“I had two slices of pizza like an hour ago. But thank you kindly.”

“New York City pizza.” He turned to me, electrified, like he’d just woken up from a nightmare in which pizza did not exist. “Is there a—”

I laughed. “Of course there’s an app.”

A blast of arctic air hit me from the open doorway of a boutique and I closed my eyes in rapture. When I opened them, the building ahead—cherry-red brick, green awnings—made my throat go dry. The corner studio on the second floor had musical notes plastered on its windows. A plump figure moved past, clapping her hands in time with a metronome. As much as the sight of her stung, I kept staring.

I hadn’t seen Mrs. Swenson since the afternoon in April when I’d turned up to our Monday lesson and told her I was done. She’d seemed sad—actually regretful, not “put on a good show for the sake of my famous dad” sad. I’d promised to keep in touch, but so far, I hadn’t. I lived in vague dread of bumping into her on the street.

Oscar was looking up into Mrs. Swenson’s window now too. His eyes drifted to mine. “Friend of yours?”

“Yes, Oscar, everyone in New York knows each other.”

He looked away, laughing, subject avoided. But I could still feel him taking mental photographs of everything we passed. He swiveled to read the curlicued name of a florist, then turned to nod at a guy loading beer kegs into the cellar of a sports bar. His fascination was a floodlight—illuminating a purple bike chained to a rack, the blue fence of a sidewalk café, two kids on scooters with stickers on their helmets, chatter peppering the air, engines purring, doors opening, pigeons coasting, the wind lifting my braid, rushing past my legs . . .

Oscar was watching me now. Probably because I looked as touristy as he did.

“Sooooo,” I said. “How does a kid from the suburbs get into classical music?”

“Same way as a city kid. I listened to it.”

I raised my eyebrows, challenge accepted. “Who’s your favorite composer?”

A grin shot across his face, then he shut his mouth like he was talking himself out of answering.

“Holy crap.” I stopped walking. “You were going to say yourself, weren’t you?”

His eyes lit up. He looked away.

I pointed at him. “Admit it!”