Hearing Dad curse, I flinched, as unnerved as if he’d started speaking in tongues. He sounded so angry. And yet he’d apparently been the one to talk Oscar into going on television in someone else’s clothes.

“You wouldn’t be asked to do the same thing, though, would you?” I pressed him, my uneasiness growing by the second. “What, would the board make you wear a yarmulke and grow payote? It isn’t the same—”

“They would if it meant increasing the endowment,” Dad snapped, his eyes landing hard on mine. “This is a school, a nonprofit, but it’s a business too. Without money, all of this goes away. And I mean forever.”

“And how does dressing Oscar in a costume bring in money?”

“You’re being glib, Ruby.”

“No, I’m seriously asking. And why do they need money anyway? Look at this place!” I motioned to his oak-paneled office, the hall beyond with its Persian runners and glass-boxed original scores. “They get tuition money, they get NEA funding, right? And all those black-tie donor events . . .”

Nora, making the river flow. Nora, sweating down to her fingers.

“We’re located in the center of Manhattan, with incredible competition for dollars, people are getting their pockets emptied by shady hedge fund managers left and right, and the margins are . . .” Dad growled, pushing himself standing. “Listen, I need to get down there to support Oscar. When you want to have a grown-up conversation about this, I’ll be happy to fill you in.”

I stiffened into a statue as he breezed past me.

Out in the hall, he glanced up at the descending numbers, held the elevator door while I jogged to join him, then stepped inside and jabbed the lobby button. “Honey, why don’t you wait in the lounge? You don’t need to get wrapped up in this.”

I’m his girlfriend.

But I still got out at the lobby and watched the numbers go up again as the elevator went to the fourth floor without me. They must have been filming in Nora’s office suite. I glanced behind me, seeing another ATV crew setting up what looked like an exterior shot of the school.

My phone beeped. A text from Jules. I’m bored. Come be weird around me.

I could keep vigil in the lounge for however many hours. Eat. Worry for my boyfriend, even if he was smiling, agreeing, cooperating. I could wait to see if Nora talked her sister into giving me a photo op. Oscar’s friend . . . how do you like that for a job title?

There was no place for me here that made any sense at all.

I texted back to Jules. On my way.

•   •   •

Oscar came home at four, wearing his other outfit, the real one—shirt untucked, sleeves rolled, bow tie shoved into his pocket. I hurried to meet him on the sidewalk.

“How was it?” I asked, breathless. “Are you okay?”