The Palace Thief by Ethan Canin

me.”
    “Doesn’t matter.”
    “You didn’t really understand that stuff, William.”
    “Yes, I did.” I moved another step. “Okay,” I said, “you’re right. I didn’t. I pretended I did. I don’t like thinking about that stuff.”
    “What stuff?”
    “Equations. The things Clive thinks about.”
    She was silent for a moment. “Did you lie about anything else?”
    “Like what?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Like, that you’re pretty, you mean?”
    “Yeah.”
    I felt to the side for the wall. “No way,” I said, “not about that.”
    Now there was no sound, and I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. “How am I doing?” I said, stepping forward again.
    “You’re getting warmer.”
    “You’re under the table, aren’t you?”
    “Nope. Colder, genius. Good, warmer.”
    “You’re up on the shelves.”
    She giggled. “What
do
you like thinking about, William?”
    “You must be around the
S
’s.”
    “Warmer. Hot.”
    I slid toward the wall in the dark, my hands out in front of me. When I reached the shelves, I felt for their crosspiece and held on to it, listening to her quiet breaths, just above me and to the left, like a panther in a tree. Then I said, “I like thinking about
you
, Sandra.”
    There was a flurry of motion, the hop of her soft landing onto the carpet, and then, from behind me, the creak of the door.
    When I found her she was sitting with Clive and our parents, waiting for the other contestants to finish. Her knee rested against his. Clive was telling them that at the Cuyahoga County championships, which were going to be held in two weeks, there would be an audience, and it would be given the problems as well.
    “We’ll come watch,” I said, looking at Sandra.
    “William can look for mistakes,” she said.
    “The Counties won’t be anything,” said Clive. “It’s the States I’m worried about. Sheshevsky will be at the States.”
    “Who’s Sheshevsky?” asked our mother.
    “He’s some smart kid,” said Clive, “that’s all.”
    “His father’s a physics professor,” I said. “He’s supposed to be a genius.”
    “That makes two of you,” said Sandra.
    “Three,” said our mother.
    Clive looked around. “Sheshevsky’ll be trouble,” he said, “but I won’t see him till the States.”
    “Assuming
you
get there,” said our father.
    Our mother and Sandra laughed. So did Clive, and finally, so did I.
    “Assuming,” said Clive.
    The next day when I came home from school, Eric Clapton was playing on the living room speakers, and I heard Clive say, “And now, folks, catch this.” He was sitting with our father on the couch, and Mr. and Mrs. Cubano were on the two stuffed chairs. Clive’s eyes were closed and he was leaning back into the corner of the cushions nodding his head, while our father satforward at the edge of the pillows, nodding too. The song ended and Clive got up to pause the tape machine. “I’m turning the old folks on to Clapton,” he said.
    “It’s not bad,” said Mr. Cubano. “It’s innovative.”
    Clive smiled at him. “You crack me up, Mr. Cubano.”
    “It’s not bad,” said our father. “The harmonies are standard, but the melody’s innovative.”
    “It’s just me teaching you what
I
know, Dad.”
    “I guess that’s right, young man. I guess that’s right.” Our father winked at Clive. “I have to admit,” he said, “you do seem to know a thing or two.” The Cubanos nodded. “Now,” our father said, turning to me, “why don’t we all try the next number. William, come sit next to me. Rose!” he called into the kitchen, “Rose, come hear this.” He closed his eyes, and I sat down next to him.
    I moved as close as I could. “Dad,” I whispered then, “my report card is coming tomorrow.”
    Without opening his eyes, he whispered back, “It came
today
, sailor.”
    Our mother appeared and Clive started the tape. We sat through “Bell Bottom Blues” and “Layla,” our father nodding every now