A Winter in New York(50)

19.


“I THINK WE’VE NAILED IT,” I say, high-fiving my phone screen. “You played out of your skin that time.”

Bella grins and flexes her fingers. She’s on her lunch break at school, her phone propped on the music department piano so we can remotely rehearse for her performance.

“I’ve practiced loads.”

“I can tell. Just do it exactly like that on Wednesday. You’ve totally got this,” I say.

“I can’t wait to see Ellen Connelly’s face,” she says, then after a beat adds, “and my dad’s.”

A bell sounds in the background and Bella shoves her books into her backpack. “See you on Wednesday,” she whispers. “You won’t be late, will you?”

“Promise not,” I say, because I can hear her nerves from several miles away.

I let the supportive smile fall from my face when she clicks “end call” and flop onto the sofa with my arm over my eyes. I didn’t realize when I initially agreed to sing that family would be able to attend the performance too. I’d imagined a small school assembly in my mind, but it sounds like a bigger affair altogether. Gio is going to be in the audience with Maria and Sophia in tow, possibly his other sisters too. As a rule, I greatly admire the Belottis united front as a family, but in this case I’m feeling sickly with pressure and wish it was Thursday morning already.



* * *



—

“LORD, BELLA, IT’S HUGE. Elton John will have sung this to smaller crowds,” I mutter, casting my eye around for the fire exit in case all else fails and I need to make a run for it. “Your school hall is bigger than some theaters in England.”

My heart is ping-ponging around inside my torso, ricocheting off my ribs, glancing off my lungs, making it hard for me to draw breath.

“I’ve never seen it so packed,” Bella whispers, not helpful at all.

We’re backstage at her school performance, ten minutes to the seven P.M. curtain up, and I genuinely think I might be about to lose my lunch. Why did I ever say yes to this? People teem everywhere, mostly overexcited teenagers and anxious-faced teachers trying to corral them into some kind of order. Typically, we’re last on the list of performances, so plenty of time for my nerves to build.

“Couldn’t they have gone alphabetical?” I say to Bella.

“Why would you want to be first?” she says, turning her wide, nervous eyes to me.

We can hear the buzz of chatter from the crowd out in the hall, the scrape of chairs and rise and fall of hundreds of small conversations underscored by the school orchestra tuning up in the pits. What kind of high school hall has actual orchestra pits? And a balcony? My mother would have loved this, but I am not my mother. She probably wouldn’t have chosen an Elton John track either, but “Your Song” is exactly right for us to perform tonight. It brings Bella’s piano skills into the limelight, and is universally known across the various generations gathered in the hall this evening. I’m hoping its popular appeal goes in our favor.

“Tell me how you felt when you sang in the park?” Bella asks, pulling her hoodie sleeves down over her hands.

We perch on a table at the back of the busy scene and I pull in a long breath. “Not as nervous as this,” I say. “But then I didn’t have time to think about it or rehearse because it happened on the spur of the moment.”

“That’s Ellen Connelly,” she says, nodding toward a tall girl holding court in the center of things. “She’s on first. Of course.”

“Of course.” I nod, twisting my ring around on my finger. “It’s going to be fine, you know the piece inside out,” I say, because I really need to be a grown-up shoulder to lean on. “Being last means the crowd will be really warmed up, they’re going to love you.”

“Us,” Bella says. “Love us.”

I nod and give her shoulders a squeeze. “Yes, us. You’re not on your own out there.”

Bella sits on her hands and twists to look at me. “Will you stop coming to see us when you find the recipe?”

Gosh. I wish she’d asked Gio that question rather than me.

“Um, I hadn’t really thought about it, Bells,” I say. “I don’t think so, though, I’m only a few blocks away and I like you all too much. Besides, I think I’ll be due a lifetime supply of gelato if I ever find the recipe, so I’ll have to come by sometimes to claim it.”

I feel her body relax beside mine. “Dad likes you,” she says.

“I like him too,” I say, then modify with, “I mean, I like all of you.”

It feels as if we’re speaking in code. I don’t know if she’s trying to tell me she knows about Gio and me, or if she’s fishing because she has her suspicions and doesn’t want to ask her father directly. Or even if she hopes it’s nothing like that at all, and she’s looking for reassurances that I’ll disappear in a puff of smoke once my mission has been accomplished.

An expectant hush falls out in the hall and we hear the principal run through her welcome spiel to the crowd. Ellen Connelly stands in the wings smoothing her pale-blue ballet tutu, her hair high on her head in a tight blonde bun.

“She’s probably just as nervous as you are,” I say, as we watch her run through warm-up exercises while she waits to be announced.