"You know, I can't wait for the day you fall in love or get a personality makeover or something." It's the sort of thing his mother might have said--that love can change people--but Adam barely remembers the sound of her voice, so he tries not to dwell on silly fantasies.
He catches sight of Myer's expectant glare once the other boy has finished playing. He wears a deep frown most days, but occasionally he can pull off a bored 'why are you keeping me waiting, don't you know who I am' sort of expression. But Adam does know who he is. It's because he knows who he is that he puts up with it, shoving lightly at a skinny shoulder and making room for himself on the narrow bench.
"Next time," he teases, "ask nicely." Perhaps if their heights were reversed, he'd be on the other end of that shove. Perhaps Myer, if he were to apply himself, could channel his own baser instincts into something far less intellectual and far more... Adam hesitates to call it useful, but there it is. He doesn't regret pushing people into lockers if it buys him and the others respect.
Mozart's first movements are the pinnacle of his every creation, the source of inspiration for entire symphonies. Adam doesn't know this, but he makes a good job of replicating Myer's sound. Their shoulders brush, his elbow occasionally knocks into Myer's, but for the most part, he leaves him be. The music is lifeless, but as correct as anything Myer could play. Adam doesn't think of notes or squiggly lines on pages he can't read. His hands know the score.
Two discordant notes later and curiosity gets the best of Adam. He doesn't need to look to make sure his hands find the right keys. It just happens. This means his gaze is free to roam. "So. If you're not hiding and your folks haven't misplaced you... were you waiting for someone? The Holy Ghost, perhaps?" Underlining the tease is a quiver of irrepressible concern.