It felt like the current was with me. I made every light all the way to campus. My watch said 4:16. Just a few days until the premiere, so they’d be rehearsing the full program daily.

Halfway across the plaza, I looked up at Lilly Hall—and nearly fell over. Oscar was on a banner, a monumental version of him, conducting at the podium in silhouette, his natural hair amplified by a graphic designer’s curlicued illustrations.

They’d made him an icon. I wondered if they’d asked him first.

Quick movement drew my attention—Liz Trombly heading toward Lilly Hall—and I teetered under a wash of guilt. Oh no. I’d never told her I was quitting the choir.

I peered up at the sky, remembering that feeling of expansion I had in the airplane only hours ago. I’d apologize, check it off my list, feel that much freer. One less tie to the ridiculousness of my old life.

I jogged to Liz. She glanced over and her face closed off like I was a panhandler.

“Liz, hi,” I started. “I am so sorry I vanished on you. Some life things came up, but I should have called and let you know and—”

“I wasn’t surprised.”

“Oh.” I had no response to that. “Well . . . again, I apologize. I hope it wasn’t too big an inconvenience.” I smiled, hoping to convey what we both knew—that I’d added precisely nothing to the work she was doing.

Liz didn’t react.

I coughed, waving toward Lilly Hall. “Has rehearsal started? I just landed, but—”

“Ruby.” Liz crossed her arms over her chest, like she might explode if she didn’t physically hold herself together. “My God. You are not a member of this choir anymore. You missed two weeks of rehearsals—”

“Oh. No!” She hadn’t understood. I let out a nervous laugh. “I’m not trying to—”

“I know this is a lark for you, Ruby, and you’re used to getting what you want, but this matters to us. Do you understand that? It’s in our blood. These kids”—she pointed at the Amberley dorms—“get up and practice until they’re exhausted and then do it all over again. They’ve devoted their entire lives to this.”

“I . . .” I tried to speak, say, I know, I know, I know, but I let it dry up in my mouth.

I could tell Liz that I’d bled for this too. I’d spent four hours a day practicing the piano for the past seven years, back aching, wrists screaming, fingertips dulled, the rest of what passed for a life falling by the wayside, that it was the great unrequited love of my life, but she’d think I was lying. And what difference did it make in the end, anyway?

She wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t like them.