“That’s what I thought before I got here. I was sure of it.” He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his knuckles. “I think ahead now and it’s . . . static. Totally blank.”
“You’re just in the thick of it.” I touched his temples, his smooth jaw. His eyes stayed closed but seemed to relax under my fingers. “You shouldn’t be thinking ahead anyway, like you said. Try to enjoy what’s happening.”
“I’m enjoying parts of it.” His eyes opened, laser-locked on mine.
I wanted to kiss him, to roll him over me, break down every physical barrier between us—but I pulled my hand back and pinned it safely beneath me. Not yet.
“What school do you go to?”
He draped his arm over my waist, smiling softly. “Farnwell Prep.”
“Why does that sound familiar? Did you already tell me—?”
“I might have. But no, it’s sort of famous. It’s where the president’s son went, lots of politicians’ kids. Fancy-fancy.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do!” His eyes wandered to the ceiling, like he could see a model of his campus hovering there. “It’s funny, I wasn’t sure at first. It’s very, ah . . . Anglo. But it isn’t that prep stereotype, either. Everybody’s nerdy, so everybody’s chill.”
“TJ?” I smiled.
“He might be more nerdy than most. All my core people have, like, obsessive interests, though, not just orchestra. TJ plays trumpet but he wants to design games. Seamus paints these amazing murals . . . It’s a good school.”
“Are all your friends orchestra people?”
He scratched his head. “That’s kind of the way it goes. How about you? Your . . . seven black friends?” Oscar smiled, teasing, but there was a current of intensity under it. “Are they orchestra geeks?”
“No,” I said, and he nodded like he’d expected that answer. I wasn’t ready to admit that none of those school friends were my “core people,” as he’d put it, so I said, “They’ve got pretty eclectic interests too. My friend Farrah is first chair in our school orchestra, but she’s not, like, going pro. She wants to be a medical researcher.” Curing cancer. Ha, I hadn’t thought of that. Go Farrah. “Honestly, Exton is a pretty standard private school—”
“That’s another nice thing about Farnwell.” Oscar propped himself up. “They let me veer off from my class schedule if I have a day that needs to be all music. Which is more than I can say for my parents.”
I frowned, surprised. “Are they not supportive?”
“They’re the most supportive parents in the world. But it’s all college all the time. My mom monitors our GPAs on, like, a week-to-week basis. She’s terrified that I’m not ‘well-rounded.’” He sighed. “She means well. She wants us to be safe in the world.”
I marked his choice of words. Not successful, not happy—safe.
“What about you?” Oscar asked gently. “The piano . . . was that something they pushed?”
I wished I could say yes. That it had been foisted upon me against my wishes. Giving it up would have been that much more cathartic.
Mom’s voice echoed in my head. Put her on mute.
“No.” I swallowed. “They never pushed anything on me.”
We were getting close to something I didn’t want to touch.
Oscar’s fingers traced my spine. “When did your mom leave?”
Something detonated in my chest, shrapnel scattering. There it was.
“She’s on tour.”
He went still, waiting for an answer. Something true.
“July. Last July.” My eyes started to well. “Almost a year ago . . .” A tear fell, my nose stinging. I swiped it, heaving a jerky breath. “Ugh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He held my face gently and wiped the tear with his thumb. “You miss her?”
“No, I don’t want to.” I sniffed, forcing my eyes dry. “That other piano in our sitting room is hers. Nobody ever dared touch it. She rehearsed on it every day—it was her home, do you know what I mean? It bugs me that she never came to get it. I think it’s what bugs me the most, but maybe that’s part of touring, soloing, if you’re successful. You need to adapt. And she’s busy, I know she’s busy.” I filled my lungs until they stung. “Anyway. We’ll make up for lost time when she gets a break.”
“And you’ve got your dad.”
“I texted her that I quit the piano. Back in April, after my Amberley audition.”
“You auditioned—?” Oscar’s eyes widened. “Sorry, no, go on.”
