“But . . . his music has such heart.”
I laughed. “And?”
“I’m not saying atheists can’t write great music, but a lot of the modernist and post-modern stuff leaves me cold. I like it, I appreciate it, the deconstruction is sort of . . . unnerving. Your dad’s stuff isn’t like that. Even his Jersey Suite is so humane. It’s wry, it’s a commentary, but you can hear grace in it.”
I knew what he meant. “Dad has a word for it. You must have heard it, working with him . . .”
“The ‘ineffable’?”
“That’s it.” I smiled.
“He’s mentioned it once or twice . . .”
“ . . . an hour.”
Oscar laughed. “Not sure I have a grasp on it yet. It being ineffable and all.”
“He gave a conductor talk once that finally made it make sense for me,” I said, turning the corner. “He definitely believes in that invisible piece, but he sees it as . . . the composer, basically. Every life experience you’ve ever had, every thought, memory—everything you bring to the piece before you sit down to write it, distilled into one magical element. It’s not God . . . it’s you. I started thinking about what that would sound like for me. If I could write music. Which I can’t, so . . . meh. It would sound like oh well.”
Oscar fell silent, working the ineffable out as we walked.
I watched him for a moment. “So you’re religious.”
“In my own way. My granddad’s a reverend, so . . .”
“What? How have we not talked about this?”
“Yeah, we’re Baptist. Grandpa’s seventy-two, so he’s pretty much retired now.”
Same age as Dad.
“He gets a guest pulpit from time to time, but he doesn’t have his own flock anymore. I think he likes staying above the fray. Church politics get pretty wild. Anyway, his faith and my faith are two different things. Mine’s more centered on music. Every song I write is a song of praise in its own way.”
“Wow,” I said. We’d reached the house.
“Are you an atheist?”
“I wouldn’t go that far? I think that I would prefer to believe in God, but . . . only if he likes me. Which isn’t exactly the tagline for Judaism.”
Oscar laughed. “Have you been to services?”
“Ah, no. I went to a Passover Seder at Leo’s place once. It was intense and ended with him screaming at Dad across the table and Mom storming out and Alice chasing her and Win cracking up the whole time. Leo turned conservative after he met his wife and since then, he hardly talks to the rest of us. We’re goyim now, I guess. Mom was raised Methodist, so technically he is too, but nobody ever points that out. It’s sad, though, he’s got a little boy and girl and they’re so cute. I’m an aunt—I think I told you that? But yeah. I mean, it’s nice that he has that faith! I’m happy for him. I do wonder what it would be like to be that . . . sure.”
Oscar was staring at me with a mix of sympathy and admiration.
“Your family is . . .” His voice drifted out.
“Live studio audience.”
“Hopefully you’ll like mine.”
“You think I’ll meet them?”
“I hope so.” HIs fingers laced into mine. “If only so my mom will admit I’m not making you up.”
“So . . . you wanna work some more?” I nodded upstairs. “Find the God piece? That sounds . . . wow.”
He grinned. “No, it’ll come.” He reached for his keys and started down to his apartment. “I’m gonna keep . . .”
His hand hovered an inch from the keyhole.
I waited a beat. Two. Three.
He whirled around, mad-scientist electrified. “I need voices.”
“Oh-kay?”
“This . . . this needs voices.” He hit his chest, like that was the cabinet where the music was being filed. “A choral symphony.”
“Jesus, Oscar . . .” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Amberley’s got a singing program.” He grabbed my hands. “No, listen, this is good. The third piece, the ineffable. I don’t even have to write the lyrics—it can be wordless, like Daphnis et Chloé, I can trust the music to speak to what this piece is saying.”
“What is this piece saying? Have you figured that out over burgers, or . . . ?”
Instead of answering, he pulled me into a kiss and staggered with me inside and I’d already forgotten my question by the time the door shut behind us.
He was distracted, though. I wasn’t totally surprised when his mouth drew back, eyes drifting, and he said, “Let me get a few things down.”
