Chapter Text
Schroeder sat in front of his piano, staring at the instrument without touching it. He got no comfort from it anymore, not like he used to. No phrase he played or scale he drilled could take his mind off dinner at Lucy's, or the fact that he would inevitably have to explain the gas station when her parents asked about him.
He wondered if Lucy had already told them, perhaps in some vain effort to protect him. The image of her explaining that college and his father were sensitive subjects only made the pit in his stomach deepen.
“Schroeder?”
His mother's voice spared him from his thoughts, if only for a moment.
“Lucy van Pelt is on the phone for you!”
“Coming!” His mind was already racing as he hurried toward the hallway. Was she calling to tell him she'd cancelled? Did she need to tell him something important before dinner?
“Hello?” His hand clutched the cold plastic receiver a little too tightly.
“Schroeder? Did I leave my yellow notebook at your house? I really need it.”
The boy released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It wasn't about the dinner. He glanced back into the sitting room. The yellow notebook was sitting right on top of it. He hadn't even noticed it, despite having spent the better part of an hour staring directly at the instrument.
“Oh, yeah. It's on the piano.”
“Can you drive it to me on campus? I mean, I get it if you can't, but I really need it today. I'll pay for the gas.”
Schroeder laughed at how frantic she sounded. “I get free gas, Lucy. My dad owns a gas station.”
“Right... so?”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
The University of Minnesota at Pinetree was exactly what Schroeder imagined a college would look like.
The quad wasn’t particularly large, perfectly ordinary for a state school. The buildings were all named after dead men he was certain none of the students had ever heard of. A group of jocks tossed a football across the grass, their varsity jackets making the scene feel almost painfully stereotypical.
He hated how familiar it all looked. More than that, he hated how badly he wanted it. Schroeder couldn’t help the jealousy that settled in his chest as he walked across the quad. He knew it was wrong. These students hadn’t taken anything from him. They hadn’t rejected his Juilliard scholarship. They hadn’t decided that his family couldn’t afford tuition. They were simply here, going to college, living the life he’d once assumed would be his.
He tried to suppress it. He tried to tell himself that he had a job, a family, a place to live. He tried to be grateful for what he had. Lately, that was becoming harder.
Juilliard was nothing like this. He knew that much without ever having seen it. New York. Concert halls. Practice rooms. Professors who actually understood what he could do. He’d spent nights staring at the brochures he’d received, imagining himself there until the pictures began to feel more real than his own life.
Anything felt better than the gas station.
The library wasn’t difficult to find. Lucy had told him they were in the first room on the right on the second floor.
As he approached, he could see through the room’s glass wall. Lucy sat at the far end of a long table, her books spread out in front of her. Beside her was a blonde girl Schroeder had never seen before.
And beside her… A boy with short brown hair. Schroeder slowed. Was that… He searched his memory. Roy. That was it. Roy from the fair.
He stopped just outside the door for a moment, then pushed it open. “Hey.” Lucy, sitting with her back to the door, turned around. She’d been saying something about Socrates drinking hemlock, though Schroeder had only caught the last few words.
“Schroeder!” She practically jumped to her feet. Before he could even hand her the notebook, she threw her arms around his neck. “You’re a lifesaver!”
Schroeder nearly dropped the notebook. “Don’t mention it,” he mumbled, more taken aback than he wanted to be.
The blonde girl smiled. “That’s really nice of your boyfriend, coming all this way for a little notebook.”
Schroeder froze. Whatever correction he’d been about to make caught in his throat.
Lucy, meanwhile, burst out laughing. He couldn’t tell whether she found the suggestion that they were dating funny or his reaction to it funnier.
“We’re not dating,” they both said at exactly the same time.
Turning back to him, Lucy brushed off the comment as though it were nothing, as though Schroeder hadn’t spent the last several seconds thinking about it far more than he wanted to.
“We’re still on for dinner with my parents tonight, right?”
The boy nodded. “Yeah.”
“Great. Um…” She paused. “I took the bus here because Linus needed my car for something, so could you stay here for another half hour? Then we’ll just drive to my house from here.”
“Sure.” Truthfully, Schroeder didn’t mind. It was a convenient excuse to stay away from home for a little longer.
“You can sit here and listen to Socrates get put to death,” Lucy said, gathering her books, “or I think there’s a record player and tons of old vinyls on this floor.”
“It’s not personal. I just hate Socrates.”
“You’re a true Athenian.” Lucy giggled, flashing him a smile.
For some reason, Schroeder’s heart gave a sudden, uncomfortable thump. He turned and walked away before anyone could notice.
