It smelled like alcohol in here, of which we could not partake, due to our underage hand stamps. The noise was raucous, the decor straight-up dive. Nothing like a symphony space. But I got a thrill when we found our spots at the front of the balcony and looked down at the empty, set-up stage, holding its breath for the music to start.

Then it did, everybody roaring as the warmup band took the stage. The crowd knew two of the songs well enough to sing along, then ignored the other ones, chatting while the band kept playing. It seemed as rude to me here as it had at the Wing Club, so I stayed quiet and listened, letting Jules carry the conversation.

“I’m so liberated! Is this how you felt after giving Amberley the shaft? I’m sure it just hasn’t hit me yet. I’ll miss him, I’ll second-guess, but right now I’m, like, flying over the Grand Canyon, letting out my eagle cry.”

She actually did an eagle cry. I shot her a laughing thumbs-up.

Oscar was probably mid-rehearsal at Lilly Hall right now—the last work-through. Tomorrow would be the dress, two full run-throughs without stopping, and then . . . the big night.

I would be terrified—and I’d grown up in that world. As much as I’d always chafed at it, I was somebody who could hide in the wings there, slide into the shadows, but not Oscar. They’d never given him the chance. From day one, Nora and Bill had segregated him right there at the top. Oscar Bell. African American YouTube sensation, playing live tonight at Wing Club. Step right up and see the eighth wonder of the world.

Even I hadn’t been immune to it. My very first impression of Oscar was that I’d hallucinated him. I hadn’t been able to reconcile him in that moment with the music he was playing. How long had it taken me to really see him? How long would it take everybody else?

No wonder he’d been having anxiety attacks. No wonder he’d shut himself in rehearsal rooms and stopped sleeping until the symphony was complete. And now it was time to present it to the world. The grandest exhibition of all.

All the sound got sucked out of the ballroom, truth hitting me in hard blasts.

Oscar needed me. Right now. And I was at a rock concert.

Before guilt could overwhelm me, the mezzanine lights went dark, and everybody screamed their heads off. Kudzu Giants were coming on.

I’d googled them this morning and listened to some of their stuff, but I didn’t know the song they were opening with. Others seemed to, a ripple of excitement pulsing through the crowd. It was weird—some sea shanty, filtered through an indie rock lens. I tried to relax, sipped my ginger ale, listened with an open mind.