“She didn’t . . .” I pressed my lips together. “She probably didn’t know what to say. I don’t know, she didn’t write back.”
Oscar perched on his elbow. “She didn’t write back about that? Or . . .”
“No, I haven’t . . .” I exhaled the rest of my sadness away. “I haven’t heard from her since March, I guess? Anyway. No big deal. Tell me about these girls you went out with but did not have sex with.”
Even Oscar’s teeth seemed to blush.
“What?” I smiled. “It’s my turn, right?”
“Yeah, fair enough. They were orchestra girls. One played the . . . I guess they all played the violin.”
“Oh God.” I pulled the towel up, laughing. “You have a type and it’s not me.”
“It’s you,” he murmured. “It’s only you.”
I dropped the towel.
He cleared his throat, lips pressed together to stifle a smile. “My turn. Favorite piece of classical music. I’ve got a hunch you actually have an answer to this one.”
“You’re going to make fun of me.”
“‘Rock Me Amadeus’ is not classical.”
I laughed, pushing his shoulder. “How do you even know that song? How do I?”
“The answer is always YouTube. But for real, what’s your favorite? I won’t laugh.”
I bit my pinkie. “‘Clair de Lune.’”
“‘Clair de Lune’ is incredible! Why would I make fun of that?”
“I feel like it got ruined. Have you seen—?”
“Oh riiiiight. Mr. Romantic Vampire, playing the piano. There’s a reason they picked that song, though. It’s lush.”
“Right? It feels powerful, you know? Like you’re swimming in the ocean, and you can’t stand anymore and the water . . . takes your weight.”
I lifted my hands, palms up, demonstrating.
Oscar’s eyes went twinkly. He brushed my hair from my forehead, silently mouthing my name.
I could still hear the music in my head. “It’s so beautiful.”
“It’s love.” Oscar peered at the ceiling again. “Most classical music is. Not all, but most. You know . . .” He rolled over to face me. “I can appreciate all kinds of music, I really can. I think there’s something there. But hip-hop, pop, it speaks to front, you know? It’s the face you show the world, what you want to project. Classical speaks right to what you’re feeling. What you hide. What you long for.”
“What do you long for?”
I thought he might say something cheesy or grab me and kiss me, but his face went even more serious.
“To be seen.”
It took me a second to speak. “Me too.”
His eyes fell on mine. He saw me. And then, yeah—he kissed me. And in a strange way, that felt like being seen too.
* * *
• • •
We did not have sex.
We talked.
We ordered burritos and ate them.
I changed into dry PJs upstairs and raced back to him as fast as my sandaled feet could carry me.
We kissed, rolled, explored, did not have sex, talked about having sex, talked about talking about having sex, talked about when we were little and bigger and whatever size we were now, we talked . . . we slept.
And we woke to Dad
pounding on the apartment door.
24.
“party’s over,” Dad bellowed. “I’m back!”
“Yooooooooo,” Oscar murmured, eyes instantly wide. My hair clung to his face as he sat up.
“Come up when you’re ready,” Dad shouted, to the street as much as the apartment. “I’ll have Ruby make us coffee.”
I whispered, “He doesn’t know I’m in here,” holding Oscar in place.
His heart raced against my arm. “No?”
“Ogre voice. Messing with you.” I reluctantly extricated my limbs from his.
He bounded out of bed like a superhero sensing danger, threw on a black T-shirt and corduroys, and disappeared into the bathroom.
“We’ll go separately. I’ll say I went out running, or . . .” I yawned and got up.
“Ruby.” He poked his head around, a toothbrush sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Your outfit.”
Ah yes. My camisole and pajama pants. “Well. It’ll be a short walk of shame.”
I leaned blearily against the bathroom door. Oscar was tidying his hair in the mirror. He stopped and looked at me.
“You don’t—you’re not actually feeling ashamed or anything, are you?”
“Are you kidding?” I joined him at the sink, pulling my hair back into my best approximation of an I’ve-been-awake-for-hours ponytail. “Not at all. And anyway, we didn’t . . .”