As much as he felt like a little kid being sent away by his mother while the adults did something important, he didn’t care. Not when he found the record collection. He loved sorting through crates of dusty records more than almost anything. He ran his fingers along the worn spines, pulling out albums one by one until he found a recording of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5. He slipped the record onto the player and settled the old, clunky headphones over his ears. They looked as though they hadn’t been cleaned in years.
Time passed faster than he’d expected.
He hummed quietly along with the recording, occasionally lifting the headphones to inspect another album. He found several he wished he could smuggle out of the library, though he knew better than to try.
“Schroeder.”
He looked up.
Lucy stood at the end of the aisle. From the way she was looking at him, she’d probably been there for a while.
“When’d you get here?” The boy asked asked, letting the headphones fall around his neck.
“Three minutes aaand…” She checked her watch. “Forty-eight seconds ago.”
“I didn’t hear you.” He gave her a sheepish smile.
“Clearly.” she said. “C’mon, I’m starving.”
Schroeder followed her out of the library without a complaint. He didn’t dare mention the other girl’s comment.
It was crazy, right?
Lucy’s house was big, the kind of big that made Schroeder’s stomach flip as he pulled up alongside the curb. Not because he was jealous, exactly, but because it was daunting. He felt like he was going somewhere he didn’t belong. The walls were a perfect white, as if they had been freshly painted, and even the grass was perfectly cut. No weeds pushed up through the cracks in the pavement like they did along the walkway at his house.
He stared at his shoes as they walked toward the front door, trying to think about anything except why his heart was beating so fast.
“Mom, Dad! We’re here!” Lucy called before Schroeder had quite realized he was through the door.
“Schroeder, oh, it’s been so long.” Her mother poked her head in from the kitchen, still just as soft-spoken as he remembered.
“Hello, Mrs. van Pelt. Thank you for having me over.”
“It’s no problem, sweetie.”
“Schroeder!” Mr. van Pelt called, the total opposite of his quiet wife, as he emerged from his study. “How are you, son?”
He gave the boy a firm handshake and a clap on the shoulder.
“Good, thanks.”
“How’s that father of yours?”
“Uh, good. Yeah. He still runs the store and all.” Schroeder felt his shoulders tense.
“Lucy tells me you still play the piano?”
The boy nodded.
“Why don’t you play for us? We’ve got one no one ever touches.” Mr. van Pelt was already heading toward the sitting room, as though he’d already received a yes.
There, Schroeder found a much nicer piano than his own, sitting against the wall and being used as little more than a glorified table for a vase and a few family photographs.
“Dad,” Lucy whined, embarrassed. “I’m sure he has to warm up first. It’s all I ever hear him do.”
Schroeder scoffed halfheartedly, though it came out closer to a laugh.
“That’s fine. We can hear him do that, too.”
The blonde sat at the piano, his fingers resting lightly against the keys. He looked down at his feet, caught in that familiar moment of indecision all musicians knew when they were asked to play.
Then his fingers found the first notes of something of his own. It was a relatively new piece, one he hadn’t finished, or really even begun. There were only fragments of it, little pieces of an idea that had been floating around in his head for the past few weeks. He let his hands follow where the idea led them, hesitant in some places and more certain in others.
When he stopped, the room was quiet for a moment.
“I haven’t heard that one,” Lucy said, with a quiet kind of reverence.
“Yeah, it’s just practice stuff…” He kept his eyes on the keys.
“Well, maybe after supper you can show us what your performance stuff looks like,” Mr. van Pelt said, already headed toward the dining room.
The table was covered with enough food to feed twice as many people as were sitting around it. There was roast beef in the center, still steaming beneath its platter cover, surrounded by mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, buttered carrots, dinner rolls, and several other side dishes Schroeder couldn’t immediately identify. His mother would have considered half of it enough for a Sunday supper, and even then she probably would have apologized for not having more.
“This is an awful lot,” Schroeder said, looking over the table.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mrs. van Pelt said with a smile as she passed him the potatoes. “We had plenty.”
He nodded, still somewhat uncomfortable with the abundance of it all, and served himself a modest portion.
Mr. van Pelt waited until everyone had begun eating before returning to the subject that had interested him most. “So, Schroeder, how often do you play?”
The boy looked up from his plate. “Every day, mostly.”
“Every day?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. van Pelt nodded appreciatively. “That’s a lot of practice.”
Schroeder shrugged. “I guess.”
“Do you still do concerts?”
The question caught him off guard. “No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I work at the store.”
There was a small pause. “The gas station?”
“Yeah.”
Mr. van Pelt nodded slowly, as though trying to fit the answer together with what he had seen in the sitting room. “Well, that’s a shame. You ought to play for people.”
Schroeder lowered his eyes toward his plate. It was such a simple thing to say. There was no great revelation in it, no speech about his future or some grand declaration that music was the most important thing in the world. Yet Schroeder found himself strangely unable to answer.
