I stayed with Chris for most of the week after school. The band director declared that he learns a new solo for the band concert, and he came to me almost in tears. Not being as proficient as the rest of us, I sympathized and decided to help. His strength on the instrument grew by leaps and bounds as we practiced, mainly due to my tricks and insider knowledge that I accumulated over the years. Then the day came that he was to play his piece before the band director: after wishing him good luck, he goes in and performs. 10 minutes later, he bursts out, floating on a cloud, and screams to me,

“Dude! He went insane over how well I played that solo! I told him I worked on it by myself all this time and he was really impressed.” With an air of arrogance, Chris shows me a new piece of music, the star part in our next song (the one I wanted to play), which is harder than Chinese algebra. The sheet is heavy with complex rhythms, lengthy melodies, and odd times; I know he can’t do this by himself. He looks at me expectantly, as though to suggest another study session for the music. I sigh, and then reply to him,

“Yea, you did work really hard. Better get going on that part, it looks pretty hard.” Walking away, my feet drag like cement blocks as he gapes at me, still expecting me to help.