{"product_id":"night-music-isbn-9780735228771","title":"Night Music","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"A dreamy summer rom-com that'll make you believe in love again.\" --Bustle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"Full of not only sigh-inducing swoons but the social commentary [Thorne] is talented at writing.\" --Paste\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMusic was Ruby's first love, but did it ever love her back? After a nightmare audition at the music school where her famous father teaches, the answer to this question is unavoidable. And so, it seems, is Oscar Bell. Musical genius, YouTube sensation, and her dad's new protégé, Oscar is the last person Ruby needs in her life. Being around him feels dangerously like being with her first love again--except music never kissed her like this. Oscar is falling for Ruby too, but he knows how it'll look to the ultra-privileged, ultra-white world of classical music--a Black guy dating his mentor's white daughter. As the New York City summer heats up, though, so does the spark between them. Can two people still figuring themselves out figure out how to be together? And will Ruby get over her first love in time to save what she has with her second?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Delightful...Hits all the right notes.\" \u003c\/b\u003e--Mackenzi Lee, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Seriously swoony...I loved it.\" \u003c\/b\u003e--Rachel Hawkins, author of \u003ci\u003eRoyals\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Sweet and intense...[An] engrossing romance with a social conscience.\" \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e--Kirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Utterly romantic.\"\u003c\/b\u003e --Tanaz Bhathena, author of \u003ci\u003eA Girl Like That\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Full of heart and humor. It crackles with energy.\" \u003c\/b\u003e--Kelly Loy Gilbert, author of \u003ci\u003ePicture Us in the Light\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Timely and romantic.\" \u003c\/b\u003e--\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Beautiful, heartfelt, aware, and raw.\"\u003c\/b\u003e --Lauren Gibaldi, author of \u003ci\u003eThis Tiny Perfect World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Thoughtful, nuanced.\"\u003c\/b\u003e --\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e★ \u003c\/b\u003e\"Ruby and Oscar’s sweet and intense romance sparkles. Readers will root for them not just as a couple, but as individuals trying their best to understand their gifts and passions while facing pressures from the adult world. A smart, funny, engrossing romance with a social conscience.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A delightful summer romance that hits all the right notes—frothy, fun, and thoughtful, it never shies away from the realities of social pressure and familial legacy.” —Mackenzi Lee, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Utterly romantic. An enchanting reminder that failure is often the prelude to possibility and that even loss cannot diminish the glory of finding love again.” —Tanaz Bhathena, author of \u003ci\u003eA Girl Like That\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e “A dreamy summer rom-com that'll make you believe in love again.” —Bustle\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Full of not only sigh-inducing swoons but the social commentary [that Thorne] is talented at writing. —Paste\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Blending first love, music, and one seriously swoony summer in New York, \u003ci\u003eNight Music\u003c\/i\u003e is a perfect symphony. I loved it.” —Rachel Hawkins, author of \u003ci\u003eRoyals\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Thorne keeps a complex plot moving . . . This is a timely and romantic story about teens who feel like fish out of water finding the person who understands them.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“At once a glittering love letter to music and a breakup letter to living the life everyone else expects you to, \u003ci\u003eNight Music\u003c\/i\u003e is full of heart and humor. It crackles with energy.” —Kelly Loy Gilbert, author of \u003ci\u003ePicture Us in the Light\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Thorne presents a careful examination of privilege. . . . A thoughtful, nuanced romance.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beautiful, heartfelt, aware, and raw, \u003ci\u003eNight Music\u003c\/i\u003e is a melody I never want to leave my head.” —Lauren Gibaldi, author of \u003ci\u003eThis Tiny Perfect World\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Junior Library Guild Selection\u003c\/b\u003eJenn Marie Thorne graduated from NYU-Tisch with a BFA in drama and quickly realized she was having more fun writing plays, short films, and superhero webisodes than actually performing in them. She lives and writes in the UK with her husband, two sons, and hound dog Molly.\u003cp\u003e1.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA stranger was playing my piano. \u003ci\u003eMy\u003c\/i\u003e piano, untouched for months, purring under his fingers like a stray cat. More than purring . . . singing, leaping, laughing, dying, all in the time it took me to stumble-run downstairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stared into the dusty living room from the bottom step, not trusting my eyes—my ears even less. But there he was, half standing while he played, one knee on the bench, like this was a quick errand he’d needed to run.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA boy. Tall, lean, angular, skin rich brown, hair a supernova of spirals backlit by afternoon sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI couldn’t see his fingers, but I could feel them skipping over the keys, tiny pings in my chest, arms, spine. \u003ci\u003eSo many notes.