“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.
“You think?”
“Nerves can be useful,” I say, remembering my mother’s words on the morning of my driving test. She’d taught me herself, doing things her own way as usual. I took my test in her dinged-up Vauxhall, and from the moment I passed I designated myself as the family driver. She was terrific at so many things, but her driving always had me clutching my seat with clammy hands. She drove like she sang: full throttle. “The trick is to channel the nerves into your performance. You’ll see. You’ll get out there and feel like you’re flying.”
I’ll give it to Bella’s high school, they know how to put on a show. If I’d been out in the audience I think I’d have had a really entertaining time, but as we move slowly toward the front of the line backstage I find it harder and harder to enjoy what we can hear of the performances.
“It’s taking forever,” Bella says, drumming her fingernails against each other. “Everyone will have gone home by the time we get out there.”
“I doubt it, your family bought almost a whole row of tickets. They’ll sit there till midnight if needs be.”
She shakes her head. “So embarrassing.”
I throw her a wink as I nod toward the exits. “Shall we skip it? Make a run for the fire door?”
A harassed teacher appears, headset clamped on and red pen in hand. She looks as if she’d like to trade her clipboard for a stiff drink. “Bella, you’re next up. In the wings, please, and shush.” She puts a finger to her lips for emphasis.
Sheer, waxy panic freezes Bella’s features so I square my shoulders and grab her hand. “Come on, Bells, let’s go show these guys how it’s done.” I lean into her as the principal announces her name and people in the hall begin to clap.