Music surged as soon as I stepped from the lobby into the hall—“Mercury” from The Planets. The full orchestra was up on the stage, and the players were clearly my age. Summer program kids. Dad was conducting, talking to them . . . a real honor. He swished his baton, motioning for them to stop, which they did, messily. It was their first day together, everybody slightly out of synch, but Dad seemed pleased to bits. He shouted, “Yes!” then waved for someone else to fill his place.

Oscar? I paused in my step to watch him, dizzy from the vertigo of spotting someone you’ve just met in a completely new context. He nodded, clearly nervous as he took the baton from Dad with a bow. Then, as Dad walked away, he straightened, gesturing grandly toward the wing Dad had disappeared into, and the orchestra burst into applause, as if Oscar had compelled them to do so.

I blinked hard, trying to figure out what I’d seen.

Something happened the instant Oscar touched that baton. His energy changed, becoming visible, palpable, even from here. His posture was perfect, arms primed and ready as he took to the podium. Then he lifted the baton—and began.

They played. At his command. Yeah, this was what orchestras did, but he looked like an actual sorcerer. He shushed the woodwinds, drew them out louder, cracked a beat to ignite the strings, and kept the pulse of the piece pounding like his own heart. The entire hall was crackling with power, filling with sparks.

And he was doing it.

“He’s talented. No wonder Kat was talking about him.”

I whipped around, my eyes adjusting slowly to the darkened hall. There were two girls in the back row in slouchy dresses, hair pinned up tight. Ballet students, from next door. Why were they taking their break here?

“How old?” one murmured to the other.

“Don’t know. Old enough. He’s hot.”

“Kat was totally right.”

Who the hell was Kat? Was she another dancer? Why did I hate her so much?

I hurried to the side of the stage where Dad stood watching the podium like Oscar was juggling knives.

“Dad.” I held out the bag of pastries. He kept bobbing his head with the music, eyebrows knotted as he made mental notes. “Dad.”

He startled. “Oh! Thank you!”

I waved, hoping for a quick good-bye, but he leaned in to kiss my cheek, which made me smile despite myself.

Then he whispered, “See?” and motioned to the stage.

I wasn’t even sure why Oscar was here. Was this a conducting clinic? Was he taking the helm of the school’s orchestra? Listening, I realized it amounted to the same thing. Day one, this assured. He knew the music like he was thinking it up, breathing it out. And the orchestra fell in line, totally in his thrall.