behind me, I heard Amberley students arguing over which way to tilt the bed through our basement door—the city din, the slam of the back of a delivery truck, a distant jackhammer, none of it enough to drown out the sound of my piano—until I reached the stoop two buildings down, where a blond girl in running gear was tying her sneaker, screaming into her cell phone.
“That’s how you want to do this? Really? I don’t know, you could be supportive?”
For the first time, I glanced back. Not because Julie Russo was yelling. Because she was wearing running gear.
Her eyes drifted to mine. She blinked slowly, a challenge, just as Dad stepped back onto the street behind me, shaking hands with the Amberley kids—all those brilliant musicians hauling dorm furniture, what a travesty—and I had to walk faster.
I could go to the courtyard. God knew it was quiet. But I didn’t want to pollute it with how I felt right now.
Central Park swayed across the street, a border to cross. I sprinted through the crosswalk as the light stopped flashing, then past a watercolorist’s easel, a pretzel stand, a busker playing the flute, “Danse de la Chèvre,” so clear, I could practically feel ice crunching on grass, wind surging down—
I kept going until I couldn’t hear the flute anymore. Just bikes ticking along the path behind me. Ducks squabbling on the lake. My wool cardigan, hot. Itchy.
I found a bench and sat, watching the world spin on.
Was this the plan? No, it was not.
Dad was supposed to be doing his “in residence” thing, presiding over the Amberley School of Music’s prestigious teen summer program, preparing the upcoming Met season, being the human mascot for Lincoln Center. I was supposed to cover the pianos in our living room with tasteful dust sheets, enjoy the silence, smother every mope, hide from prying questions, take the opportunity to . . .
To . . .
No idea.
When I reached the shadow-dappled edge of the park again, the honk-clamor-shriek of Central Park West splashed me like a puddle. I checked my phone for the time.
4:07. Still a few hours left in the day to accomplish . . . something?
A taxi stopped a few feet ahead and a petite forty-something stepped out, sunglasses sliding low as if to avoid detection. The sun reflected off a high-rise window like an arrow onto her copper bob.
“Nora?” My step slowed. She didn’t hear me.
Nora Visser, Amberley’s board chair. Family friend since before forever. My godmother. Not a musical genius—she just had this weird gift for living. She could trip over a curb and make it look like the happiest thing that had ever happened. And here she was, stumbling onto the same stretch of concrete as me while the taxi she was in sped away with someone else still sitting in the back.
I felt like a sailor spotting land. “Nora!”
She turned—and the look on her face made me wish she hadn’t. Her first reaction was close to horror, such an alien expression that I thought for a second I’d confused her for someone else. But I stepped back, and there she was again, the real Nora, tickled to confetti bits to see me.
“Ruby!” Nora extended her arms like a net and I walked in, noticing as I did how flushed her cheeks were. “You have just made my day, I can’t even tell you!”
“What are you doing here?” By here, I really meant the taxi. Nora never took cabs.
“Oh, lord . . .” She shook her cell phone like she was trying to strangle it. “One appointment to the next. You know how I am, I overbook. I just can’t seem to say no! How are you, sweetheart?”
She adjusted a frizz of my hair, and something about the small touch made my eyes go tingly.
I smiled to cover. “Good. Great! What’s next, then?”
“Oh!” She slumped daintily. “A reception for the Central Park Conservancy. A tea . . . sort of . . . thing?”
“Tea sounds nice,” I said, mostly to unfrazzle her.
“Would you like to come?” The instant she said it, I knew that it was a formality, the done thing, but—
“I’d love to!” My skin went from hot to scalding. Taking someone up on an empty invitation was the opposite of the done thing. Even so, I wanted it. Tea. Park. Distraction. “Would you mind?”
“Oh my goodness, please do!” Nora squeezed both my hands and bounced on her low heels. “You would be saving me.”
I laughed. “From what?”
“Boredom!” Her eyes flitted to my all-black outfit, smile unwavering.
“Oh. When does it start? Do I have time to—?”
“Absolutely!” She swiveled toward my block. “We’re close, and it’s a pop-in kind of thing . . .”
We linked arms and hurried to the crosswalk.
“Don’t you dare spruce too much. A light dress is fine, especially in this heat. How is it July already? You don’t even need any makeup. You’re just”—Nora framed my face with her hands, eyes proud, like she’d painted me—“charmed!”
Charmed. That wasn’t a word I heard much, especially from someone as sparkly as Nora. I was stupidly pleased by the compliment.
We got to the stoop and I found to my relief that all the Amberley students had disappeared back through their prodigy portals. The front room was silent, but I could hear Dad pacing the floor up in his study.
“I won’t be long,” I called over my shoulder.
“No rush!” Nora was already absorbed in her cell phone, pushing buttons with the tip of one finger like she wasn’t sure how to work it.
I took the stairs to my fourth-floor bedroom two at a time, passing dusty-framed black-and-white photos—a recent pic of Alice playing the viola, Win at the podium, Leo with his oboe, me at ten holding that ridiculous piccolo.
Then I confronted my closet, every hanging garment blurring into a smear.
Dress. A light dress.
I pictured Nora’s outfit—knee-length pink and orange, heels—and picked the most similar dress I could find—pale blue, starchy. I hadn’t worn it for a few years. It was tight against my armpits, shorter than I remembered, but whatever, it would work.
