“I don’t have a phone, just this.” She taps her headset. “Up the stairs please, wait at the top.”
I climb a narrow staircase, vibrating with the music from the band. My heart is thumping almost as loudly.
It’s okay, I reassure myself. The food hasn’t been served and it probably won’t be until I’ve finished my song and the first dance is over. I can rush back and tell everyone not to eat. Refusing to eat at an Italian wedding will be almost as big an insult as poisoning someone, but we can deal with that later.
The band finishes playing Moonlight Sonata and the ballroom shakes with applause. I feel a hand on my back and realize Miss Williams has grabbed my dress, restraining me like a toddler. “Wait.”
“I will—”
“Champagne and hibiscus syrup,” she snarls, and I realize she’s talking into her headset. “All the guests need a glass before the first dance. You have sixty seconds before January Whitehall takes the stage.”
A man says something affirmative and cold sweat breaks out on my brow. I inhale. Exhale. Try not to throw up.
Sing and get back to the table, that’s all I have to do.
“Apple cider,” Miss Whitehall barks. “If they’re pregnant or fucking sober they get apple fucking cider!Fucking hurry up!”
I smile to myself. I loved drinking apple cider out of champagne glasses when I was little. I loved that crisp not-as-sweet-as-soda taste. I wonder if I could ask for some after my performance and then it hits me like the blackbird striking the window.
Orchard.
A deadly poison. One Mr. Parker has kept for years deteriorating in his tree safe. Images flow through my mind like beads on a string. The platter of cakes my stepmom brought over. The boys eating them in our limo with zero risk to other wedding guests. The desserts would have been enough to lace the apple candy taste of Orchard and it didn’t show up on Doc’s poison scanner because how could it? Doc invented Orchard. Barely anyone knows it exists.
The guys Iidn’t get turned on, my mind protests. But I know Orchard doesn’t work on men. They can get a little flirty but not half-crazy with lust the way I’ve been when I’ve taken it. And Orchard is like a time-release grenade, only dangerous until it reacts with preservatives.
It shouldn’t be too long after the first dance, Marisella said. What if the hibiscus syrup…
I press my hands to my mouth, too scared to scream, too numb to move.
“Ten seconds,” Miss Williams screeches into her headset. Then she’s shoving me in the back. “Go, January. Good luck.”
I move on autopilot into the glittering ballroom. The crowd is a sea of strangers. An ocean of insect heads. And then I see the waiters swirling around with trays of champagne, billowing pink syrup floating through it and I’m sure, one hundred percent convinced that this is the preservative. The poison. “Here to perform the song for the newlywed’s first dance, please welcome January Whitehall,” an unseen emcee announces. Applause rings around the ballroom as I stumble onto the stage. The lights dim and a spotlight fixes itself on my face so I can’t see anything. I reach for the microphone, my mind churning. What am I going to do?What am I going to do?
“Hello,” I whisper.
The crowd cheers and I swear I can hear Bobby and Adriano. I can picture all four of them, holding their glasses of pinkish wine, waiting for the first toast.
Another spotlight appears and Mr. Bianchi and Yelizaveta walk onto the dance floor to chaotic applause. They look so much like grandfather and granddaughter it’s weird. My heart is beating so hard that I feel like I’m going to puke blood. The man starts playing and then I know: I have to say something. I hold up my hand to the band’s conductor, a tiny man in his fifties and then I open my mouth.
“I’m so excited to be here,” I say, my voice cracking on thecited. “And I’m so happy for Mr. Bianchi and Yelizaveta.”
More cheering, more whistling. No one seems to notice that I’m ruining the first dance and if they do, it’s clear they’re not going to stop me.
“I’ll start singing in a sec,” I say. “But first I’d like to thank the men who brought me here tonight. There are so many artificial things in life we should avoid, but you’re like apples. I feel like I invented you myself.”
Mr. Bianchi frowns up at me, clearly wondering when and how I lost my mind.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Miss Williams hisses behind me, but I ignore her. My eyes have adjusted to the spotlight. I can see my men sitting at their table, see Doc in particular, holding his pink champagne. I lock eyes with him, making my voice ring loud and clear. “I wish Alessia was here tonight.”
Doc puts down his glass and motions to the others. Relief goes through me like nothing I’ve ever felt before, it almost drops me like a stone. I cling to the microphone stand to keep myself upright.
“Okay, thanks,” I say. “And without further ado…”
I wave to the conductor who looks like he wants nothing more than to slap me into the next century, but he gestures for the band. As the opening bars toThe Way You Look Tonightstart to play again, my whole body goes slack with relief. I inhale for what feels like the first time in hours and I launch into the song with such power, I surprise myself. My voice is sweet and strong, vibrating with the hope the universe has just handed me. I’ve never sung so beautifully.
Mr. Bianchi and his blonde bride start to dance, and I close my eyes and smile. I’ve done it. No matter how stupid and bad it was, I know Doc got my message. He won’t eat or drink; won’t let the others do it either. We’re going to be okay.
A loud snap. Another.
