He laughed, a sudden blast. “No. It’s a PlayStation game. It’s kind of old but my friend TJ is hardcore into it, so . . .”

He held up his phone. It looked like it had been dropped on hard floors a few hundred times.

I smiled. “Hi, TJ.”

Oscar wiggled his phone like it was saying hi back. Then he pocketed it.

“He, ah, calls a lot, on his headset thing . . . So, where are you taking me?”

I skipped a little at the question. “Only to the best-reviewed patisserie on the Upper West Side.”

He clapped, delighted. “That has got to be the whitest thing I’ve heard you say.”

A laugh burst out of me. “What if I’d said ‘most exclusive’?”

“Ooh, that’s whiter.”

“‘Upper East Side . . .’”

“Throw in something about how they sell treats for your goldendoodle—”

“How did you know? We go there every week after Barkley’s massage!”

“You win. Stop or my head will explode.”

L’Orangerie was open until nine on Saturdays, so we made it by two minutes. The girl behind the counter avoided eye contact, clearing out the display counters, when the owner walked in from the back of the shop, polite-face curdling at the sight of us.

Not us, exactly. She was squinting at Oscar. And my jokes about white people no longer seemed so funny.

“Closed,” she said in her light Parisian accent. I gave a grudging wave and watched as recognition bloomed. “Oh! Yes, come in, we can serve one more.”

“Two more,” I corrected.

“How is your father? Please tell him I say hello.”

I bit back a knee-jerk “I will” and turned away. I didn’t even know this woman’s name, just that with Mom gone, half the ladies-of-a-certain-age in Manhattan thought they had a shot with the Martin Chertok. But I didn’t like how it felt knowing that my face was what turned this woman’s expression into artificial sweetener, like we were in the same noxious club. I wouldn’t tell Dad a thing.

Oscar was whistling Grieg, scrutinizing what remained in the display case. He glanced at me. I kept my eyes on the food. Tarte au citron, petit gateaux chocolate, a couple of sagging croissants, and—

“Those fruit tarts, please!” I chirped to the shop girl, pointing into the glass. “And a lemonade.”

“Two fruit tarts?” Oscar side-eyed me. “You mean business.”

“One’s for you, you have to try it.”

“Your face right now!” He laughed. “You’re taking this pastry thing seriously.”

“I take everything seriously,” I said, but cracked a smile. “Get whatever else, it’s my treat.”

“No, let me—”

“I’ve got it.”

I usually hated these arguments, but this one felt like a dance.

“Okay.” He nudged me. “Next time.”