Oscar peered at me through the mirror. “We were saints.”
“Maybe not saints,” I said, remembering some key details.
“He’s going to know.”
“I’ll tell him I popped down to bring you a coffee and we started talking and time got—”
“He’s your dad, Ruby. He’ll know.”
Not this dad. He wouldn’t notice if I flew around the living room sprinkling pixie dust into all the vases.
“Maybe we should tell him.” Oscar scratched his cheek. “Get it out there.”
He was agitated—and no wonder. This was the culmination of everything he’d confided to me. My famous, establishment dad. My solidly liberal but still extremely white dad. His mentor.
I stopped smiling and reached for him. “We can tell him if you want. I honestly don’t think it matters to him either way, but if that’s what you want to do . . .”
“I don’t know.” Oscar sighed. “No time like the present, though.”
I led the way outside, up, and back in. Dad’s voice filtered down the stairwell from his study. And someone else’s . . .
“Oh,” I said, my step slowing. What was she doing here? Nora popped by semi-regularly, but having her here now, this morning, felt seriously intrusive.
Oscar’s hand dropped from mine. “Ms. Visser’s here.”
“I’m sure you can call her Nora.”
“I prefer Ms. Visser.”
“Oscar, that you?” Dad bellowed down the stairs—then, in the other direction, muffled, “Ruby, you wouldn’t run to Zabar’s and grab some breakfast?”
I rolled my eyes and mouthed “See?” Oscar managed a smile but it died abruptly, like his fuse had been tripped. He needed me to be the brave soldier marching into the vanguard—so I did, straight up to the study.
“Promise you’ll be objective here,” Nora was murmuring. “This could be gold, take a look.”
Yes, both of you, take a look at anything but the hallway.
I reached the study, seeing Dad’s head craned over Nora’s phone while she murmured, “Can’t buy that kind of placement . . .”
I got out, “Hey-Dad-Hey-Nora-I’m-actually-heading-out-for-a-run . . .” And was past the door before they saw my PJs. Oscar hesitated outside the study.
Dad’s voice flew into the hallway like a lasso. “Ruby. Oscar. Both of you in here right now.”
I backed into the hallway, caught my flip-flop on the runner rug, had to hold the wall to keep from falling.
It’s fine, I mouthed to Oscar, then ducked in after him.
Dad was now seated at his composition desk, head slumped, holding Nora’s phone.
Nora smiled up at me. She was wearing workout clothes but her bob was immaculate, so I wondered if she’d popped by on the way to her trainer or if the outfit was for show.
“You’re in the news, my darlings,” she chirped, staring at the phone. “Gossip pages. But still!”
I turned to Oscar with an encouraging smile, then caught the plural. Did she mean Dad and Oscar or—?
“Wait, what?” I hurried to peek over Dad’s shoulder, spotting a clickbait post on a New York tabloid’s gossip page:
“You’ll NEVER GUESS Who’s Hooking Up at Lincoln Center.”
There was a photo underneath—me and Oscar standing beside a yellow cab, my arm on his shoulder, his forehead touching mine. This must have been the shot that guy took at Wing Club. Dad scrolled, almost accusingly, and there we were, another photo—at the Met in tight formation. We hadn’t even been a couple then, but we sure looked like one.
My eyes flitted up to meet Nora’s, and I remembered suddenly what Alice had said: Smarter than she lets on. Nora’s placid smile told me she hadn’t been all that surprised. Her eyes—diamond-sharp and dancing—made me suspect something more.
Had she been the one to place it? Did she tip off the photographers or hire them herself? How far had she gone with this?
Dad read the rest in a bored drone. “Rumors have been flying about Martin Chertok’s hot young protégé since he was whisked from the mean streets of DC to the upper echelons of UWS society, but viral sensation Oscar Bell has found his footing quickly—with the help of Marty’s sexy daughter, Ruby . . .”
