“Yes, you know, we were really hoping to feature you on our whiz-kid episode. We’ve got an eleven-year-old premed student, nine-year-old twins who are chefs, and an eight-year-old herpetologist.”
“That’s great because I have good news. My mother changed her mind. I can go on your show. Just tell me when you want me to come in and I’ll be there.”
“Oh,” Felicia says, turning that one small word into a whole song. “That’s a shame. I wish you would’ve called sooner. I’m afraid it’s too late now.”
“Too late? No, it’s not too late. Why would it be too late?”
“We’re shooting the episode tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. I don’t have anything to do tomorrow.”
“No, you don’t understand. We’re completely booked.”
“But you called my mother just the other day!” I say too loudly.
“Yes,” Felicia says. “We were holding a spot for you. But now that spot’s been taken.”
“I want my spot back. You have to give me my spot back.”
Felicia laughs like I’ve told the funniest joke, but no one ever thinks of me as a funny person. “This isn’t some web series, okay? This is network television. I can’t just add you to the show at the last minute.”
I ask myself: What would Mom do? She’s a master on the phone because she always gets the cable company to fix our bills. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to go with Dr. Phil, then.”
“Dr. Phil?”
“Yes. He wanted me really badly.”
“Is he doing a whiz-kid show too?”
“Um, yes. I’m pretty sure he is.”
“No,” Felicia says.
“Yes. I better call him right now and tell him I’m ready. I wonder where my mom put his phone number.”
“Let me speak to your mother. I really should be discussing this with her. I’m sure she and I can figure something out.”
“My mom said I should do this by myself,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie. “You can talk to me.”
“Joan, listen to me. Dr. Phil is on at the same time as us and we have way more viewers, so if I were you, I’d definitely want to be on our show, not his. Plus, you don’t want to fly all the way to California. That’s just ridiculous. It’s such a long flight and it’s so hot out there in the summer. Let me see… oh, look at this! It appears we have some room at the top of the show. Why don’t we just slide you right in there? How does that sound?”
“It sounds good. But what about the money? Do you pay a lot of money?”
“Oh my,” Felicia says. “You know, I’d prefer to discuss that with your parents. But yes, our pay is industry standard.”
I’m not sure how much Dad needs to keep the studio open but industry standard sounds like a lot. “And you’re in New York City, right?”
“Yes, and I see you’re right across the river, so that should be a piece of cake. What do you say? Are we all set?”
I don’t want Dad’s music days to be over. I just want everything to go back to normal. I want him to be downstairs right now playing his instruments and not to miss any more trips to New York City, and while all of that is happening I’d also like to play my song for thousands of people on TV and have it go deep into their systems so they’ll never forget me and I’ll finally feel safe inside their boxes. I don’t even care if Gavin is with me or not, because I can still sing a little bit and a little bit is better than no bit. Besides, Mom already said that I could do this if I really want to.
“Yes,” I say.
“Excellent! I’ll go ahead and send your mother the paperwork. It’ll have our location and your call time. Have your mother sign the last page and bring that with you tomorrow. Do you have her e-mail address handy? I’ll zip it right over.”
I tell Felicia to send the paperwork to our family e-mail address. I say good-bye and I’m about to go on the computer to get Felicia’s e-mail, but just as I’m hanging up, Dad walks into the kitchen. I’m worried that he heard me on the phone, but probably not, because he hasn’t had his coffee, which means he’s not totally awake yet.
“I thought you’d be working today,” I say.
“I’m going in late.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“She had to run out.” He pours a big glass of water and drinks all of it. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No.”
“How about crepes?”
I miss Dad making breakfast, but I can’t stick around. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
I try to leave the room.
“Joan,” he says. “Sit down.”
It takes Dad almost twenty minutes to get breakfast ready, because he’s still waking up and also because he takes his crepe-making very seriously. He fills my crepe with Nutella and strawberries that he cuts paper-thin. Then he folds the whole thing up, sprinkles powdered sugar on top, and puts it in front of me. Before he’s had a chance to sit down at the table with his own crepe, I’m already halfway done with mine, that’s how good it is.
“So,” he says, putting down his coffee mug and cutting his crepe with the side of his fork. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the studio last night?”
I didn’t plan to, but I fell asleep in the Quiet Room. Dad and Gavin just kept talking and I was too scared to leave the vocal booth. Then somebody said my name and the door pushed open and Dad carried me to my room and covered me with a blanket. When I opened my eyes, my journal was waiting on my nightstand.
“Writing in my journal,” I answer.
“Why down there?”
“I like it there.”
He stops chewing his crepe, which is filled with yucky bananas and some type of gooey cheese. “I know you do.”
He watches the table and I watch too, thinking there might be something to see, but the movie he’s watching is playing only in his head. I know how that is.
“When I was your age,” Dad says, “Uncle Nick and I asked Grandpa to make us a tree house. He wanted us to build it ourselves. He did most of the work, but we had our hands on the tools. We held the wood in place. We felt like we were building it. At the end, we had this thing that we helped make. We could put our hands on it, touch it. You don’t get that from a song. It exists in the ether.”
“What’s the ether?”
“The air. You can’t see it. It’s mostly in our minds. Music involves a lot of faith.”
Memories are that way too. That’s why I like keeping a journal. It makes all my memories feel more real.
Dad’s arm is resting on the table and his Monkey Finger tattoo is staring right at me. “I like it better when you’re home,” I say.
He takes his thumb and wipes Nutella off my cheek. Even after the Nutella is gone, he keeps staring. “I know it’s hard, Joanie. It’s hard for me too. But when you go back to school in September, you won’t even notice I’m gone.”
But that’s not true.