When we reached the house, I stooped to peek into the basement window. It was dark inside, Oscar already gone.

“Listen,” Jules said. “I think you should definitely go spy on genius boy, but . . .” She scuffed the sidewalk with her sneaker. “Maybe use it as an opportunity to clear your head? To see that he has this whole Amberley whatever life . . .”

She drew a circle in the air.

“And you have your whole amazing awesome life and . . .”

She swatted at her nose. I was guessing that wasn’t part of the illustration.

“You’re a perfectly complete person with or without him. And—if you want to be ‘beckoned,’ like you said, if that’s what you’re into, then great. Just . . .”

I waited, watching her flail for the right words.

Then she looked me right in the eye, as serious as I’d ever seen her. “You do what you want to do, Ruby. Take what you want out of . . . this.” She gestured upward into the air. “It’s our chance to stop living for other people. This summer. Right now.”

“I’m . . .” I winced. “Not sure what you mean? Oscar’s someone in my life, but I wouldn’t say I’m living for him.”

Her face fell. Then she smiled. “Okay. Well. That’s ideal. Text me after your stalking session!”

She blew me a kiss and trotted down the block and up the steps to her apartment, and I stood on the sidewalk, mulling.

No, I decided. This is ridiculous. I’m going to give him space. And myself. Why rush to define the relationship? If it even is a relationship—we’re hanging out, seeing where it goes, right?

I texted Jules at 4:02. What’s the right outfit to stalk somebody?

The reply came instantly: Earth tones or grays, classic lines, soft soled flats, ponytail.

“Okay then,” I said out loud. “I guess I’m doing this.”

22.

bad idea. I hit West Sixty-sixth Street. So many levels. Sixty-fifth.

When I stepped onto the plaza, I expected to feel the same controlled panic as last time—an astronaut bracing for reentry—but the place seemed to have lost some of its turbulence.

Maybe because I had a singular purpose this time. It wasn’t stalking—it was truth-seeking. Totally honorable.

I seemed to remember Amberley’s rehearsal schedule being fairly regular. Mornings for class, afternoons for sectionals, evenings for full orchestra rehearsals. I “seemed to remember” it because I used to sit in the back of Lilly Hall and watch them, sure I’d be among their ranks one day. It was easy to be sure when you were nine.

I stepped into the ice-cold lobby—empty, good start—and listened. There was no sound in the auditorium except someone talking, too far to hear. I stepped forward, tentative, and then—

The orchestra erupted.

It was familiar, stone and color and wind. I squinted, listening, trying to identify the composer . . .