Coach has enough sense to let him enjoy the gymnasium on his own after six chaperoned attempts and no sign of injury. He doesn't want one of the Miracle Kids on his conscience, but then who does? The town would lynch him and Adam's father would sic what vet buddies he has onto the rest of his family. It would be Shakespearean. It would be an outrage.
And it's blatantly impossible. Adam knows his body like some people know cars. Every piece, every muscle can be isolated, played alone or as part of a greater whole. Seeing others do it is all the encouragement Adam needs to excel. It's why he works his way through the parallel bars like a pro and why he doesn't stumble once as he back flips to safety and solid ground. There's no crowd to cheer him on. Maybe there should be.
He showers quickly, content to ignore the sweet-salty odors that persist in the locker rooms after all the boys have gone home. There's never anyone left when he finally tires of his tricks. Most of the school is empty and cold and eerie, drowned in blue-yellow light and the persistent twang of piano keys making up an unfamiliar melody. Classical music was never Adam's forte--in his house, the only song is the national anthem and variations on the theme of bullshit patriotism--but he follows it anyway, curious to see which of his peers prefers school to home.
It's not much of a mystery. Adam pauses in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his lips pressed together against the force of a smirk. Richie Rich has his skinny back turned and his attention distributed between window and piano. He looks very serious. Adam shoves the door open just a little further to break his focus, adding the dry squeak to the symphony. As entrances go, he's done worse.