\u003c\/i\u003e It was contrapuntal, insanely complex, cogs and gears—which piece? I couldn’t pick out the key, let alone the composer, but here \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e was, commanding my piano, smiling at some private joke. He wasn’t even looking at the keyboard as he played.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was staring at me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do you like it?” he called.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWas this a hallucination? A musical one?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You play really well,” I got out.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNobody was supposed to touch my piano. Not me, not anybody. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot anymore.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot a \u003ci\u003estranger in my house\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was still going—softly now, relentless, the key shifting. “But the piece?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy eyes darted to our tall many-paned windows, the big oak doors—open to the stoop. How had he gotten in? “I—I’m trying to figure out what it is. I know it’s Bach, but . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe hopped with delight, not missing a single note. “Not Bach. But oh my God, that you thought so . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe grinned, so relaxed and weirdly familiar that everything seemed to readjust like it does in a dream, making me wonder if \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e lived here and \u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e was visiting. He had a single dimple, an easy smile—what was \u003ci\u003ehappening\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChatter from West Seventy-first Street filtered into the living room and away. I took a step closer. A better look.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy age—seventeen, eighteen?—dressed like an August issue of \u003ci\u003eGQ\u003c\/i\u003e. Short-sleeved striped button-down, royal-blue bow tie, neatly pressed chinos, a canvas belt. He was definitely real. Hyperreal.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis couldn’t be an intervention. Nobody could have been tone-deaf enough to send a brilliant pianist here to tempt me to change my mind. Could he be some stalker fan of Dad’s or Mom’s, or Win’s or—was it pure coincidence? Had I just . . . left the door open behind me and he’d seen the piano? \u003ci\u003eOr, or, or\u003c\/i\u003e . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy staring must finally have gotten to him, because he bobbled the first note in twelve thousand. He took his hands off the keyboard, a magician before the reveal.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Want another try?” His bright eyes locked on mine.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t. I didn’t want to talk about music at all. But I didn’t want to lose whatever game this was either\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Frescobaldi.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis eyebrows rose. “Damn, going for the deep cuts.” Then he rubbed his cheek, relaxing his shoulders, falling marginally mortal. \u003cbr\u003e“It’s \u003ci\u003eBell\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Bell?” I eyed him warily. “Elizabeth? Or . . . it really doesn’t sound like Iain Be—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOscar\u003c\/i\u003e Bell.” He closed the distance, extending his hand. “Nice to—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI edged away. “You composed that.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe shrugged. Cocky.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s\u003ci\u003e your\u003c\/i\u003e fugue.” A snort burst out of me. “Okay.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I could sketch it out for you.” He glanced around, miming scribbling. “I should start writing this shit down anyway.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore he even finished saying it, his knee was back on the bench, fingers back on the keys, repeating the first movement, adding another voice, another and another as if it were as simple as breathing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t realize I’d been backing up until I hit Mom’s Steinway across the room. I flinched away like her piano was a hot pipe. \u003cbr\u003e“You couldn’t have improvised that. There’s no—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Course not.” His eyes danced up to meet mine, teasing. “I came up with it on the ride over.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow that I looked out through the front bay windows, I saw an \u003cbr\u003eSUV taxi idling at the curb, back hatch open.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sorry if I surprised you.” The boy’s voice dropped into a different register. “Mr.—uh, Marty just said to come say hi to Ruby.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI closed my eyes, letting out a slow breath. He knew Dad. Of \u003ci\u003ecourse\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m \u003ci\u003ehoping\u003c\/i\u003e you’re Ruby? But right now I’m thinking you’re not.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What? I’m her. Me,” I said as Dad’s voice bellowed from the street, \u003ci\u003e“Carry it down there and put it by the door, that’s good!”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis guy—“it’s \u003ci\u003eBell\u003c\/i\u003e”—was still staring at me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shrugged, flustered. “Why wouldn’t I be Ruby?