He nodded, looking tired. “It was good. Yeah. Shawna was nice. I wish you’d been there.”

“They wouldn’t let me. Dad said—”

“I figured. It’s cool.”

I should have fought. I should have insisted on being there. I should have picked at a strudel in the lounge.

“You know,” Oscar blurted, his voice more gravelly than usual. “I don’t have a problem with that outfit. I don’t feel any kind of . . . judgment toward it or anything like that. If brothers want to dress that way, they should dress that way. But it’s not how I dress. And I’m not trying to shut myself off, pretend that I’m not part of a bigger conversation—I’m just not sure that this is the conversation.”

“Okay.” I reached for him, then dropped my hand.

“And yeah, of course I want black kids to be able to see someone who looks just like them. On TV. Being interviewed by Shawna Wells. Conducting an orchestra.” He sounded like he was reciting someone else’s words. “It’s all I want. I didn’t need to be told that.”

“Oh God, was that Nancy’s pitch?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, which meant yes. “I don’t want to . . . I don’t know what people’s intentions are, you know? I just met her.”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure what to say, except that he was being too nice.

“Ughhhh.” He lifted his fists to the sky and let them fall. “I can’t even explain this. My thinking is . . . muddled right now.”

He shook his head, like he was disappointed in himself. Did he wish he’d pushed back more?

I should have spoken out. Right there in the hallway when he stepped into it.

But, “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m here if you want to talk it through.”

“I’m fine.” I took his hand. He squeezed back and let go. “It’s all good, right? Shawna Wells! I’m gonna have to start watching the news.”

“You hungry?” I asked.

“Not yet.” He glanced at his door, jangling his keys. “I’ll text you in a bit and we can work or . . . whatever.”

I grinned at the whatever, but all humor flitted away when I saw his expression—the smile sloughing off, the raw exhaustion underneath.

“Okay,” I said. “You know where to find me.”

The sun set, he didn’t text, call, knock. I got into bed and listened for him.

But I couldn’t hear his music all night long.

28.

oscar wasn’t himself up there.

His movements were forceful, jerky, a tiny bit sluggish. The orchestra looked out of sorts and the newly anointed symphony choir like they’d been dropped into a war zone. Their sixteen voices didn’t float over the woodwinds like echoes from the past. They were performing a completely different song.

Oscar lowered his baton, slumping. “Have you guys . . . rehearsed this?”