Free Ambitious by Monica McKayhan Page B

a seat in the back. Hidden by the darkness of the theater, I watched as students rehearsed lines for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. At that moment, I knew that I belonged there.
    “I have to audition for that school,” I told Preston, my best friend since fourth grade.
    Although we attended separate schools, Preston and I grew up together. Our fathers had been good friends and associates for a long time. I’d spent many weekends at Preston’s mansion in New Jersey, where I’d learned horseback riding and how to play a round of golf. We ate lunch by ourselves at his father’s country club when we were merely ten years old. When we were both twelve, Preston’s father sent us to a real Knicks game in the family’s Bentley. Although his nanny tagged along as our chaperone, we still had a great time.
    Preston was an exceptional violinist. His love for music started when we were small boys. He’d taken private lessons and learned how to play classical music. However, when he visited our Manhattan apartment, he brought his violin and spent the evening mimicking the sounds and rhythms that he heard on the BET music videos. I didn’t live in a mansion, but at our house, Preston was able to relax and be free. He didn’t have to worry about the pressures of being rich. At my house we ate chicken nuggets, drank red Kool-Aid and watched ESPN and MTV. In my room, he slept in the top bunk and threw kernels of popcorn at me from above. He loved my house, and I loved his. Unlike him, I thought it was cool being rich. Although my father was somewhat wealthy, we didn’t live as Preston’s family did. Preston enjoyed the simple life that I had. Sometimes I wished we could switch places—if only for a week.
    Preston wanted to attend Premiere High—a place where he could be free with his violin and play the type of music that he enjoyed, instead of the stuffy classical music that he learned during his private lessons. However, his father would never allow him to attend a school like Premiere. Breckinridge Academy was where his father attended high school; his grandfather and his great-grandfather also went there. His choices were slim. I often joked that Preston’s father was such a busy man, he would never know if Preston were to transfer to another school. He would laugh and then throw a pillow at me.
    “Shut up, Bishop,” he’d say.
    “No, seriously. How often do you see your dad anyway…once a week…once a month?”
    “He travels a lot,” Preston would say, “but he left his spies in charge. Well, one spy…the nanny, Sydney.”
    “She’s cute,” I would tease. “I could keep her distracted for you.”
    “You’re a dreamer.” He called me that all the time.
     
    I stepped out of Delilah, grabbed my book bag from the backseat and hit the power locks. As I strolled through the parking lot, I heard the screech of tires burning rubber through the parking garage. Preston whipped his white sports car around the corner, almost running me down. He rolled the window down and gave me a wide grin.
    “What’s up, man?” he asked.
    “Why you driving through my parking garage like a maniac?” I asked.
    “I’m having a great day, my friend!” he exclaimed.
    “What makes it so great?”
    Instead of answering, he rolled his window up, whipped into an available parking space, stepped out of the car and raced toward me.
    “We’re going to a basketball game tonight,” he announced.
    “What game?”
    “Breckinridge Academy meets…guess who…?”
    “Who?”
    “Your old high school!” he exclaimed.
    “Are you kidding? That can’t be. Private schools don’t play public schools. They’re in a totally different league.”
    “Your old coach got together with our coach and put together a scrimmage.”
    “Really?” I asked.
    “Really,” he said. “Now, I would suggest you go throw that old book bag in your room. Put on some nicer clothes. Something not so corny.” He laughed.
    I looked down at my argyle