The night was easier after that. We slipped back into the club and after another sneaky Shirley Temple—Sam started calling them Shirley Temple Blacks, the actress’ grown-up name—I even attempted to dance for like three minutes.

After a mysterious argument with Tyler in the corner of the club that ended with a public make-out session, Jules grabbed my hand, waved good-bye to the others, and marched us back outside to hail a taxi home.

“This was fun,” I said, getting out at her building.

“This was the usual.” She sounded strangely sad about it. But her face lightened as she extended her hand. “Give me your cell phone.” She typed something in and passed it back. “Text me if you feel like coming over. I’m skipping the run tomorrow, but if you want to join me Tuesday—”

“Yes! See you then.”

New friends. New topics of conversation. The new and awesome normal.

The light was off in the basement apartment. Oscar was probably out, not that it was any of my business. I glanced at the time on my phone as I fumbled for my keys—and nearly dropped my bag.

One in the morning. I did not do this. Ever. My dad must have filed a missing person report. I held my breath, tiptoeing into the house, primed for yells, “young lady”s, the sound of the door being blow-torched shut behind me.

But I hadn’t gotten any frantic calls on my cell. No texts, nothing.

All the lights were off. I had to fumble my way to the steps to my bedroom. I saw a scribbled note resting against my closed door, Dad’s handwriting.

Working with Oscar at Lincoln Center tomorrow. Lilly Hall. Be a doll and bring us some of those pastries I like? 9am or so. xo Dad.

I sat on the top step, staring at the note. I let out an empty laugh. Then I crumpled it and threw it at the ceiling.

10.

my stomach clenched as I reached the Amberley campus. I trod on, swinging the bag of pastries like a wrecking ball.

Colossal gleaming walls, iconic fountain dancing in the middle of the dizzying plaza, banners waving for performances to come, tourists snapping pics—and just around the corner, Lilly Hall. This is okay, this is fine.

I dared a look around the school’s side courtyard, playing Spot the Musician, which took me all of ten seconds. Two skinny white guys sat on the edge of a planter eating bagel sandwiches, talking animatedly while their feet idly tapped a steady rhythm. Percussionists. Two whispering girls passed me on their way to the dorms, cradling hot venti Starbucks cups. Vocal program. A gangly South Asian kid nearly ran smack into me, his expression fuzzy, fingers frantically tapping the straps of his enormous backpack.

Keyboard program. He’s working on a piece in his head.

I stopped walking for a second. Shoved it all down and kept going.