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t know. You seem older, so I thought maybe you were another of his students. And . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnother of his students? Since when did Dad have his own students?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The way he talked about you—I thought you’d be short?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI let out a startled laugh, then glanced down. All five foot eight of me was draped in black—black ballet flats, black yoga pants, black sleep top, black cardigan, its black sleeves covering my hands to the fingertips. With my pasty face and long dark hair frizzing loose, I must have looked like something out of a micro-budget horror movie.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut Oscar extended his hand again. “Sorry. Let’s . . . I mean—I’m Oscar Bell. Nice to meet you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Ruby. Chertok,” I said, sliding my palm into his. “Pleasure to . . . um  . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe smiled, lips parted as if he wanted to finish my sentence for me. His hand was sturdier than most pianists’—warm and smooth, except for his rough fingertips.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’ve met! Fantastic!” Dad filled the doorway, six foot two, wild white hair, pink forehead, nose, cheeks, gray beard, arms and legs and trunk like an oak. He strode forward with his hands out and I thought for a second he wanted a hug before he zigged left and clapped Oscar on the shoulders. “This is our prodigy.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Ah, I don’t know about that.” Oscar looked at the floor—smiling.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe knew about that. He knew \u003ci\u003e all\u003c\/i\u003e about that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Found him on YouTube,” Dad said, leaning against Mom’s piano like it didn’t burn his skin at all. “Can you believe it? I love the Internet,\u003ci\u003e love\u003c\/i\u003e it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOutside, the scrawniest kids I’d ever seen were lugging furniture into our basement apartment from the trunks of what now looked to be a line of taxis. A desk, twin bed, chair, low bookshelf, all of it the same dorm-room pine.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDad laughed. “What are the odds of somebody like you going to the same school as Nora Visser’s niece?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOscar’s body wavered like a struck string.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDad whapped him. “A once in a lifetime musical prodigy with a family connection to our board chair! Uncanny.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes! I mean, thank you.” Oscar beamed back, height restored. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But yeah, pretty wild.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI tapped the window. “Dad, are those Amberley kids? Why are they—what’s with the bed?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDad glanced over his shoulder. “They’re moving Oscar in. I found them lazing around the common room and they volunteered to help.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf course they did. They’d go dumpster diving if the great Martin Chertok asked them to.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen I turned. “Wait—what? Moving Oscar . . . ?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“He’ll stay in the basement apartment this summer. The dorms were full and we’re between tenants—it’s kismet!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe’d been “between tenants” for eight years, since my brother Leo got his spot with the Boston Symphony. We stored our luggage down there now. And here it was, coming back up the stone steps, one empty roller bag at a time being hauled by a bespectacled teenager wearing a T-shirt that said: \u003ci\u003eOboe You Di’int\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Thank you again for this, sir.” Oscar’s voice was suddenly neutral, the light drawl I’d noticed gone. “I’m so honored to have the chance to study with you. The New City Symphony completely changed my—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The honor’s mine.” Dad waved away the compliment, turning so that all I could see was his wall of a back. “I love new talent, it’s what keeps me going.” He pointed to the piano. “What was it I heard you playing a second ago?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What we were talking about in the car,” Oscar said, scratching his hair so it bent like a crown and sprang back up. “The baroqueness of the bridge, you know? I wanted to try it out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe baroqueness. Of the bridge.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOscar traced the keys and then started the melody again, lightly, carelessly. Perfectly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis summer. In my house. The summer I was supposed to find solace, clarity, a series of days that had nothing to do with music.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMr. Prodigy—Oscar—was still playing, oblivious to all damage. His song surrounded me, a trap, one strand slipping around the other\u003cbr\u003e—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh. Hey, sorry if . . . It was nice to meet you, Ruby!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNever missing a note.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Dial Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300798648549,"sku":"NP9780735228771","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735228771.jpg?v=1767733716","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/night-music-isbn-9780735228771","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}