A droplet of sweat trickled down my back. My breath felt funny, like my veins were full of ginger ale. And I was overdressed again in a long-sleeved cotton dress, looking like a shut-in who got locked out of her apartment.

The truth was, apart from commuting, my life till now had rolled out inside the confines of my air-conditioned house, school, rehearsal rooms, performance spaces. I got cold easily, I bundled up. But this real-life air was sticky-hot and the sun hadn’t even reached the skyline yet.

The park felt cooler, at least, dew dampening my bare ankles as I walked the green path toward the sheep meadow, where there hadn’t been sheep for a good eighty-five years. The smell of grass here was heady and strong. I sat against a tree, pulled out my notebook, clicked a fresh pen, and thought about my next big step toward making an impact.

And thought. And zoned out. And pictured Oscar in the doorway, stopped myself, refocused. Wrote:

Buy clothes.

And couldn’t think of anything else.

Not, stretch, morning scales, Czerny, Brahms, battle with Liszt, wind-down with Schumann—just . . . shopping? To go to fundraisers, be a part of that world, I needed new clothes. Still. How empty. How . . . surface.

I shut my eyes for a second, blotting out the thought of what Mom would say, then scribbled:

Follow up with Nora re: possibilities at the Met—*museum, NOT opera*

There. New life. New interests. It wasn’t a lie. It was a pivot.

As I was sinking into images of dusting off some gilded antiquity, wearing glasses I didn’t need, a real image jostled me back—a recognizable blur. She passed at a light clip without so much as a nod, our standard non-greeting for the past six years.

I usually looked away. Today, I gawked.

Julie Russo had the outfit, new-looking sneakers, the almost crisp blond ponytail, music gear, the whole thing. She didn’t look like a runner, though. She traced a zigzag down the footpath and her lips were clenched like she hadn’t figured out how to exhale and run at the same time. Not that I was any expert. I only ran for buses and didn’t even catch them most of the time.

The Julie I used to know was a loud talker, sporadic baker, collector of plastic horses—and later, I’d surmised from down-the-street observation, a late-night partier, attractor of boys, winner of screaming matches. But a runner?

I stared at the two items in my transformation notebook. I stared at Julie’s retreating ponytail. And then I sprinted after her.

“Julie! Hey!” She didn’t look back.

A full turn around the volleyball courts and skate park before she finally stopped to tie her shoe, but when I caught her, I found to my surprise that she was as winded as I was, and oh my God was I winded.