hours and hours. So while other kids were occupied with Little League or Nintendo, Sam Border, now
known as Sam Smith, became proficient enough to play any song he heard on the radio and any song he heard in his head.
He didn’t break a sweat playing school-yard kick ball, but he broke a sweat slamming the strings.
And now, in the basement of the Bell house, he shut his eyes and he let himself go.
When Sam stopped playing, a full nine minutes later, Debbie Bell was leaning against the far wall, immobilised.
Emily was now sitting in a chair next to her father, who was trying as hard as he could to hide the fact that the tears in his eyes were in danger of spilling down his cheeks.
For eighteen years, Tim Bell had taught advanced music classes at Baine College. He was now, at the age of forty-four, the head of the music department.
And he’d never had a student as talented as the kid sitting on his sofa.
Tim Bell drove him home.
Or to what he thought was his home.
Sam didn’t lie, but he asked to be dropped at the kerb four blocks from where he actually lived.
Tim Bell tried to give Sam his mountain bike, which was in the garage and something he never used, but Sam explained he’d never learned to ride a bike. Jared thought that was a bigger deal
than the way Sam played guitar.
Now Sam sat with Emily in the back seat with Jared up front while Tim showed him the bus route and how to catch the number four bus over on Hilyard and how it would end up only two blocks from
where the Bells lived.
Neither of Emily’s parents wanted him walking an hour each way just to see their daughter. Not any more.
Debbie Bell kept an extra cell phone in the glove box of her car, always charged, for emergencies. She worked, after all, in a hospital, and she knew firsthand the crazy things that happened to
people. She went out and retrieved the extra phone and before Tim took Sam home, Debbie gave it to him.
She didn’t like the idea of him not being reachable. Emily tried not to laugh, and Debbie mistook this for simple enthusiasm.
In the driveway, when Sam took Emily’s hand, he slipped her old phone back to her. And the world no longer felt against them.
Everything changed after Sam played her father’s guitar.
Her mom and dad went from the Haters to the Supporters. That night, after they dropped him off, Emily stood in the hallway behind the closed kitchen door and listened to her parents talk. Her
dad’s voice was fast-paced and excited.
‘He’s a complete natural. An original. An innovator. He’s got finger speed like a young Jimi Hendrix. He’s got blues technique like Ry Cooder. He’s some kind of
prodigy!’
Emily could picture her mother’s head bobbing up and down, because she was enthusiastically agreeing. ‘He’s a real musician . . .’
Her father jumped back in, ‘No, he’s more than that. I don’t know how Emily found this kid. I don’t know where he came from. But he’s going places!’
Her mother’s voice now sounded as if she were trying to calm him down. ‘Well, right now he’s just a kid. He’s —’
But her father interrupted. ‘I want him at the music department at Baine! He’s homeschooled, so he’d just need to take the GED. He’ll have no trouble passing and then
—’
Now it was her mother who was interrupting. ‘Tim, you’re getting ahead of yourself. You have to find out if Sam’s even interested. And homeschooled kids usually have parents
with strong opinions about their education. You’ll need to speak to his father. You’ll —’
But Tim Bell would hear none of it. He had a vision for Sam Smith’s musical future.
Emily walked away from the door.
Her father had big plans for her boyfriend. Maybe being a Supporter was going to cause more problems than being a Hater.
Riddle, more than anyone, understood change. And so he knew that Sam was changing before Sam did.
Riddle was outside staring at a line of ants moving into a small hole in the claylike,
known as Sam Smith, became proficient enough to play any song he heard on the radio and any song he heard in his head.
He didn’t break a sweat playing school-yard kick ball, but he broke a sweat slamming the strings.
And now, in the basement of the Bell house, he shut his eyes and he let himself go.
When Sam stopped playing, a full nine minutes later, Debbie Bell was leaning against the far wall, immobilised.
Emily was now sitting in a chair next to her father, who was trying as hard as he could to hide the fact that the tears in his eyes were in danger of spilling down his cheeks.
For eighteen years, Tim Bell had taught advanced music classes at Baine College. He was now, at the age of forty-four, the head of the music department.
And he’d never had a student as talented as the kid sitting on his sofa.
Tim Bell drove him home.
Or to what he thought was his home.
Sam didn’t lie, but he asked to be dropped at the kerb four blocks from where he actually lived.
Tim Bell tried to give Sam his mountain bike, which was in the garage and something he never used, but Sam explained he’d never learned to ride a bike. Jared thought that was a bigger deal
than the way Sam played guitar.
Now Sam sat with Emily in the back seat with Jared up front while Tim showed him the bus route and how to catch the number four bus over on Hilyard and how it would end up only two blocks from
where the Bells lived.
Neither of Emily’s parents wanted him walking an hour each way just to see their daughter. Not any more.
Debbie Bell kept an extra cell phone in the glove box of her car, always charged, for emergencies. She worked, after all, in a hospital, and she knew firsthand the crazy things that happened to
people. She went out and retrieved the extra phone and before Tim took Sam home, Debbie gave it to him.
She didn’t like the idea of him not being reachable. Emily tried not to laugh, and Debbie mistook this for simple enthusiasm.
In the driveway, when Sam took Emily’s hand, he slipped her old phone back to her. And the world no longer felt against them.
Everything changed after Sam played her father’s guitar.
Her mom and dad went from the Haters to the Supporters. That night, after they dropped him off, Emily stood in the hallway behind the closed kitchen door and listened to her parents talk. Her
dad’s voice was fast-paced and excited.
‘He’s a complete natural. An original. An innovator. He’s got finger speed like a young Jimi Hendrix. He’s got blues technique like Ry Cooder. He’s some kind of
prodigy!’
Emily could picture her mother’s head bobbing up and down, because she was enthusiastically agreeing. ‘He’s a real musician . . .’
Her father jumped back in, ‘No, he’s more than that. I don’t know how Emily found this kid. I don’t know where he came from. But he’s going places!’
Her mother’s voice now sounded as if she were trying to calm him down. ‘Well, right now he’s just a kid. He’s —’
But her father interrupted. ‘I want him at the music department at Baine! He’s homeschooled, so he’d just need to take the GED. He’ll have no trouble passing and then
—’
Now it was her mother who was interrupting. ‘Tim, you’re getting ahead of yourself. You have to find out if Sam’s even interested. And homeschooled kids usually have parents
with strong opinions about their education. You’ll need to speak to his father. You’ll —’
But Tim Bell would hear none of it. He had a vision for Sam Smith’s musical future.
Emily walked away from the door.
Her father had big plans for her boyfriend. Maybe being a Supporter was going to cause more problems than being a Hater.
Riddle, more than anyone, understood change. And so he knew that Sam was changing before Sam did.
Riddle was outside staring at a line of ants moving into a small hole in the claylike,
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