Back in my room, my hair still dripping, I gazed at the dusky sidewalk below—and saw Oscar leave the basement apartment wearing a tuxedo. It fit him loosely in the shoulders, but still looked as natural as a T-shirt on him. I pulled my soft robe tighter in case he happened to look up. Then I felt the front door shut downstairs, seconds before Dad joined him on the curb, dressed to the nines himself.

A black sedan pulled up and Nora got out, auburn bob and LEGO posture telltale even at this distance. She lightly touched Oscar’s shoulder, smoothed the sides of her little black dress, and motioned to the car.

I rested my head against the glass. Dad was the Met’s musical director and Oscar was his pet protégé. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that they would be going to the gala?

Because Dad didn’t invite me.

Nora glanced up at my window. I stepped back, feeling caught in my lie. By the time I dared look, the car was gone, leaving me in an empty house.

Empty’s good. Empty’s the plan. I stretched my arms over my head—but the silence didn’t feel like a balm. It was heavy, dusty, full. The house sounded like it had the night after Mom left. Like we were all in the process of moving out.

I dropped my arms. I’d said I had plans.

I was going to get some.

I tugged on clothes, knotted my hair into a bun, grabbed my bag, and hurried down the block—two stoops away, Jules’s building.

I scanned the row of buzzers for the name Russo, to no avail. Which apartment was hers? She lived with her grandmother, who must have had a different last name . . . which, of course, I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t even been this close to her building’s front door since I was ten.

Just as I was about to give up, I saw Jules tromping down the stairs inside and waved.

She cocked her head, frowning as she came out. “Are you looking for me?”

“You said we should catch up later. So I thought I’d give you a try.” I kept smiling, feeling more like a stalker than ever.

“That’s sweet,” she said sourly. Her eyes dropped down my body. “You don’t look terrible.”

“I don’t look terrible. Um.” Black leggings, gray silk flats, random, ill-fitting T-shirt. “I didn’t even look at these when I put them on.”