“My sister applied to Harvard,” Oscar said, buttering a steaming roll. “She didn’t get in, wah-wah. It was a stretch, but she still cried when she found out. She goes to Duke now and loves it, so I don’t feel too bad for her.”

“Is Duke the school with the creepy mascot?”

Oscar squinted at me. “You might be thinking of Wake—”

“When your folks come up, we’ll be sure to get them a full campus tour,” Dad said.

We stared at him.

Oscar nodded. “That’d be great.”

“I’m assuming they’re coming for the concert?” Dad sipped his wine, arm resting on the back of the banquette.

“Yes! I . . .” Oscar took a quick sip of water and leaned forward. “I wanted to ask you about that. Do they need to buy tickets or is it free admission, or—?”

“Free? Not by a long shot.”

“Oh.” Oscar’s fingers slid anxiously along the edge of the table. “It doesn’t look like the tickets are for sale yet on the school’s site . . .”

“They’re planning to pop that up right after your ATV interview airs. It’s a fundraiser, so they’re charging top dollar. But don’t worry about any of this. I’ve got a block of seats reserved under my name for special guests.”

“They can pay . . .” Oscar started.

“Please.” Dad lifted his glass like a stop sign.

“Thank you,” Oscar said, watching the food arrive with a dazed look on his face.

I felt befuddled myself. End-of-year performances typically were free admission, reserved for friends and family members of students. Why were they using Oscar’s premiere as a fundraiser? And why was the timing of this interview so important?

After we started eating, Dad steered the conversation to French cuisine, then gossip about Leo pissing people off everywhere he soloed with his elaborate greenroom requirements. There was enough rich material under that subheading to get us through the meal and most of the way home.

“I try to talk to him,” Dad said, “but do you think he listens? You’re the only one who hears a word I say, Rooster.”

He rustled my hair.

I smoothed it back. “That’s not true. Win—”

“He doesn’t even listen to himself! He jumps from whim to whim, but it seems to be working for him, so who am I to judge? And Alice . . .” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Did you know she’s thinking of applying for a sabbatical from the orchestra? Not medical leave, not maternity—that I know of—just a breather? Whatever that means?”

It meant carving out a corner of her life that had nothing to do with music. But Dad couldn’t even conceive of such a thing. Music was his snow globe.

“She might have mentioned it to me,” I said to the sidewalk.