Meena, when you read this, I already told you I’m no good at all at describing where people live, and telling what color the bedroom was painted and how many bathrooms they had, and what they had hanging on the walls. I hated doing it in Creative Writing class, and there is no way I’m about to do it in my own book. So the only thing I’m going to say about Norris’s apartment is that it was old, but sunny old, not smelly old, with a lot of big windows with curly iron grates on the outside. Not much furniture, no paintings or anything, just some framed opera posters and some pictures of Norris with famous people. I think they were famous, anyway. They were all in costume.

Norris gave me a huge hug when I came in. That’s his specialty, a hug that makes you feel all wrapped up and totally safe—I never knew anybody else who could do it just like that. He held me away from him and looked at me, and grinned, and then he hugged me again and said, “Look what I got!” like a little kid. And he stepped back, and I saw the piano.

Okay. I may not know anything about decor, but I can’t help knowing about pianos. This one was a baby grand—I didn’t see a manufacturer’s name anywhere. It was a dark red-brown, the color I said most black cats really are, and it looked as though it was full of sunlight, just breathing and rippling with it. I never in my life saw a piano like that one.

Norris stood beside me, grinning all over himself. He’s not really handsome, not like Mr. Hammell, but he’s bigger, and he’s got thick, curly gray hair and big features that really stand out—nose, chin, eyes, forehead—which is great if you’re going to be onstage in makeup a lot. I don’t look anything like him either. He said, “Go ahead, kick the tires. Take it for a test run.”