“Sexy?” I recoiled, crossing my arms over my chest. “Oh my God.”
Oscar was blinking rapidly into his own phone. “‘Viral sensation.’ I, uh, wow. I don’t know how I feel about—” His eyes went wide. “Wait, mean streets of what now?”
Nora slid her arm around him, muttering something about her sister, of all things, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I had to read to the end of this thing.
“. . . seen cavorting in Manhattan clubs, the classical music princess’s appearance at rehearsals for Oscar’s debut symphony has only spurred more romance rumors . . .”
I felt all the blood drain from my face as I stepped away. “‘Cavorting’? I have no idea who wrote this, but that is—”
“Cavorting means frolicking. Prancing,” Dad said drily. “Maybe you’re thinking of canoodling.”
“I’d be even happier with canoodling,” Nora said perkily, “but this is fantastic enough as it is. Marty, why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad shot me a dangerous smile. “Tell you what, exactly?”
Oscar and I turned to stare at each other, like a hook would tug us off the stage if we answered wrong.
“Oh. Well.” Nora glanced around the room, a sparrow looking for crumbs. She’d planned to come in today and pretend not to know about me and Oscar, to be officially brought into the fold. She didn’t expect that I wouldn’t have told Dad in the first place.
Or maybe she was amping up the awkwardness on purpose.
Get a grip, Ruby, I ordered myself. You’re becoming as paranoid as Alice.
Nora grinned, breaking the détente. “Anyway, Nancy’s going to be thrilled. This kind of gossip is exactly the buzz we need to build our audience.”
“Audience?” Oscar shook his head.
“For your debut!”
“Who is Nancy?” I cut in.
“My sister.” As if remembering something she’d forgotten to do, Nora snatched her phone back from Dad, and started typing. “She’s got a PR firm in DC—high-level political spin stuff, but Oscar, I believe you know her daughter, Tessa?”
I glanced at him. His face was blank.
Then he jolted. “Cello! Yeah, she’s a freshman
, she’s not bad.”
“Well, Nancy was at that YouTube concert and texted me from the audience. You’ve got to snap this kid up. Real deal. And when the video was posted, her firm boosted it.”
“Her firm what?” Oscar backed up a step, holding his head.
“She’s extremely influential,” Nora said proudly. “She wants to help you. And the school. Lucky us!”
“Farnwell?” Oscar leaned against a desk chair, looking as lost as I’d ever seen him.
“Amberley.” Nora swatted him, like he’d made a joke. “She’s coming Thursday through Saturday, that’s all she can manage, but she’s got a big surprise lined up for you. You’re going to be interviewed . . . for the ATV News . . . by Shawna Wells herself.”
Oscar glanced at me as if for help. “I’m not sure . . . we don’t watch a lot of news.”
“Top news anchor in the country.” Nora’s smile ticked down a few notches. “She’s black!”
I cringed so hard, my eyes closed. Why are we like this.
“Oh!” Oscar lifted his eyebrows, the closest approximation of excitement he could muster.
“That’s all the news I’ve got for today . . .” Nora chuckled to herself, so apparently that was a Shawna Wells impression.
Dad stood. “All right, thanks a bunch, Nora. If that’s it, I think Oscar and I had better get to work.”
“Perfect. Lunch again soon, Ruby?”
Again? We’d never had lunch the first time.
I smiled noncommittally and waved good-bye, relieved to hear her sneakers squeaking down the wooden steps, through the living room and away. Then I turned to see Dad staring at me, finally taking in my PJs, my mussed ponytail. His eyes met mine, a shuttered look obscuring whatever his real reaction was.
“Welcome back, Dad.” I crossed the room to give his cheek a kiss, then started away.
“Sir? I . . .” Oscar’s voice was loud. I froze in the doorway. “I’d actually like to ask for your blessing. For—”
Dad coughed, glancing in my general direction. “You proposing marriage? Seems a little rushed.”
I pinched the doorframe, stung by the acid in his voice.
Night Music Page 19
