Mom had written back. That’s fantastic, sweetheart, let me know how it goes!

I reread her text three times on the bus ride home. And I pictured myself on the stage of the Met, singing Pamina, Susanna, Mimi to rapturous applause. I wouldn’t be making the river flow, I would be the water itself, story and song swirling into one.

It was better than any daydream I’d ever had before.

When I got back, Oscar was up at my house, eating cereal at the dining room table at four p.m. I glanced around to see if we were alone, then bent to kiss him. He pecked back, chewing, eyes locked on the bowl.

“You okay?” I asked, my mood starting to fizzle.

He nodded upstairs. “I had an argument with your dad. He’s gone now . . .”

“What?” I sat. This was a first. “Why?”

“Well, it started because the BBC included the Summer Symphony in a round-up of pieces debuting this season . . .”

The BBC. Good lord. They knew about him in England.

“A quick mention, which is great, it’s amazing, but . . .” Oscar rubbed the bridge of his nose. “They called it jazz-infused. ‘Rising prodigy Oscar Bell’s jazz-infused Summer Symphony, Amberley’s Lilly Hall’, etcetera. I . . .” He exhaled loudly, shoving the spoon so it sloshed the leftover milk. “I’m getting pretty fucking sick of this.”

I touched the band of his wristwatch carefully. “Sick of what?”

“You don’t see it.”

“Well . . .” I scratched my forehead. “Your piece is not jazz-infused.”

“Thank you!” He stood and paced in a circle. “Marty was trying to tell me it was.”

“What?” That surprised me. “The second movement.”

“Yes.” He leaned against the back of a chair, watching me.

“That’s bachata. I wouldn’t say that’s the same thing at all . . .”

“Yeah, but here’s the clincher.” He sat on the edge of the table. “The BBC hasn’t heard a note of this symphony. Nobody has! Either they were guessing or that’s the language from the press release Amberley sent out.”

“But why jazz? That’s so . . .” My body went stiff with the realization.

“And your dad . . . I love your dad, I do, but he started going on about Ravel and Copland, Gershwin, Bernstein—all these white guys who were influenced by jazz, like that’s supposed to negate this. I just . . .”

“Ugh. I’m sorry.”

“You seem happy.” His mouth smiled but his eyes didn’t. He looked tired. “I don’t want to spoil it.”

I pulled myself up to foist a kiss on him. “No, you should talk about this stuff with me. I always want to know what’s going on with you.”

“I . . . yeah. Thank you.” He took my outstretched hand and ran his fingers along it. “So where you been?”

“At a voice lesson.” My body jolted with the thrill of announcing it. “My first one ever.”