I sat on his bed, twirling my ankles while he lay on his stomach, scribbling, humming, scribbling some more. Then he handed me the sheet.
“Can you sight read?”
I scoffed. “Of course. I’m not that bad, Oscar.”
“Sight-sing, I mean.”
“Oh. Right now?”
I held the sheet out. Of course I could—that had always been my starting point with every keyboard piece, hearing the music, humming it in the shower. But I felt self-conscious, like this was some sort of audition.
I started, tentative, on a la, then stopped. “Is there a better vowel, or—?”
His eyes were closed. “That’s great, keep going.”
Knowing he was in the clouds while I stayed down here made this easier. I curled my legs under me and sang with more confidence, letting my voice fill the room, hesitating a few times on notes that at first felt peculiar and then, upon hearing them, perfectly conceived—flowers bursting from branches.
It paralleled the Cloisters theme. That through-line wasn’t written out here, but I had a hunch this vocal piece would work in tandem, choir and the orchestra dancing around each other before the Latin notes even came in. It wasn’t a debate anymore. It was a braid.
Oscar took the paper from me and scribbled something out, then rewrote a few notes differently, the tune climbing upward before dipping again to end on a low D. “Can you try it this way?”
I couldn’t understand why he’d changed the notes, what made this better, how he’d come up with it so effortlessly. But I pictured myself in a short toga and garland crown, holding a lyre, crooning into some dumbstruck Grecian’s ear.
“Of course,” I said, and sang.
* * *
• • •
Jules’s invitation came in a series of rapid-fire texts.
Double-date Wednesday, El Pueblo, 8pm, no outs because:
1–If you’re thinking of doing that thing where you get a boyfriend and vanish, NOT ON MY WATCH
2–I would prefer to dislike your boyfriend on his own merits and for that I have to hang out with him
3–Music brings everybody together lalalalala
I wasn’t sure what El Pueblo had to do with music until we got to the restaurant and found a sign on the door reading Wednesday Night Karaoke! I would have made a U-turn if there hadn’t been so many people walking in behind us.
Jules was already sitting at a corner table for four, scrolling through a black book with laminated pages.
She looked up at me. “I picked you out a song!”
“Holy no,” I muttered.
“I love karaoke!” Oscar waved. “Jules! So great to finally hang out.”
“I know, right?” Jules narrowed her eyes at me while slapping Oscar’s hand.
“I’m not singing,” I said.
Jules flipped another page. “And I ordered us nachos.”
I glanced around while Oscar scooted my chair in for me. “Where’s Tyler?”
“Mars. Antarctica. Stuck on the 1, impossible to tell.”
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“I’m used to it. So. Oscar.” She leaned forward. “What level of genius would you say you are?”
“Jules.” E
very ounce of energy I had went into my glare.
“Like Isaac Newton genius or dolphins-are-actually-really-smart genius?”
But Oscar was stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I would say that I am . . . Marvel villain-level genius.”
Jules nodded. “Interesting. Go on.”
“Yeah, so I can concoct a plan, it’s big, it’s impressive, but in the end, I’m still going to get my ass beat.”
“Self-awareness.” Jules pointed at him. “I like that.”
I laughed, but watched him, hoping he didn’t really believe that.
Applause rang out from the next table as a girl finished singing some song I didn’t recognize. I clapped along.
“Ruby Chertok, you’re up!” said the man with the mic.
“What. I. No.” Everyone was looking at me.
“Yay!” Jules stood and clapped. “You can do it!”
“You are such an asshole,” I growled.
She curtsied.
“Ruby Chertok?” they called again.
Oscar’s smile dropped. He leaned in. “You don’t have to. They’ll go on to the next person and we’ll eat some nachos. Let’s eat some nachos!”
He was thinking about Wing Club—I wanted to jump into his lap and kiss him. I wanted to curl into a ball from the memory. Instead I wobbled upright.