I kicked on some lace flats and scooted down to the third-floor bath for a quick splash of water to help with the death-pallor thing, and—
I turned the handle and the door slammed back in my face. “Oh.”
“Just a sec!” Oscar’s voice rang out. Then the sound of the toilet flushing. And a zipper.
“Oh. No. Take your . . .” I paced away, heart pounding. Then I fled to my room, staring out my window at the white-washed walls of the apartment building across the street until I was sure I could hear the bathroom door open and his steps moving down the creaking stairs.
Why was I embarrassed? This was my home. Mine.
I threw open my door to prove it, and thundered down two narrow flights, only to come to a halt at the sight of Nora, Dad, Oscar all standing around the dining area—Nora perched on her tiptoes, trying to touch Oscar’s hair, murmuring, “You are so lucky, mine just sits there!”
What in the no.
Oscar’s laughing eyes darted to mine, one blink flashing mayday.
“There’s a lock,” I blurted. First thing to pop into my head.
Nora pulled her hand back to gawk at me, and Oscar shifted out of reach.
“On the bathroom door.”
Oscar imitated sheepishness. “I noticed a second too late. Sorry.”
I shrugged, so very breezy. “I didn’t see anything. So.”
Thus descended the heaviest silence in the history of Manhattan Island.
Dad clapped a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Shall we get to work?”
And the tableau churned back into motion.
“I’m abducting your daughter for a fundraiser tea,” Nora shouted. “Hope that’s all right!”
“As long as all she drinks is tea.” Dad shot me a wink over his shoulder.
I forced a smile back, deflated by his non-reaction. This was a thing, after all, wasn’t it? After months of stasis—me, switching lanes. But I knew better than to take it personally. Martin Chertok, Greatest Living American Composer, presided over the realm of music, not park teas. If it didn’t involve instruments, it didn’t warrant more than a passing wink.
Nora squeezed Oscar’s wrist as he followed Dad’s slow trudge upstairs. “So glad we nabbed you, Oscar. Can’t wait to see what you dazzle us with next!”
“Great to finally meet you, Ms. Visser,” he called back, his brown eyes meeting mine for the briefest second before he disappeared up the stairs.
I followed Nora out, turning the name “Ms. Visser” over in my head. She’d only been a “Visser” for six years. I’d gone to the wedding, but couldn’t remember what her last name was before that.
“Our newest recruit,” Nora said as a Bentley glided to the curb. “He’s young!”
“Is that a surprise?”
She waved to her driver and hopped in the back, patting the open seat for me to join her.
“Not at all.” She pulled out a lighted compact as we pulled away. “He just seems older in the video, don’t you think? Maybe because he’s got the baton. That does something to conductors. Gives them a little . . . what’s the word . . . ?”
“What video?”
“You haven’t seen it. Stop. Tell me you’ve seen it!”
I winced an apology.
“Ha! So there are limits to Nancy’s magic.” She dropped the compact into her purse and pulled out her phone.
“Nancy?”
“Wait, I’ve got to find this for you . . .” She started feverishly typing, then beamed up at me. “Gravitas!”
“Gravi—?”
“The word I was thinking of.” Her face was buried in her phone again. “Let me see if I can . . .”
We pulled onto the Seventy-ninth Street crossing. Traffic was at a standstill.
“Thank you so much for bringing me,” I put in, strangely jittery. “I haven’t gone to anything like this in forever.”
Nora squinted up. “Not the Cloisters. It can’t have been that long.”
“Two years, I think?”
“Anna kept twirling you, do you remember? Calling you her ‘miniature.’ God, she was so proud of you.”
I didn’t remember it—not like that. I remembered Mom fuming at Dad for not wanting to go out. Her too-sharp smile as she dropped a dress in my lap and told me to forget homework and Hanon, she needed a date. I’d been out of place, gawky and confused all evening, and it had still been a starlit blur of happiness. Our last hurrah.
“I’ve missed you, you know,” Nora said. “Your whole family.”
My throat went tight. “You see Dad, like, every day.”
“I know, and I adore Marty beyond words, but . . . I haven’t heard from your mom in almost a year, can you believe it? How is she doing?”
“She’s . . .” I smoothed my hem. Over and over. “Really good! Busy. Her tour is going well.” All facts that could be easily googled.
“Well, that’s great. She deserves it. Such a talent.”
Nora watched me with taut eyes, like she wanted to go on . . .
But then she shifted, bless her, into a playful wink. “People have been asking about you.”
Oh God. “Me.”
“They want godmother gossip. Whether you’re going to follow in your family’s footsteps, carve your own path.”
Your own path. My body loosened into those words. To do that, to have the option . . .
“Whether you’re seeing anyone.” She nudged me.
I coughed on my laugh. “I’m not. At all.”
“Hmmm.” Nora swiped her phone screen. “Who do I know? Charlie Weatherby’s starting at Yale in the fall. Might be too short for you.”
“It’s really okay—”
“I’ll keep thinking. Oh—voilà.” She handed me her phone, a video already playing on its glossy screen. “Now, come on, you must have seen this. It was trending on Twitter last month!”
I don’t Twitter, I thought, watching as what looked like a school orchestra performance began on screen, shot on a shaky cell phone camera.
“He’s really got something.” Nora leaned against me to watch.
“Who—?” I started to ask, and then I saw him, tossing his head back to grin at the audience, the video finally focusing on his face.
Of course. Oscar Bell.