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"I've got to admit, he scared me." Chandler said. "I couldn't imagine who or what he was, jumping out into the drive like that."

"Let's not talk about it anymore." I begged.

"Okay," he said, eagerly agreeing.

At the piz

za restaurant, we talked about some of the other students at school, our classes, and Mr. Wengrow, Chandler's theory was that because he had no children, he put fatherly concern into us and saw himself as a surrogate father, giving us guidance.

"Sometimes, I feel like he cares more about me than my own father," Chandler admitted. "I mean, my dad wants me to succeed and all, but he doesn't have the same interest in my music or faith in what I can do with it. He's always talking to me about becoming a lawyer or going to medical school, as if nothing else has any reason to be. I get the distinct feeling he's paying for my lessons just to humor me, almost like putting up with a nuisance,"

"What about your mother?" I asked.

"She usually goes along with anything he says. She's busy at being busy."

"What's that mean?" I asked. smiling.

"She makes work for herself. No one appreciates the fax machine as much as my mother. She lives off the papers that all the organizations, volunteers and people send her and then she spends hours filing, organizing meaningless things. She's content as long as her name is on every possible list of patrons and committee lists. whether she actually does anything for the cause or not.

"It's like she lives in a castle built out of cards, or invitations to charity functions, I should say. She's turned it into her own cottage industry."

He sounded so bitter about it. "You're upset about all that?"

He stared at his piece of pizza for a moment and then shook his head.

"Sometimes. I wish I was a charity instead of a son. I'd get more attention. What about your parents? Do they care about your music?"

I told him about Uncle Peter and how Daddy had become more and more committed to my playing.

"They should let you go to a good school then," he said. "I hope Mr. Wengrow can convince them. You have something, Honey. You can be someone."

"So can you," I said quickly.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Why maybe?"

"I don't have as much passion as you do. I'm good, technically very good, I know, but there's one other thing that makes the difference, and you have it," he said, his eyes fixed on my face. "I envy you for that."

"You've got it, too." I insisted. He smiled.

"Maybe if I keep hanging around with you, it will nib off or I'll catch it, like a cold," he said. "Of course, we have to get closer and closer before that might happen," "That's okay with me."

We stared at each other. I felt my heart beg-in to pound, the warm glow rise from just under my breasts, up my neck, and into my face.

"We can go to a different movie tonight," he said. "What do you mean?"

"My parents are out for the evening. I have a great DVD collection. You ever see a DVD movie?"

"I don't even know what it is."

"You've got to see it," he said excitedly. "I have about fifty movies. You can choose any one you want. You'll think you're in the movie theater. Okay?"

He waved to the waitress for our check.

I felt as though I had stepped into the ocean and was being pulled out to sea with the outgoing tide. There was no way to resist. It was best to simply relax and go along,

Chandler's house was a large. stone-wall-clad Tudor with a circular driveway set on a grand track of prime land just outside our small city. From the welltrimmed hedges and bushes to the immaculate sidewalk and rich dark oak front doors, his house looked elegant enough to be the home of a governor. I was awed by the size of the entryway, the marble floors, and elaborate chandeliers. All of the furniture looked brand-new and expensive.