Chin up, Ruby, I thought now, leaving rehearsal, my steps keeping time to an imagined waltz. Try again.

I popped by Dad’s office on the way out, but he wasn’t in. There was a doctor’s business card resting on top of the messy pile of paperwork on his desk, so he must have popped out for a checkup. He never answered his cell phone and I didn’t want to wait for him to get back, so I skipped out to the street and called Win.

He picked up right away. “Ruby Rooster! To what do I owe the—?”

Some guy giggled in the background and his voice went muffled. He wasn’t alone.

I started to blush. “Um, quick question. Do you remember Dad talking about that opera singer friend of his who teaches now?”

“Friend . . . who . . .”

“She’s super famous, why can’t I remember her name . . . ?” Maybe because my heart was thudding louder than the jack-hammer across the street. “She’s a mezzo, she was in The House Guest, gah . . .”

“Odile—?”

“Odile Michaud! Thank you so much, talk again soon!”

I hung up before Win could dig for why I was asking. I would tell him—I’d tell everybody—but only if it turned out to be real.

I googled Odile’s webpage, remembering the year-long wait list Dad had said she accumulated the second she announced she was teaching. Somehow, I knew she’d find a way to squeeze in Martin Chertok’s daughter. As I picked up my phone, a burst of hot adrenaline shot through me—almost enough to wash away the gray in my stomach, that same murky shame that sloshed in whenever I thought about Amberley.

But this was different. This was real.

I gritted my teeth and dialed.

•   •   •

I got my own folding chair at the full-orchestra rehearsal and a friendly wave from the other choir members. We sang the same section as Monday and it gelled now—Oscar barely paid us any attention except to search for me every twenty bars or so, lock eyes like he was recharging a battery, carry on.

When we finished just after nine, Oscar led a round of applause for ourselves, the usual routine, then we broke into collegial chatter. I tried to relax into it—the trumpeter teasing the French horn about how long it took her to put away her instrument, three oboists chatting cross-legged on the edge of the stage comparing reeds, a clutch of brass players debating a tricky rhythm so passionately, they drew a small crowd. This reminded me so much of Wildwood, school orchestra, all these things I’d missed—but inside, even my new soprano friend’s “See you Friday!” gave me a physical thrill as I left with Oscar. I was one of them, in a completely unexpected way.