His father never asked how often he played. Usually, he only asked when he was going to stop.
“I haven’t really had much opportunity,” Schroeder said.
“Well, talent like yours shouldn’t sit in a living room.”
The boy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not sure it’s really that good.”
Lucy glanced at him from across the table but said nothing. Her father only smiled, apparently unconvinced.
“You’re too young to be so modest.”
Schroeder pushed a piece of roast beef around his plate with his fork. He didn’t know what to do with praise when it was given so plainly. It seemed easier to accept criticism. Criticism had rules. Praise could mean anything.
At the other end of the table, Linus had been eating quietly, occasionally glancing toward the conversation without saying anything. He was older now, though Schroeder still recognized the same thoughtful expression he had carried as a boy.
“So,” Mr. van Pelt said, turning toward Linus, “have you heard from Charlie lately?”
Linus swallowed and nodded.
“Got another letter yesterday.”
Schroeder looked up. “How is he?”
“Fine, I guess.” Linus wiped his mouth with his napkin. “He says basic training is pretty miserable.”
Lucy laughed softly. “I think he expected it to be miserable.”
“He says the sergeants yell at everybody all day.”
“That sounds about right,” Schroeder said.
Linus smiled faintly. “He said one of them threw his blanket on the floor because he folded it wrong.”
“That sounds like Charlie.”
The table shared a small laugh.
Schroeder couldn’t help smiling himself. For a moment he could almost picture him, the same round-headed kid he had known since childhood, standing awkwardly in some barracks with a blanket in his hands and absolutely no idea what he had done wrong.
“Does he still talk about cutting everybody’s hair?” Schroeder asked.
“Constantly,” Linus said. “He says he’s getting pretty good at it.”
“Good enough to take over his dad’s shop?”
“He says so.”
Lucy leaned back in her chair. “Knowing Charlie, he’ll probably come home with half the Army looking like him.”
Schroeder laughed under his breath.
The conversation drifted for a while between Charlie’s letters, basic training, and the small details he had managed to send home. Nothing particularly important, yet somehow those details seemed important now. They were proof that Charlie was still Charlie beneath the uniform, still complaining about things that didn’t matter and making jokes whenever he could.
Schroeder listened quietly, his fork resting against the edge of his plate. For the first time that evening, he didn’t feel like a guest.
The smallest shift in expression was enough for Schroeder to notice it. A glance between Lucy and her father, so brief he might have imagined it, followed by a quiet understanding that seemed to pass between them.
“Schroeder,” the older man said, his tone more serious than before. “Lucy tells me you want to go to Juilliard.”
The boy nodded.
“But there were some financial issues regarding a scholarship?”
Schroeder nodded again. He didn’t trust himself to speak with the lump forming in his throat.
“I’ve heard you play at every school musical since kindergarten, son. You’re a talent.” Mr. van Pelt paused. “I’d like to offer you the money to cover your tuition.”
Schroeder sat perfectly still. His eyes shifted toward Lucy. She gave him a nervous little smile. This was her idea.
“I… sir, thank you, but…”
“It would be like a loan. No interest. You can pay it back in time after you graduate.”
For a moment, all Schroeder could see was his father’s face. That look of disappointment. The cold silence that followed whenever music came up. The unspoken certainty that playing the piano was something Schroeder could afford to do only after he’d finished the work that actually mattered.
“Sir, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“Nonsense. You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
Schroeder’s throat tightened. His eyes began to burn. This was everything he’d wanted. That was what made it impossible. “No. I can’t accept your money.” He stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. “Thank you for the meal, Mrs. van Pelt. It was wonderful.” He said it too quickly. Before anyone could answer, he was already moving toward the door.
The family watched him go. No one stopped him at first. Mr. van Pelt seemed to understand, even if he didn’t agree with the reasoning that had made the boy refuse.
Lucy, on the other hand, understood none of it. She pushed back her chair and followed Schroeder out of the house.
By the time Lucy reached the porch, Schroeder was already standing beside the car with one hand on the open door. He had his other hand wrapped tightly around the edge of the roof, as though he needed something to hold onto. The porch light fell across Lucy’s face when she stepped outside. Her dark hair caught the light around the edges, and her expression was nothing like the one she’d had at dinner. She looked hurt, but not angry. Not yet.
“Schroeder.”
He looked at her but said nothing.
She stopped at the top of the steps. “Why?” The word seemed to hang between them.
Schroeder looked away. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
He shook his head. “No, Lucy. I can’t take your father’s money.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
She came down one step. “This is everything you’ve wanted since I met you again. You want Juilliard. You practice every day. You talk about it constantly. And now somebody is actually giving you the chance to go, and you’re just walking away.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then what is it?”
