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"
What
would
you
say
if
I
said
I
had
tickets
to
the
master
?
"
Adam
asked
me
,
a
glint
in
his
eyes
.
"
Shut
up
.
You
do
not
,
"
I
said
,
shoving
him
a
little
harder
than
I
’
d
meant
to
.
Adam
pretended
to
fall
against
the
glass
wall
.
Then
he
dusted
himself
off
.
"
I
do
.
At
the
Schnitzle
place
in
Portland
.
"
"
It
’
s
the
Arlene
Schnitzer
Hall
.
It
’
s
part
of
the
Symphony
.
"
"
That
’
s
the
place
.
I
got
tickets
.
A
pair
.
You
interested
?
"
"
Are
you
serious
?
Yes
!
I
was
dying
to
go
but
they
’
re
like
eighty
dollars
each
.
Wait
,
how
did
you
get
tickets
?
"
"
A
friend
of
the
family
gave
them
to
my
parents
,
but
they
can
’
t
go
.
It
’
s
no
big
thing
,
"
Adam
said
quickly
.
"
Anyhow
,
it
’
s
Friday
night
.
If
you
want
,
I
’
ll
pick
you
up
at
five
-
thirty
and
we
’
ll
drive
to
Portland
together
.
"
"
Okay
,
"
I
said
,
like
it
was
the
most
natural
thing
.
By
Friday
afternoon
,
though
,
I
was
more
jittery
than
when
I
’
d
inadvertently
drunk
a
whole
pot
of
Dad
’
s
tar
-
strong
coffee
while
studying
for
finals
last
winter
.
It
wasn
’
t
Adam
making
me
nervous
.
I
’
d
grown
comfortable
enough
around
him
by
now
.
