“‘His mother played him Mozart as a child, hoping to foster a better future for him.’” He stared blankly at the page. “My mother runs the biggest private hospital system in DC. You can’t get much ‘better’ than that.”

I picked at my burger, appetite fading. “Do you think she was upset?”

“She’ll be fine.” Oscar sniffed. “She’s excited for me. This is cool! Either way, it’s . . . yeah.”

I glanced at the article one more time, the details he mentioned standing out like they were written in bold. “Why don’t you get in touch with the reporter? I’m sure my dad knows him. You can ask him to print a clarification—”

“No, I’m not gonna rock the boat here. I mean, there will be other interviews, right?”

“Shawna Wells.”

“Oh shit. Right. And that’s soon.” He was leaning so hard on the table his chair started to slide away. “See, it’s all good. This is amazing.”

When we got up to leave, he bussed the newspaper to the trash along with our wrappers.

“Hey,” I said, prying it away. “What are you—?”

“Oh, right!” He laughed, watching as I carefully folded it and put it in my bag. “Good catch.”

He held the door for me with an elaborate bow. I slid out, smiling through my worry.

I’d caught the newspaper. But how much else had I missed?

26.

the piped-out smell of deliciousness dissipated as we walked away from Burger Barn.

“Huge progress today.” I bumped Oscar with my hip, nearly sending both of us careening into a construction pylon. He grabbed me tighter, steadying us.

“It’s still missing something.” To my relief, his voice was the right kind of fuzzy—thinking hard instead of covering up. “It’s pretty, I think, and it’s starting to say something, but it’s missing that key piece, that God piece, you know what I’m saying?”

“You want it to sound like God wrote it? That’s lofty, even for you.”

“Not that he wrote it himself, I’m not even sure that would be something anybody would be ready to listen to. But maybe he left a fingerprint, here and there.”

“You’re serious!”

As if on cue, light spilled out of a dingy Irish pub, giving him a saintly glow. “Well, yeah. Maybe it’s a composer thing. The act of creation, the need for a higher source of inspiration, for humility. I’m sure your dad gets it.”

I winced. “Hate to break it to you, but Dad’s an atheist.”

Oscar leaned away. “Really?”

“Since he was ten. He went to a yeshiva in Brooklyn. One day, he woke up and announced he was never going back and he wouldn’t set foot inside their synagogue either. It was like a Biblical revelation, except, you know, the exact opposite.”

Oscar looked weirdly troubled. I squeezed him as we walked.