I probably look like I might actually say yes, like I might go to Lincoln Center on Friday night