“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 . . .”