oscar wasn’t himself up there.
His movements were forceful, jerky, a tiny bit sluggish. The orchestra looked out of sorts and the newly anointed symphony choir like they’d been dropped into a war zone. Their sixteen voices didn’t float over the woodwinds like echoes from the past. They were performing a completely different song.
Oscar lowered his baton, slumping. “Have you guys . . . rehearsed this?”
The choir mistress, Liz, a contralto who used to run the children’s chorus at the Met, stood from the front row.
“We have,” she said, polite, tightly coiled. “What you’ve given us. There are twenty new bars we’re working through tonight—”
“I’m writing as fast as I can,” Oscar yelled, and everybody stopped breathing.
Oscar never snapped. Oscar laughed, teased, encouraged. This voice was a new one. It seemed to shock even him. He stood at the podium, muscles locked tight.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Right. I apologize.”
But he didn’t budge. Didn’t lift his baton. Stared at his score while the orchestra shifted and coughed.
I started to rise from my seat as Dad shot from the wings. I hadn’t realized he was here tonight.
Dad placed a hand on Oscar’s back and murmured in his ear. Oscar nodded, motioning feebly for Dad to take the baton.
A ripple ran through the musicians. Martin Chertok—the Martin Chertok, the Once and Future Maestro—was taking the podium once again, lifting his hands like feathers, drifting, settling, until everyone’s instrument was at the ready.
Oscar walked down the aisle, then stopped to turn back, listening.
They’d begun at the start of the andante con fuoco. The choir was better this time—the tenors too loud, but that was easily adjusted. At least their voices made sense in the context of the piece. They were approaching something ineffably lovely, dawn rising slowly over a cityscape . . .
Oscar turned from the stage and started away.
I jumped from my seat, my arms a roadblock.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Hey!”
It took a second for his eyes to land on mine. “It’s so off. I need to toss it out, start something—”
“It’s not off,” I whispered urgently, willing his voice quieter too. “I promise, it’s not. This is the first time they’re rehearsing it.”
“It’s not what I have in my head. What we have when we’re working.”
He reached out to run his finger over my cheek, pulling away a stray eyelash.
“Well, then, I shall sing tonight.” I raised my chin like a prima donna.
“You always sing.”
“No, here.” I nudged him. “I’ll sit in. I can be a ringer.”
Me, a ringer, helping all these pre-professional opera students achieve a better performance. Hilarious.
But Oscar had turned toward the stage, taking my wrist, leading me straight to the choir seats.
“Wait wait wait, no no no.” I dug in my heels to stop. “I was one million percent joking! I forgot to say ‘get it,’ but I’m saying it now! Oscar!”
“Do you mind?” He turned to lock eyes with me. “It’s a good idea.”
“I mean.” My heart ratcheted to express-train speed. But, oh God, would this really help him . . . ?
Dad had finished rehearsing that section—concluding a few bars after the brass section picked up the Latin theme—and as he waved for everyone to pause, the orchestra broke into applause. I glanced between Oscar and Dad, not sure which they were cheering, but Oscar was whispering in Liz’s ear, motioning to me. She looked perplexed, obviously, but waved for me to join them.
The choir scrambled for another chair.
I waved them off. “Floor is absolutely fine!”
I sat cross-legged next to the sopranos. The girl next to me scooted her ankles away. Yeppers. I closed my eyes. This would be over soon.
Oscar mounted the steps, patted Dad on the shoulder, and took the baton back. Dad clapped for Oscar, the orchestra following suit—less rapturously this time.
But then Oscar raised his hands, murmured, “From the beginning,” scanned the orchestra, found me on the floor, and smiled with such gratitude that his eyes crinkled.
Then he struck the downbeat and the orchestra began to play. Four bars till the choir and . . .
It was fine. Not as scary as I’d expected. I knew the soprano line, when to come in. And I reveled in the feeling of the orchestration—everything we’d imagined taking form now, bursting joyfully into the real world. Sitting up here, physically immersed in the music, sound swirled around me the way it had that day in the Cloisters. It seemed to reverberate inside my body, my nerve endings, down to the molecular level. Was this the God thing Oscar was talking about? Dad’s “ineffable”? If not this, then what?
He continued past the point where the chorus ran out, but his eyes kept dancing back to me every few bars, life returning note by note.
As we finished up, I scanned the house and noticed fewer onlookers tonight, thank goodness. But I did see a flash of red hair as Nora Visser slid out the back door, glancing back one more time. Right at me.
“That was helpful,” Oscar said as we waved good-bye to the musicians and made our way through the night-lit plaza. “Having you up there . . . yeah. Thank you.”
“It really helped?”
“It did,” he said, with a sideways grin. “You’re my cannon blast.”
Our arms swung together in counter-time to our steps.
Across the plaza, a camera flashed. I pulled Oscar so his back was turned. Was Nora seriously going to keep siccing paparazzi on us? Oscar looked behind him, and only then did I realize it was a group of tourists taking a selfie by the fountain.
I linked arms with him, pretending that I was being playful, that I was not, in fact, the most conceited person in the world.
“I know this is important.” Oscar motioned behind him as we left Lincoln Center. “This is part of why I’m here, but I wish I could get this piece finished first. You know? Every second I’m working with the orchestra, I feel like I’m wasting time.”
“Why don’t you ask Dad? I’m sure—”
“He said this is a good introduction to the way things work in the professional world with commissioned pieces. So.” Oscar pulled at his face. “Yeah, I have to make it work.”
I felt my own frustration rising. “But this isn’t commissioned. It’s yours.”
“Is it?”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I grabbed his arm. “Of course it is. And you’re a student, you’re seventeen, this is—”
“I have to do what they ask me to do. It’s cool.” He swiped his face, like he was trying to get rid of the last remnants of whatever had come over him back at Lilly Hall. “Will you sit with me tonight? While I work?”
