Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

“I was once in high school too. Kids can be horrible, so I can imagine what you’re going through.” Something in his eyes changes; it’s a small flicker, but I notice it. Sympathy, I want to say, but it feels like something different. “Especially with college applications coming up, I know how stressful it can be,” he finishes. I nod. “Juilliard is the only thing keeping me sane right now.” This piece is coming together—kind of. I think Terrell was right about the drums. The drums will definitely make it better, but then what if it’s still not good enough? I look up at Mr. Taylor, who is looking at me with a smile on his face. I’m not sure why. “You’re applying to Juilliard?” he asks. Which is so strange, because, obviously. He and I discussed it at length at the end of junior year. It’s all I’ve been working toward. I don’t feel like I can give an answer to that, I’m so confused. But I nod slowly. “Son—” A laugh jerks out of his mouth, then another, and then he’s full-on laughing. “I’m sorry—I just—seeing your face—I can’t keep this up,” he says between breaths, laughing like I told a really funny joke, slapping his knee with exaggeration, basically screaming. “Son, you’re not going to Juilliard.” He wipes his eyes and I feel something sink. What the fuck? I know it’s hard to get into and everything, but … Mr. Taylor doesn’t sound like Mr. Taylor right now. He’s the most optimistic person I know; he encourages all of us to do things we want to do—he’s encouraged me since I ...