“The Summer Symphony.” No. Nonononono. “When? I . . .”

“Right before classes started. They said it was a barter agreement. In lieu of tuition, they’d accept my music as payment.” He groaned, sliding down the wall until he was sitting. “Like I said, it seemed fine, like a scholarship. I mean—who turns down a scholarship? So I signed, but then I told my mom and she was livid. I’ve kind of avoided talking to her since then.”

“Since the beginning of the program?” I remembered the way he’d rushed me off the phone while I was gone, how confused it had made me. Then my brain hit rewind. “Wait, you keep saying ‘they.’ Who was there when this happened?”

“Nora Visser, Bill Rustig, Sally Chen, the bursar . . .”

I braced myself.

“Marty.”

A headache bloomed behind one eye, flashed, died. “Yeah.”

Of all people, Dad would have known what this meant.

Oscar leaned forward, trying to gauge my reaction. “It was a bad deal, wasn’t it?”

These people were beyond despicable. Oscar spent weeks upon weeks pouring his blood and soul into this music, and he’d never see a dime from it for the rest of his life.

This wasn’t just a bad deal. It was a Faustian one.

But there was something flickering under Oscar’s watchful expression—a desperate kind of hope. He needed every ounce of confidence he could gather to make it to that podium tomorrow night. He had to show up. If he didn’t, it would destroy him creatively—not to mention obliterate all the momentum he’d made in building a name for himself this summer.

“Don’t even think about it.” I kept my voice light. “You own it creatively, and who gives a shit about the rest, right? This is just the beginning of your career. But from now on, yes, you should probably have somebody else look at your contracts. And you should call your mom!”

“I will.” He breathed hard, neck tensing. “As soon as the concert’s done and my head is clear and . . .”

I picked his cell phone up from the stacked-luggage nightstand. “Why not now? Call her on the way to campus. I’ll be—”

“I can’t.”

I dropped the phone onto his bed. “Okay.”

I wasn’t going to push him. Not now. He had to navigate this, and I had to find ways to help him that wouldn’t send him back into a locked rehearsal room.

For today, linked arms and a stand-up routine consisting entirely of Popsicle stick jokes was enough to get him out the door and all the way to Lilly Hall, where I bid him good-bye with a kiss on the cheek and a cheerful wave.

Then I turned, smile gone, spine straightening into a blade. Oscar needed to stay in the light, to focus on the music. I didn’t need a damn thing.