“Of course.”
I sat on his bed. He wrote on the floor, filled a page, tossed it, started again, murmuring to himself. He didn’t ask my opinion, and I couldn’t give one. This wasn’t the moment for it. So I kept vigil. And at some point I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the room was dark, one corner illuminated by a roving beam. It took my eyes a second to adjust before I saw Oscar holding a tiny flashlight in his mouth, scribbling so fast, his fingers blurred. He would stop—head tilted like he was hearing a ghost—then nod in recognition and compose.
I grabbed my phone to check the time. 11:36 p.m. The sudden glow made him startle, dropping his flashlight. He laughed, holding his chest.
I sat up. “Why are the lights off?”
“I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so sweet.”
I smiled, rousing myself to pop on the lights for him again. But it nagged at me now, not hearing what he was hearing. Not understanding what compelled him to stay up and get something down—how someone could come up with that something in the first place.
He was someone who heard music singing to him in the night, who stayed up, who answered its call.
I was someone who fell asleep watching.
When I got back from the next morning’s run and waved good-bye to Jules, Nora was waiting on my stoop playing with her cell phone, a giant Birkin bag dangling off one arm. She gasped when she saw me, like I’d vaporized from nowhere.
“Hi.” I pulled my keys from my pouch, still winded, but managed an elbow wave.
“You’re a runner!” She stood surveying me. “Hidden depths! Are you doing the marathon?”
“No.” I laughed. “I’m new to this. And it’s just for fun.”
“Fun! Ha! I do it because I pay someone a lot of money to scream at me until it’s finished. And because . . .” She motioned to herself. “This does not want to stay like this. But you’re a sylph, my God. Anyway, good for you.”
I started to unlock the door, discomfort creeping back. “Dad’s up at campus already, I think.”
“I know.” She stepped into the house behind me.
“Oh.” I turned.
“I was hoping to catch up with you.” Nora trotted in her heels to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and popped a coffee pod into the Keurig.
“Want one?” she asked. “Ooh, Arabica, I love that word . . .”
I smiled at her rolled r. “I’m good.”
Leaning against the wall, I frantically rehearsed a resignation letter. Thank you so much for all you’ve done for me, but after careful consideration, I’ve decided to take a semi-permanent hiatus from social engagements, no matter how important the cause . . .
“So I had to tell you,” Nora started as the coffee poured. “I was at Oscar’s rehearsal the other day.”
“I saw you,” I admitted, stiffening even more. Was she here to dig for dirt on Oscar’s stress management? If so, what could I tell her? Should I bring up the “wardrobe change” or was it not my place?
Nothing. I would say nothing.
She retrieved her cup and sat peering at me, chin resting on her fist. “Ruby, I was stunned by your singing.”
I blinked, thrown. “Oh. I—whoa.”
“I had no idea you were a singer. All this time, this talent you’ve got and you’ve hidden it away! Is it something you’re planning to pursue?”
“Um . . .” I drew a dizzy breath. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it a lot of consideration.”
“Well, you should.” She squeezed my hand, smiling with pride. Like I was her child. “You Chertoks never cease to amaze me.”
Emotion swelled in me, so strong, I could hardly speak, cathedral chimes in my chest. You Chertoks.
“I know that you’ve been trying to keep away from Amberley, to create a life that’s yours . . .” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And I know we haven’t made it easy for you, at any point. We put you on a poster, for Christ’s sake! ‘I Am Music’! No pressure at all, right?”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. She gets it, she does.
“But a gift is a gift, Ruby. It would be a sin to ignore it. I’m sure you’ve started this process with your dad, but in case you haven’t . . .” She picked up her bag with a guilty smile. “I hope you will forgive your dear godmother for overstepping a little here?”
Her tiny hand disappeared into the Birkin bag and emerged with a huge stack of brochures. She dropped them on the oak table with a thunk, stood, and started riffling through. Dizzy, I took in the names on the covers: Bucknell, Manhattan School of Music, Peabody Institute, San Francisco Conservatory . . .
“Okay, so these are all excellent vocal programs,” she murmured, passing them to me for inspection. “This one is really coming up. Their showcase last year was astonishing . . .”
I sat next to her, flipping through them, some part of me still not understanding.
“Auditions are mainly in February, so you’ve got some time to prepare,” she said, flipping through the Peabody brochure. “Take lessons, get a repertoire together. And would you be interested in joining Oscar’s symphony as a member of the choir?”
It took me a second to respond. “I’m . . . not an Amberley student.”
“Well, it would just be for Oscar’s piece, but you’d still get to put it on your college applications, which I think would be helpful.”
She got to the last brochure in the pile and passed it to me, almost shyly. Amberley.
“Couldn’t resist. I hope you’ll at least consider us?”
She reached out for my hand.
“I . . .” There were no words. All gone, poof.
She squeezed and let go. “So I hope you don’t mind too much, but I’ve already spoken with Liz about the choir bit. You remember Liz Trombly?”
I nodded.
“She thinks it’s a fantastic idea.” Nora crouched to pull out an embossed memo pad and a mini ballpoint pen. She scribbled a room number and the words Wed/Fri 10–11:45 onto one page, turned it over, and slid it across the table like a job offer.
“I’ve got to scoot, and I’m so sorry for bombarding you like this, but I couldn’t in good conscience let this pass.” She flopped to one side. “It’s kind of what I do. So why don’t you start by trying a rehearsal or two and . . . see if you like it?” She rose, tapping her fingers cheerfully on the table. “Could be the start of something.”
I waved, mute, as she left the house, too stunned to do much more than stare at the pile of college brochures she’d collected for me.
The start. Of something.