“Diversity is a huge push for us here at Amberley.” Bill’s usual android expression was replaced with a politician’s thoughtful squint. “We want our student body to reflect our community. And we want the music of the future to breathe the air of this generation—what they experience out there on the streets.”

On the streets? What was he even talking about?

“Our mission moving forward is singular—a diverse student body,” Nora chimed in, patting Oscar’s hand. I knew that gesture well. “But I want to tell you . . . Oscar is not just the vanguard of that, he is a star in his own right.”

I stood again to turn in a slow, stunned circle, too angry to speak. Of course Oscar Fucking Bell is a star in his own right. Nobody would have thought otherwise if you hadn’t said that! What was the matter with her?

I remembered suddenly that little snippet of conversation I’d overheard through the vents, her sister—Don’t let your moment get swallowed up by his moment.

They cut to the most awkward campus tour imaginable—Dad and Bill poking their heads into, one: a rehearsal room where what might have been the summer program’s sole Latina student was practicing the French horn, two: a voice class led by a famous black coloratura I seriously doubted had time to teach, and three: a quartet comprised of two South Asians and two white kids with olive complexions performing a piece that I knew for a fact they’d swapped the wrong instruments in for, just to throw these people together for the photo op.

The piece ended with a too-quick shot of Oscar conducting again, then a link to the school’s fundraising page. I stood, numb, watching the morning news anchors transition to a segment about India-inspired cocktails.

“I’m going to donate,” Grandma Jean said, rewinding to the screen with the fundraising info. “I think it’s wonderful what they’re doing there.”

I watched her, reeling, as she jogged past me to her computer. “What do you think they’re doing?”

“Helping those kids. Getting them off the streets and into a better life.”

I bit back a scream. “You really don’t need to donate, Grandma.”

“I’d like to!” She was already typing.

And the dots connected themselves. The costume Oscar had had to wear. The push to make his premiere a fundraiser. The “new agenda” for the school. This was about making the river flow.

The world went white as if from the burst of a flashbulb. Even that visit from Nora, that stack of college brochures, getting me into the symphony choir—it was all designed to keep Oscar on track, wasn’t it? He was their cash cow. And now he knew.