Her tiny hand disappeared into the Birkin bag and emerged with a huge stack of brochures. She dropped them on the oak table with a thunk, stood, and started riffling through. Dizzy, I took in the names on the covers: Bucknell, Manhattan School of Music, Peabody Institute, San Francisco Conservatory . . .

“Okay, so these are all excellent vocal programs,” she murmured, passing them to me for inspection. “This one is really coming up. Their showcase last year was astonishing . . .”

I sat next to her, flipping through them, some part of me still not understanding.

“Auditions are mainly in February, so you’ve got some time to prepare,” she said, flipping through the Peabody brochure. “Take lessons, get a repertoire together. And would you be interested in joining Oscar’s symphony as a member of the choir?”

It took me a second to respond. “I’m . . . not an Amberley student.”

“Well, it would just be for Oscar’s piece, but you’d still get to put it on your college applications, which I think would be helpful.”

She got to the last brochure in the pile and passed it to me, almost shyly. Amberley.

“Couldn’t resist. I hope you’ll at least consider us?”

She reached out for my hand.

“I . . .” There were no words. All gone, poof.

She squeezed and let go. “So I hope you don’t mind too much, but I’ve already spoken with Liz about the choir bit. You remember Liz Trombly?”

I nodded.

“She thinks it’s a fantastic idea.” Nora crouched to pull out an embossed memo pad and a mini ballpoint pen. She scribbled a room number and the words Wed/Fri 10–11:45 onto one page, turned it over, and slid it across the table like a job offer.

“I’ve got to scoot, and I’m so sorry for bombarding you like this, but I couldn’t in good conscience let this pass.” She flopped to one side. “It’s kind of what I do. So why don’t you start by trying a rehearsal or two and . . . see if you like it?” She rose, tapping her fingers cheerfully on the table. “Could be the start of something.”

I waved, mute, as she left the house, too stunned to do much more than stare at the pile of college brochures she’d collected for me.

The start. Of something.

29.

i found the rehearsal room fifteen minutes early and walked the Amberley halls to kill time, listening to music spilling out of other classrooms, a trombone player doing scales, an oboist working a difficult passage over and over, a drummer and his teacher laughing at a mistake, trying to duplicate it as a joke.

I laughed silently along, feeling carried away for a good five seconds, like maybe I knew their secret password after all.