Even without seeing Dad’s face, I could sense the reverence on it. He tapped the piano lid. “This is going to be a good summer.”

This summer. In my house. The summer I was supposed to find solace, clarity, a series of days that had nothing to do with music.

Mr. Prodigy—Oscar—was still playing, oblivious to all damage. His song surrounded me, a trap, one strand slipping around the other—

I was in motion. To the coat-tree. The porcelain key bowl. Bag, keys, ponytail holder into hair, me into the sweltering street. The music trailed me out, Oscar Bell’s voice following after.

“Oh. Hey, sorry if . . . It was nice to meet you, Ruby!”

Never missing a note.

2.

behind me, I heard Amberley students arguing over which way to tilt the bed through our basement door—the city din, the slam of the back of a delivery truck, a distant jackhammer, none of it enough to drown out the sound of my piano—until I reached the stoop two buildings down, where a blond girl in running gear was tying her sneaker, screaming into her cell phone.

“That’s how you want to do this? Really? I don’t know, you could be supportive?”

For the first time, I glanced back. Not because Julie Russo was yelling. Because she was wearing running gear.

Her eyes drifted to mine. She blinked slowly, a challenge, just as Dad stepped back onto the street behind me, shaking hands with the Amberley kids—all those brilliant musicians hauling dorm furniture, what a travesty—and I had to walk faster.

I could go to the courtyard. God knew it was quiet. But I didn’t want to pollute it with how I felt right now.

Central Park swayed across the street, a border to cross. I sprinted through the crosswalk as the light stopped flashing, then past a watercolorist’s easel, a pretzel stand, a busker playing the flute, “Danse de la Chèvre,” so clear, I could practically feel ice crunching on grass, wind surging down—

I kept going until I couldn’t hear the flute anymore. Just bikes ticking along the path behind me. Ducks squabbling on the lake. My wool cardigan, hot. Itchy.

I found a bench and sat, watching the world spin on.

Was this the plan? No, it was not.

Dad was supposed to be doing his “in residence” thing, presiding over the Amberley School of Music’s prestigious teen summer program, preparing the upcoming Met season, being the human mascot for Lincoln Center. I was supposed to cover the pianos in our living room with tasteful dust sheets, enjoy the silence, smother every mope, hide from prying questions, take the opportunity to . . .

To . . .

No idea.

When I reached the shadow-dappled edge of the park again, the honk-clamor-shriek of Central Park West splashed me like a puddle. I checked my phone for the time.

4:07. Still a few hours left in the day to accomplish . . . something?