Jules waved for me to sit back down. “It was a dumb joke, you don’t have to actually—”
“I’ll do it.” I shrugged, with effort. “It’s singing, it’s fine.”
Jules let out a surprised whoop and Oscar started clapping along.
I wandered to the mic. “I don’t even know the song.”
The guy with the mic winked. “Everybody knows this song.”
And crap, the music had already started and I was holding the mic. In the middle of a Mexican restaurant with big windows open to Amsterdam. But I needed to do this. This was silly, pointless, the lowest of low culture, and dear God above, I had to see something through.
The words Tommy used to work on the docks appeared onscreen.
I opened my mouth, silent.
“Come on!” Jules shouted. The music kept playing.
I shrugged wildly. “I don’t know it!”
Some frat boys at the bar started to boo, as well they should. I couldn’t even make it through a karaoke song. I buried my face in my elbow, the mic making a long scratching sound on my hair, when a terrible voice rang out through the speakers.
“She brings home her pay for love . . . for looooove!”
I opened my eyes to see Oscar standing next to me with his own mic, taking up the reins of whatever song this . . . wait, I did think I knew it! And here came Jules too, sprinting across the restaurant to lean into the mic and sing along.
By the time we got to the chorus, I had it and I was singing too, all three of us together, cacophonous, laughing.
I didn’t even notice when they dropped out. I just knew I’d finished “Livin’ on a Prayer” by myself and didn’t die and even got a standing toast from those drunk guys.
“Damn you’ve got a good voice,” Jules said, pulling me happily back to our table.
“Doesn’t she?” Oscar beamed proudly and I couldn’t help but beam back.
I’d survived. I’d stood up and embarrassed myself in front of an audience and emerged unscathed. My heart continued to beat. My stomach continued to rumble. I was me, a bit braver.
“Bravo,” said Tyler, appearing from nowhere to plop down at our table, stealing a bite of the nachos we didn’t even know had arrived. “Sorry I’m late.”
Jules ignored him as she sat, her eyes locked on mine, waiting until the boys were locked in conversation to give me a barely perceptible thumbs-up, marking her approval of Oscar.
I waited for my chance to return the favor with Ty. It never quite came.
27.
“so?” Oscar turned, arms outstretched.
After hours of debate, this was the chosen look—hair supernaturally natural, dark skin shining, smile stupefying, a soft button-down with faint blue stripes, pale gray pants, lace-up brown boots, a bow tie in deep green that I couldn’t believe wasn’t a clip-on until I saw him retie it with my own eyes. He looked like he should be riding a unicycle on his way to the polo grounds.
“Perfection,” I said, kissing his cheek and breathing in minty aftershave. “Let’s taxi it so you don’t melt.”
His expression wavered between a giddy grin and a deep frown the entire ride to Lincoln Center, his hand clenching mine with every turn.
“You’re going to do great,” I said as we walked across the plaza to Amberley. “Just be yourself.”
“I wish you were interviewing me.”
“Oh yeah, all my incisive questions . . . ‘Tell me Oscar, what do you feel like for lunch?’ ‘Who would win in a keyboard battle, Bach or Liszt?’”
“Bach. Next question.”
“Maybe I’ll become a TV journalist,” I joked.
Oscar pointed to me. “Maybe.”
“I’ll keep it on the list.”
“On the Liszt?” Oscar said, nudging me, then his shoulders slumped. “God, I’m nervous. Don’t let me pun in front of Shawna.”
“I’m sure you’ll conduct yourself just fine.” I pushed him. “Get it, get it?”
He covered his face.
“You’ll end the interview on a high note—I’m stopping, sorry.”
The antiseptic smell of the Amberley administrative offices hit us like a wall as soon as we stepped inside the marble lobby, like we’d entered some sort of sealed-off lab. There weren’t any students milling around today—just news people waiting with clipboards and microphone gear.
A blonde with a tight braid perked up at the sight of us. “Oscar Bell?”
