I walked into the choir room at ten o’clock sharp, but everyone was already seated in sections, music propped on stands in front of them, Liz in the front.

“We try to start at ten, Ruby, so if you don’t mind coming earlier.”

I flushed lobster red. “I’m so sorry. I was here . . .”

She motioned to an empty chair at the edge of the soprano section. “No need to sit on the floor today.”

Everybody laughed, but it was a friendly sound. A tenor waved hello and other singers smiled as I walked past. They were my age, of course—summer students. I wondered how much they’d trained to get here. Voice students tended to start studying later than other musicians, because their voices took time to mature. If I had a gift for this—an enormous “if”—I could start now and not miss a single beat.

The girl next to me scooted her stand closer to me and flipped to the last photocopied page, this one written in Oscar’s careful hand.

“The beginning of the third movement,” she whispered. Then she smiled shyly. “What am I saying, you probably have it memorized already.”

“I haven’t heard this yet!” I squinted, trying to pick out the notes, while Liz stood.

“Okay, from one eighty-seven.” She turned to my section. “Sopranos, since our ranks are bolstered, let’s keep the volume more moderato?”

She gestured for us to begin. I drew a hasty breath and sang. The girl next to me had a voice like a mountain brook, crystalline ice water. Liz walked closer, her head cocked, listening. Then she waved and everyone stopped.

“Ruby, could you sing the first few bars?”

I shrank into my seat, knees clenching against the plastic edge. Here it was. The test. If I was going to even entertain the idea of becoming a singer, I would need to get over my nerves. I closed my eyes, quickly, calming myself, and sang.

She stooped to touch my stomach.

I glanced down, confused.

She nodded. “From the diaphragm.”

I breathed more deeply and sang it again.

She looked pleased. “You sing out, Ruby. That’s lovely. Don’t worry about volume. All right, once more?”

We sang again, working through the piece, my confidence growing with every note. She’d asked me to sing out. That was more encouragement than I’d gotten in an entire lifetime of playing the piano.

I felt a stab of guilt, like my piano teacher was listening to my thoughts. Lovely Mrs. Swenson had encouraged me twice weekly, for thirteen years. She’d been paid to do it, but still. She used to give me jelly beans from a jar she kept across the room when I got my scales right. She also snuck me jelly beans when I messed up, saying, “Chin up, Ruby. Try again.” I got far more jelly beans that way.