Free Virtuosity by Jessica Martinez

fingers.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Assuming there’s only one way to do something, like eating pizza, and insisting everyone else do it your way.”
    Oh yeah, I did hate him.
    “That’s so British,” I countered.
    “What is?”
    “Making sweeping generalizations about Americans because that makes you feel better about having a national inferiority complex the size of the Atlantic Ocean. I was just trying to be helpful, but if folded pizza threatens your sense of patriotism, you probably shouldn’t do it.”
    He squinted at me. “Sheesh. American and crabby. Fine, I’ll fold the pizza.” He made a little ceremonyof folding it exactly down the center and taking a bite. “Mmm,” he said. “Now that is a tasty pocket of pizza goodness.”
    “I’ll ignore the sarcasm and accept that as a victory.”
    “Because everything is a contest?”
    I didn’t answer. Of course it was.
    The pizza had been my suggestion. Jeremy had requested authentic Chicago, so we’d hit Marco’s Italian, a hole-in-the-wall take-out window on Wabash around the corner from Symphony Center, and then headed across the street to Millennium Park. I was happy with the choice. There was something nice about the mix of dissimilar sensations—shivering on a cement bench, eating hot, salty pizza, and smelling lilac blossoms.
    I glanced over at Jeremy. His thick blond bangs covered his eyes, soaking up the yellow lamplight.
    “So you’re here by yourself until the Guarneri?” I asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Practicing. Sightseeing. Whatever.”
    I nodded. His voice still didn’t tell me whether he was happy with that or not. Again, I imagined myself in a strange city by myself for a few weeks, totally dependent on public transport, restaurants, hotel laundry.
    “Where are you staying?”
    “The Drake. Do you know it?”
    “Sure.” At least he wasn’t roughing it. The Drake Hotel was the only place the Glenns would stay when they were in Chicago, not that it was ever just to visit me. Traditional, expensive, uppity—the same words I could use to describe them, actually. It was old but elegant, sitting on the far north edge of the Magnificent Mile with views of Lake Michigan and the high-end fashion district. Jeremy was living the good life.
    “So, what am I looking at?” he asked. He gestured to the stone slab in front of us, engraved with a long list of names.
    “The park’s founders.”
    “Oprah Winfrey? Really? Bill and Hillary Clinton?”
    “Uh, yeah.” I put my slice down, half eaten. “My grandparents are up there too. Thomas and Dorothy Glenn. Second column.”
    “Wow,” he said, then glanced at me. “So you’re Chicago royalty.”
    “Not really. And they’re New Yorkers actually, but they donate to a few projects here in Chicago too.”
    “Like you.”
    “What?”
    “Like you.”
    “I heard you the first time,” I said. “I just didn’t understand what you meant by it.”
    “I thought I’d read they bought your Strad. Isn’t that true?”
    It was true, but it wasn’t any of his business, and I wasn’t sure where he’d read about it.
    “They did,” I said.
    “Lucky girl.”
    “That’s an interesting choice of words.”
    “Oh, right. Lucky woman. Sorry.”
    “No,” I said. “Lucky. There’s an implication there.”
    “As the one who was supposedly doing the implicating, should I know what you’re talking about?” He picked up the last slice of pizza— my half-eaten slice, the one I’d just put down—and took a bite.
    “I think you do. Lucky means undeserved.”
    “It doesn’t have to.” He stifled a grin. Apparently, he found my temper hilarious.
    “But it did when you said it,” I said. The realization that I was fighting an unwinnable argument made me mad. Mad enough to push him off the bench. Instead, I grabbed my piece of pizza out of his hand and chewed off an enormous bite. “And I wasn’t done with this.”
    He stared at me, eyes wide.
    I kept