“Yes!” He extended a hand.
She lifted a finger, hoisting her phone to her ear.
“He’s here. Second floor? On our way.” Then she finally shook back, swiveling on her heels to push the elevator button. “I’m Libby, Ms. Oneida’s assistant.”
Ms. Oneida? The producer, maybe?
“Everyone’s waiting in Mr. Chertok’s office.”
“Oh.” Oscar held his arm through the elevator door until I stepped through. “Is, ah, Mr. Chertok there as well?”
“He is!” She beamed like she was an elf taking Oscar to see Santa, then stepped through the opening elevator door and pointed to the hall. “All the way on the right.”
I tried my best not to smirk. I knew the way to my dad’s office, thank you very much, but since this woman hadn’t so much as glanced at me, I didn’t feel the need to volunteer that information. My eyes darted to Oscar’s, but he was looking away, adjusting his bow tie like it was strangling him.
I heard a funny chattering halfway down the hall—the Mystery Spot, I’d named it as a kid—the two square feet where on one particularly bored day, I’d discovered a trick of the ventilation system that let you eavesdrop straight into Dad’s office. Dad talked to himself a lot, so I’d found it an endless source of ridiculousness over the years.
Out of habit, I slowed my step, veered right toward the overhead grate, and heard an unfamiliar voice saying, “Don’t let your moment get swallowed up by his mome . . .”
Oscar glanced back, reaching for my hand. I grabbed on, my skin going cold.
As we reached Dad’s thick oak door, it started to open, pulled by a red-haired woman, her face so identical to Nora’s that I nearly went in for the requisite cheek kiss before realizing that this cheek was a foot higher than it should have been.
“The wonder boy, eeeeee!” she squealed to the room, simultaneously shaking Oscar’s hand and tugging him inside. “I’m Nancy Oneida, Nora’s sister. Tessa’s mom. You’ve probably seen me lurking around Farnwell at school functions.” She winked. “But it
is such a pleasure to officially meet you.”
“You too!” Oscar said, way too loud. He was nervous.
“And don’t you look dapper.” She started to shut the door before I could walk in. I pushed it and her eyes looked through me. “Oscar . . .” She turned. “Would your friend mind waiting downstairs? This is a small room and we need to start getting focused—”
Nora swooshed into the doorway. “Nancy. This is Marty’s daughter! Ruby sweetie, ignore her, come on in.”
Nancy gasped. “You’re Ruby Chertok. Oh my God, I am mortified!”
“It’s fine.” I smiled. “Don’t feel bad.”
She reached over to hug me, and I stiffened until she let go and I could turn to Nora for an air-kiss.
Dad waved from his desk, his shoulders jittering with silent laughter. “You’re ‘Oscar’s friend’ now, Rooster. How do you like that for a title?”
I ducked into the dimmest corner of the room to hide my sinking expression. He hadn’t meant to be mean. He couldn’t have known how that would cut.
My favorite spot in Dad’s office was an Empire-style chair beside two built-in cabinets. I lowered myself into it now, careful not to jostle the sixteenth-century lute perched precariously on the second shelf. Sitting in my usual place, I felt like another piece of antique furniture. Not in a bad way. In an “I belong here” way.
“So, are you an item?” Nancy asked, her shrewd eyes dancing merrily between us. “I wasn’t sure if this was creative drama on Nora’s part, but you two certainly look cozy.”
Oscar smiled sheepishly at me. “Ah . . .”
I beamed back in confirmation.
But Nancy wasn’t looking. “We can chitchat later. Let’s get you changed first. Shawna’s people are going to be ready in about ten.”
“Changed?” Oscar glanced at himself. “Like . . . clothes, or—?”
“Yes.” Nancy pressed her fingertips to her lips, looking at Oscar’s outfit. “See, I love this, but I think if you wear something more . . . teenaged?” She glanced at Nora. Nora nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got something that I think will have more impact. This is your big spotlight moment!”
Night Music Page 21