I held my breath. This couldn’t be happening. Not in New York.

“That getup is too! Much! It is so nice to see young people dressing up for the museum.”

Oscar grinned, stepping back to give her a better look at his suspenders. “I dress like this all the time!”

“Good for you,” she said, then patted him approvingly on the back and continued along her way, glancing back at my outfit in apparent disappointment.

“Jesus,” I muttered as we started to climb again. “I thought . . .”

“What?” Oscar eyed me.

“Nothing.” That tourist wasn’t racist, but now it felt like maybe I was. “You’re so charming all the time. With total strangers. It’s like you’re setting out to dazzle them.”

I’d said it to cut the tension, but Oscar’s frown deepened. “I am. I have to.”

We got to the top of the steps. I watched him, confused.

He sighed, turning our hands over to look at them together. “I need to give people a quick impression of who I am, what I’m about.”

Before I could ask why, the answer hit me like ice water—

Because he was a seventeen-year-old black man. In America.

I didn’t say anything, just squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back, silent a beat. Then: “I live in a, let’s say . . . affluent neighborhood. My parents get pulled over every other week, I get tailed taking our beagle for a walk, so . . . I have to short-circuit whatever people’s assumptions are going to be. It doesn’t even always work.”

“Don’t you ever run out of energy?”

“No.” He looked startled. “I can’t, it’s the only safe way to operate in spaces like this.” He nodded upward, but I knew he didn’t just mean the Cloisters. I thought about how his accent changed slightly when he spoke to my dad. Did he change it for me too?

I opened my mouth, not even sure what to say besides, “God, I’m sorry,” but his eyes had already darted to the side, distracted. His hand slipped gently from mine, holding on at the fingertips, his body propelled around the corner, as if under some spell. He was taking us the wrong way.

“Hey,” I started, but then I heard what had drawn his attention—singing. “Oh! There must be a concert.”

We followed the sound to the chapel, where five voices filled the eaves with rapturous music. There were no seats in here, a sprinkling of visitors standing frozen as museum displays while they listened. The singers wore casual clothes. We’d stumbled into a rehearsal.

Oscar stood behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I leaned against him, letting the sound cocoon us. I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed his eyes were closed. One note rose above the rest, plaintive, and we squeezed each other tighter at the sound.