It’s a rare Sunday gathering of the “Mock Debaters,” a loose affiliation of people who may or may not have been involved in mock trial or debate at our school.

Some, like me, are only honorary members. But the Mock Debaters are a welcoming crew. They take one, they take all, and don’t much care how you got there. Sean had been my ticket in, although Richard is a regular fixture there as well.

Sean is an active member of the debate team. Richard was involved in debate for about a minute and a half back in freshman year. People thought he would be good at debate because he likes arguing. But Richard doesn’t actually like arguing; he just doesn’t like it when other people are wrong. He also can’t represent a side he doesn’t agree with. Not ideal debate material.

When I get into Richard’s car, he squints at me and says, “You look more like a girl than usual.”

“I know. I smell like one too,” I say.

He shakes his head with a frown. “I don’t know why you bother. You are fine without all this.” He gestures up and down, indicating my carefully chosen outfit of a silky red brocade shirt and fitted jeans.

“Thanks, I think.” I’m actually surprised he noticed. Who am I kidding? Of course he noticed. I’m wearing something other than a loose T-shirt and jeans.

We walk right in when we get to Jane’s house. No one ever rings the bell. For whatever reason, there are not a lot of people there when we arrive. This means instead of there being twenty-some people, there are only a dozen, which doesn’t leave me with many places to hide from Sophie when she arrives.

There is a Sherlock marathon going on in the rec room. I love Benedict Cumberbatch, but I have a hard time rewatching mysteries when I already know what is going to happen. Richard, however, establishes a place for himself in the middle of the couch as usual, with ample snacks to last most of the night.

I run into Jane in the kitchen. “Hey, Tea. The Coke’s in the fridge.” This is the ritual greeting for these events.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say.

“Glad you could make it.” Her deep-brown skin is set off by a white button-down shirt with three-quarter length sleeves. I’m surprised by her new close-cropped hair. Last time I saw her, she had long box braids.

“Nice hair. New do?” I ask.

“Yeah. Time for a change.”

I look around the kitchen. “Anything I can do to help?”

“These things pretty much take care of themselves,” she says. She’s not wrong.

I spend some time wandering around in search of a good place to be. A few people are playing pool in the basement. I watch that for a while, but pool is not much of a spectator sport as far as I’m concerned. And I have no desire to play. I always imagine myself accidentally sliding the pool cue along the felt and creating a giant horrible scar while everyone gasps in horror.

Some people are playing cards, including Sean’s debate partner, Brian McKenzie, and his girlfriend, Stacie Chang. They wave me over to join them, but I’m not in the mood for cards. I’m not in the mood for anything, apparently.

When Sophie and Sean arrive twenty minutes later, I’m trapped in a deadly dull conversation with a sophomore who I don’t know all that well. She seems like a perfectly nice person, but I don’t have a lot to say about this K-pop group GRiD that she is obsessed with. I’ve never heard of them.

I notice right away when they arrive.

Sophie and Sean don’t make it much farther than the entryway before they are surrounded. Anyone new here is a novelty. Not that she’s new. She’s been here once or twice before, I think. But not often, so her arrival is still an event.

All eyes are on Sophie; how could anyone not look at her? This time her hair is down. I’m pretty sure it cascades down her back like that without needing any styling aids or even a brush. She smiles and says hello to everyone before she sees me, and then I realize she wasn’t actually smiling before, because what she flashes me is the real deal.

“The Coke’s in the fridge,” I say reflexively when she walks over.

“So I hear.” I was apparently not the first to greet her this way. “Do you know where I should put my coat?” she asks.

“Yeah. This way.”

Sophie follows me to the room I always think of as “the piano room,” although it’s probably called the sunroom or the conservatory or something. The room houses a beautiful old Steinway grand, which I occasionally sneak away to play, even though I can’t do so uninterrupted; it’s where people put their coats, after all.

It’s weird being alone in the room with her.

I sit down on the piano bench. I trace my fingers over the keys absently without making a sound. I play a random chord as I say, “I…uh… You probably want to get back to Sean.” Why the hell did I say that? I make some apologetic gesture with my hands. “I don’t mean that. I meant, that is, I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to leave?” she asks.

Do I want her to leave? Kind of.

I start to play the first notes of a Mozart sonata. It’s one of my favorites, even if my hands aren’t quite big enough for the chords in the final movement.

“Oh. Can I stay?” Sophie asks quietly.

I nod briefly before turning my full attention back to Mozart. This is one of my favorite pianos. The action of the keys is smooth, the pedals only need a light touch, and the sound is rich and full. I finish the Mozart and then start going through my current exam pieces, testing my memory.

Sophie is quiet. I finish the second piece—my baroque requirement—and wonder if I should stop playing and maybe try to be social.

“Don’t stop on my accord.” She answers my unasked question.

After the last chord fades away, I exhale slowly and lean back, stretching my arms and appreciating the stillness. Most of the pieces went pretty well, but there was one sticky spot in the Brahms where my fingers were overly heavy.

“Thank you,” Sophie says in her soft, musical voice.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I had forgotten she was there. Well, it’s not like I made her stay.

“Thanks for listening,” I say stiffly.

“Do you practice a lot? Or… I’m sorry, is that a stupid question?”

“Yeah. No, it’s not stupid, I mean. I kind of cheat. I play a little bit at home every day, and then I binge-practice on the weekends. I have the lock box code for a church where a friend of mine is the accompanist. They have a full-size walnut Kawai. They’re training me to be the replacement accompanist for next year so I have practice privileges. Not during church, obviously. And sometimes when Sean is at basketball or debate or whatever, I use the one at school.”

Why am I talking so much? Now that I’m not playing anymore, I am uncomfortably aware that I am alone with Sean’s girlfriend in this tiny, tiny room away from everyone else.

“There you are! I thought you’d left without me.” Sean comes in, and I jump.

“Nope. Just enjoying a private concert,” Sophie says with a smile.

Sean drags us both into the living room for a game of Pictionary. They never let me and Sean be on the same team for anything since we are wicked competitive, and they separate him from Sophie, too, figuring that it will be an unfair advantage as well. That means Sophie and I are on one team, and Sean is on the other.

Sophie can draw—really well, actually—but she doesn’t draw very fast, so Pictionary is really not her game. I’m a good guesser, though, so our team does okay anyway. When we win, she gives me a high five and shoots a very smug smile at Sean. My hand has pins and needles, even though it’s not like she hit it that hard.

After the game, I go in search of Richard to give myself a break from the Sophie-Sean duo. He’s not hard to find, still deeply involved in the Sherlock marathon. I sit on the ground in front of him and without saying anything he starts to massage my shoulders. This is not a thing with us—touching—so I’m a little taken aback.

I have to try not to moan inappropriately as he presses hard with the palm of his hand right between my shoulder blades. Then he pushes so hard on the top of my shoulders with his thumbs that tears spring to my eyes.

“Relax, damn it,” he says in an irritated voice.

When he lets up on the pressure, I whisper, “Holy crap!” My shoulders feel amazing. Richard audibly smirks and then proceeds to do some less intense work on my neck.

I have made a shocking discovery: Richard is some sort of genius in the art of massage. How unexpected. I should make this part of my daily routine. It would no doubt do wonders for my posture. And my mental health. Heck, I should adopt him.

I don’t spot Sophie on our way out. She and Sean likely left earlier. Good. That means no awkward farewells. Although, it hadn’t been terrible, being in the same place with her.

I have survived two encounters with Sophie.

Sean was right. I kind of like her.