Thomas listened to his son's playing again. The Chopin nocturne had missed notes and the Debussy sounded flat. This was unlike Johnny's usual interpretations. The critics had hailed him as a prodigy when he made his debut at age eight. Now, at only twelve, he had been accepted at Juilliard. Thomas had made the decision to move them to New York City, although he hated to leave the ranch near Tucson that had been his home for so many years.

Johnny came into the living room and collapsed in a high-backed wing chair. Thomas put down his book and said to his son,

“Johnny, is something wrong?”

“Dad, I told you my name is John, not Johnny. Johnny is some pimply fat kid that doesn't exist anymore. Why are you asking me if anything is wrong?”

“Your playing was, well, off. You have one last concert to give before we move to New York. I want you to come off well.”

“No, you want YOU to come off well. Did you ever think I get tired of practicing four hours every day, plus going to school?”

“Johnny—John—you told me since you were four you wanted to be a concert pianist.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I want to do normal things when I become a teenager like smoke a joint and get laid.”

“Johnny!”

“I told you my name is John.”

Thomas decided to try a different tactic.

“It'll be different at Juilliard; you'll see. You can live your life around music there.”

“Yeah, right, and all the hype I have to live up to. Youngest student ever to enter Juilliard...I'm sorry, Dad; sometimes I just feel like the world is going to crash around me. I can't be a child prodigy forever.”

Thomas knew the feeling. Well educated, he had chosen to be a writer, though he had been praised for his teaching skills. Now he could barely get a vote on one of those Internet site contests. There was still some family money to live on, but it would soon run out. Johnny didn't know this, but in a few years, he would be the primary breadwinner.

“Dad, I don't want to leave all my friends here.”

“John (thank God he remembered this time), there's no one special, is there?”

“No, of course not; when would I have time? Why did Mother always insist that if anyone could do something, I could do it, too? There are just things I am not good at, like gym.”

“John (he remembered again!), why don't you go to your room and just relax?”

“You mean forget about practicing, forget about homework?”

“Yes, just for tonight. Then we'll go to Charlie's together and have burgers.”

“Oh, that would be great, Daddy.”