Schroeder stared at the pavement. “I don’t deserve it.”
Lucy stared at him. “What?”
“I don’t deserve your father’s money.”
“You don’t deserve an education?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He finally looked at her.
“I said I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve your charity.”
Lucy stepped down onto the last stair. “You’re not taking charity, it’s a loan.”
“I heard him.”
“He isn’t giving you anything. He’s offering to help you.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is to me.”
She stood there for a moment, almost pleading now. “Schroeder, please.”
He hated the way she said his name. Not because he disliked hearing it. Because she sounded like she actually cared what happened to him.
“Feltons don’t take handouts, Lucy.”
Her face hardened. “God.” She looked away, shaking her head. “You sound just like him.”
Schroeder’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”
“You do.”
“Lucy.”
“You’re scared.”
He said nothing.
“You’re scared of what your father will think. You’re scared he’ll look at you differently if you take the money. You’re scared he’ll think you couldn’t do it yourself. So instead you’re going to stay here, work at that gas station, save money you don’t have, and tell yourself you’re doing the honorable thing.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re settling.”
Something in him snapped. “Don’t tell me I’m settling.”
Lucy stopped.
Schroeder’s voice had gone quiet. “Don’t.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m making my own decision.”
“Are you?”
He looked at her. “Yes.”
“Or are you making the decision your father already made for you?”
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Lucy looked at him, surprised. “At least don't pretend you're not.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you so angry?”
“Because you keep acting like I’m some helpless kid who needs your family to rescue me.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“That isn’t what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to help you!”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“No. You just sit there every day and talk about Juilliard like it’s already dead!”
He stared at her.
Lucy’s voice was shaking now, though neither of them had noticed when it started.
“You think I don’t see it?” she said. “You think I don’t see what happens every time you talk about it? You act like somebody took it away from you, and you’re just going to stand there and let them.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t!” His voice cracked across the quiet street.
Lucy went still.
Schroeder breathed heavily, looking down at the ground. “I can’t take his money,” he said, quieter now. “I can’t go to Juilliard because some rich man decided he felt sorry for me. I can’t go home and tell my father that Lucy Van Pelt’s father is paying for my life because I wasn’t good enough to pay for it myself.”
“He doesn’t get to decide that.”
“He does.”
“No, Schroeder. He doesn’t.”
“You don’t know him.”
“No. But I know you.”
He looked at her.
“And I know you’re letting him decide what your life is worth.”
The words landed harder than she intended. Schroeder’s expression changed. For a moment, he looked almost wounded. Then the anger came back. “That’s rich.”
Lucy frowned. “What?”
“You telling me about settling.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, you did.”
“Schroeder.”
“Why are you here?”
She stared at him. “What?”
“Why are you here? At Pine Tree?” He stepped away from the car. “You were second in our class. You had one of the highest GPAs in the school. Student council president. Debate captain. You could’ve gone anywhere.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You could’ve gone to Yale.”
“I didn’t apply to Yale.”
“You could’ve gone somewhere.”
“I wanted to stay close to home.”
“Bullshit.”
Lucy recoiled. He had never spoken to her like that. “Don’t.”
“You’re telling me not to settle.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You’re at a state school twenty minutes from home. You could have gone across the country. You could have gone to Harvard or Princeton or Yale or any of those places you used to talk about.”
“Stop.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Schroeder, stop.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer.
“Why, Lucy?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“No. You don’t.” He shook his head. “But you don’t get to stand there and tell me that I’m throwing my life away when you won’t even tell me why you threw away yours.”
“I didn’t throw away anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to be here!”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to stay!”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t go!”
The words came out before she could stop them.
Silence.
Schroeder stared at her. Lucy looked down, breathing unevenly. He understood then that there was something underneath all of it. Something he had been too self-absorbed to see. But he was too angry to stop.
“So you did settle.”
Her face crumpled.
Schroeder immediately wished he could take the words back.
Lucy looked at him as though he had struck her. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know—”
“No. You don’t.” She wiped at her eyes angrily.
He looked at her, but there was nothing left to say. He got into the car.
“Schroeder.”
The boy stopped with his hand on the door.
She stood beneath the porch light, looking smaller than she had a moment before. “I wasn’t trying to save you.”
He didn’t turn around.
“I just didn’t want you to give up.”
The door closed.
Lucy stood there as the engine started.
Schroeder looked through the windshield at the dark road ahead. He could still hear her.
I just didn’t want you to give up.
He put the car into gear. He didn’t go home. Not yet. He drove past the edge of town and kept going, down roads with no streetlights, the headlights cutting through the darkness in front of him.
For the first time since he’d met Lucy again, he wished she would stop trying to understand him.
Because she had come closer than anyone ever had.