“Harmony. You know, you have the theme . . . bah-dum-dum, deedly-dum. Dumdum.” He sang the tune—clumsily; thank God there was something he wasn’t good at—while clapping the rhythm like a dance. “And then you could do an undercurrent, vrum-vrum-vrum-vrum progression, a Haydn kind of deal. Or you could ornament it even more, like my boy Wolfgang. Undermine it, make it an abstraction, there’s a million ways you could go.”

He fell silent.

I glanced over. “Why are you looking at me?”

“I want to know what you think!”

I shrugged, laughing, but he still seemed to expect some insight. “You need to write what you want to write. There’s no, like, absolute correct answer.”

“That’s what Marty—um, your dad says. I’ve got to find my own voice. I’ve kind of never thought of it that way. I was always playing around. It’s like, what are those people who write extra chapters of books online . . . ?”

“Fan fiction?”

“Yes! Bri’s into that. And it’s what I’ve always done—I write symphonies in the style of Mozart because I love Mozart symphonies and I want there to be more of them.”

“There are forty-one!”

“Fifty if you count mine.” He rubbed his palms together. “Fan composition. That’s my thing.”

“Time. Out.” I stopped. “You’ve written nine symphonies. Full—?”

“In the style of Mozart,” he corrected, walking backward again. “Couple of Beethoven symphonies, pieces for piano and violin—Chopin, Schumann, easy stuff—singspiels, a Joplin rag, a Strauss waltz . . .” He beamed. “That one was tough! You need a hook or it’s not danceable.”

I was so thrown that it took me a second to realize we were back at the house. Half the lights were off upstairs. Win and Alice must have left already.

“This was . . .” Oscar looked like he was searching for the right word, but gave up with an exhalation. He motioned to the basement apartment and I felt an almost physical tug toward it. “I’ve got this keyboard, that’s it, but I could play you some of the stuff I was working through last night . . .”

“Oh.” I stepped back. “I’ve got an early morning. I’m going jogging. And . . .”

And nothing.

“Wow. Jogging.”

“Yeah. Jogging? Running?” I leaned against the stoop rail. “Running. It’s new. We’ll see. But I’ve got to get out super—”

“I should wind down too,” Oscar cut in.

“Dad does like to work early, so . . .”

“I have to rewire myself. I’m not great at sleeping when I’m supposed to be sleeping, working when I’m supposed to . . . you get it.”

I did, sort of. I wondered how he got through high school, but if I asked him, it would extend tonight even further and I would absolutely find myself going downstairs and sitting on his dorm bed and . . . not . . . sleeping . . .

“Good night,” I said, not firmly at all.