Once we round the corner and see an easel tucked into a classroom ahead of us, Ben transforms into a cheetah about to pounce. I can tick off the seconds till he starts running.

Three, two—

“Wow, look at the art room. I can paint all day long,” Ben says, and his little feet are about to go, go, go.

I clamp a hand on my son’s shoulder. “Walk. Don’t run.”

I swear I feel him vibrate with excitement as he gawks, slack-jawed, at the art room in the middle of the private school we’re touring.

The headmaster bends to meet Ben’s eyes. “Would you like to go check it out? Our art teacher, Mrs. Beedle, would be ever so delighted to show the budding artist around.” He gestures to the open doorway, and my son needs no invitation, speed walking into the classroom.

Mr. Farrell smiles at me from beneath his gray mustache. He has a matching beard and a jacket with elbow patches. It’s so old-school I can’t help but love the getup.

“As you know, Mr. Hart, we pride ourselves on supporting all the arts, from music to painting to writing,” he says.

“And that’s one of the biggest reasons we’re interested in this school for Ben. He loves to draw and paint.”

“Clearly, he has creative genes.” Mr. Farrell gestures to me, his tone a little too deferential, but I can deal with it. “I’ll wager he’s poised for greatness, like his dad.”

I laugh lightly but don’t pick up the thread of the conversation. Since, you know, I don’t need to pat myself on the back.

A lanky man in glasses walks by, carrying an armful of folders. “Good afternoon, Mr. Farrell.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Buckley.”

The teacher says hello to me then keeps going, no second glance, no snap of the head. Excellent. I like being unnoticed.

“Mr. Buckley is our English teacher. He’s fantastic, so he can certainly foster all that great writing creativity,” Mr. Farrell says, rubbing his palms together.

“Who really knows what Ben will be good at? Maybe he’ll be a mathematician.”

Mr. Farrell smiles cheerily. “That’d be no surprise. Math and music go hand in hand.”

Okay, this is getting to be a bit much. Plus, I’m hungry. My belly is begging for attention in the form of a chicken sandwich, and I’d like to reward its patience soon.

“Also,” he adds, “I want to assure you that your privacy is of the utmost concern to us.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m not too worried.” I don’t want him to think I’m all uppity or require a back entrance simply because my name is in the news now and then and my tunes are all over Spotify.

“We have other children of celebrities attending, and our teachers are highly respectful of privacy. There will be no red carpet, except the one we roll out for Ben. We’d be so delighted if he chose to matriculate at the Bingley School.”

Matriculate? It’s kindergarten. Let’s take this all down a notch. But then again, I’m the guy looking for a fancy-schmancy private school for my kiddo.

I want stability for Ben. He’s almost six, and he’s been on the road with me practically since the day he was born, hanging with sitters and nannies and me as we jetted around the world for my job. Now it’s time to give him something steady. Since I’m settling in Manhattan, I want his life to be as smooth as possible. And I want a small, friendly, supportive school where he can flourish.

Once the you’re-a-regular-Jackson-Pollack treatment ends, we leave the art studio, the tour finished. Mr. Farrell escorts us to the playground and points to the iron gate that leads to the street, walking us there past the twenty or so adults who’ve arrived for today’s half-day school pickup. Along the way, there are whispers. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I’m keenly aware some of the parents are saying my name.

I swear I hear one of them murmur, “I’d heard he might be taking a tour of the school today.”

Another replies, “Yes, that’s why I picked up Briar Rose myself today instead of sending the nanny.”

Uh-oh.

Seems like the headmaster isn’t quite as committed to privacy as he promised.

“Thanks again, Mr. Farrell, and we’ll be in touch,” I say, placing one hand on Ben’s shoulder.

He beams, waving at me. “Call me anytime. Call me at night. Call me in the morning. Whenever you want, Mr. Hart.”

He might as well get a megaphone announcing I’m here.

I take Ben’s hand and walk quickly down the tree-lined block of brownstones because I know the drill. It’s the same as the post-concert routine, only I have security then. I figured I didn’t need it to walk around the city, checking out elementary schools.

Silly me.

Shoes click behind me, stabbing the sidewalk purposefully. It’s the unmistakable sound of Lou Buttons or Jimmy Hoohoos or whatever Richie Rich shoes the denizens of this area have stuffed their feet into. I pick up the pace, but in seconds a perfectly coiffed brunette sporting red heels pulls up next to me.

“Miles, I’m Cleopatra Lavinia,” she says, and why can’t people have normal names? “My daughter Cassiopeia attends the Bingley School.”

That’s why. It’s an epidemic, evidently.

I smile at her. “Looks like a great place.”

She presses her palms together. “We love it here, and we simply wanted you to know. The Bingley School has so many wonderful opportunities.”

Ben tugs on my hand. His stomach must be calling out for a sandwich too.

“Good to know.”

She inches closer, and I catch a whiff of her floral perfume, which might be pretty if she hadn’t bathed in it. “And so you know, if you need any help adjusting to Manhattan or Bingley, I’d be happy to do whatever you need,” she says, extending a hand. She wears no ring. “Anytime, any way you need it.”

Well, Bingley is rolling out the red carpet for Ben, and the pink carpet for me. Backing away, I fasten on a smile. “Really appreciate that. Would you look at the time? We need to jet.”

I turn to leave, and as we imitate 100-yard-dashers, Ben pulls harder on my hand. “I think she liked you.”

“Nah, she was just being friendly,” I say, trying to make light of it.

He shrugs as we hoof it up the street. “Nope. You’re a chicken magnet.”

A laugh bursts from my gut. “Where did you learn that word?”

His young face turns resolute. “I heard Ally and Uncle Miller say that about you. They said you’re a chicken magnet. That’s why ladies are always talking to you. Maybe that’s why you said you wanted a chicken sandwich for lunch.”

I can’t stop laughing, but I do my best to settle down as we pass a florist and stop at the crosswalk. “Ben, first of all, it’s not chicken magnet. It’s chick magnet. Second, it’s classier to say lady magnet.”

“Lady magnet,” he repeats, then furrows his brow. “Nope. Chicken is way more fun to say.”

I hold out my hands. “Can’t argue with that.”

Ben tugs at my wrist, his expression inquisitive. “Daddy, will I be a chicken magnet like you when I grow up? I mean, you are handsome like me.”

I ruffle his hair. “You’re handsome and talented and brilliant,” I say, since he needs to know looks aren’t everything. But damn, this kid is one fine-looking boy. What can I say? I do have good genes. Since, clearly, all the good looks and talent are from me, and not She Who Shall Not Be Named.

“But it might be kind of a pain in the butt to go to school here.”

“You said butt,” I say, like Beavis and Butthead.

“I say it all the time. Butt is funny, like chicken.”

“Butt is literally the funniest word in the English language. But did you like that school?” I ask, secretly hoping he’ll say no.

“I did, but it gets annoying when everyone talks to you all the time, like the people at the shows do. Plus, Mrs. Beedle smelled like tuna.”

Done. “Then let’s find a new school.”

“Cool. But right now I’d like to find a chicken sandwich.”

“I’ll use my chicken-sandwich magnet to find the restaurant where we’re meeting William.”

And I’m secretly hoping his sister will be there too.