Dad waited for us to order. Oscar asked for steak frites with perfect composure and an even better accent, then Dad smiled at the waiter and said, “You know what I like.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. Dad always did enjoy a touch of spectacle. No doubt he would have come here alone tonight if it were any other Saturday, but I knew in my gut what this meal was—a chance to show Oscar a glimpse into his future.

Sure enough, Dad turned right to him. “You speak French, don’t you, Oscar?”

“High school level,” Oscar said quickly. “But I’ve studied some German and Italian too, out of curiosity.”

“Good.” Dad swirled his giant glass of Bordeaux. “That’ll be helpful.”

I’d just nestled into my chair, peering at all the poorly lit oil paintings decorating the walls, tuning out, when Dad said, “What do you say, kiddo?” and I realized he was talking to me.

“It’s their centenary, a one-night deal,” he went on. “But my schedule isn’t set yet. I could clear some space. We could see Leo and the kids, visit some colleges around Boston. Or hop on a plane, check out another city. What’s on your list so far?”

This was the first time we’d ever—ever—talked about college. I thought of Nora sitting at my kitchen table and my mouth went sour.

“Nothing yet.”

“You’re gonna be a senior, Rooster,” Dad chuckled. “We’d better start brainstorming.”

“I totally agree. It’s high time.” I smiled across the candlelit table at him, hoping that Oscar was right about me being an open book. Sure enough, Dad cleared his throat, eyes darting away.

“I should start narrowing it down too.” Oscar glanced between us. “Boston’s definitely on my list. Berklee, I mean.”

That was one of the brochures Nora had brought me. Why had she done it? I still couldn’t understand. Couldn’t even face it. The thought made anger and hurt and confusion bubble toxic in my veins.

I breathed deep. Tonight, tonight, and nothing but tonight.

Dad put down his wineglass. “I certainly hope Amberley’s made this list.”

“Oh!” Oscar forced a laugh. “Of course. But if I don’t get in.”

“Ah, well, congratulations.” Dad winked. “You’re in! Consider this your acceptance letter.”

“Wow.” Oscar grinned broadly while his eyes flitted to mine.

“I’d like to look at BU,” I blurted, throwing out college names at random. “And Emerson.”

“Not Harvard?” Dad asked.

I choked on a sip of water. “My grades aren’t good enough for Harvard, Dad.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something—offer something—but then he put his hands up in surrender and said, as if it took great effort, “I’d be happy to visit any of those schools with you, sweetheart.”