While she discusses editing with the sound engineer, I walk toward Mom and Steffi. My dance coach must sense the tension, because she pulls out her phone and steps away.
“Why did you come? You hate my music…” My voice catches on a sob. I seal my lips, because I don’t want to cry. It would be completely childish and unprofessional.
Mom’s hand jerks, and the necklace clinks as it settles back against her white linen blouse. “What?”
“Oh, come on, Mom.” I roll my eyes, but that’s mostly to get rid of the tears. “Every time I sing, you look bored.”
I try to decipher the signature scrawled underneath her skinny jeans. I can’t tell vowels from consonants, so I have no clue whom it belongs to.
She shoves her hair back. Twice. “It does pain me to listen to you,” she finally murmurs. “Because… because you’regood. Real good.”
I blink. Parents are genetically engineered to praise their children, and although Mom has always praised me on other achievements, she hasnevercomplimented my singing.
She stands up and hugs me. “And that song… that song is insanely gorgeous. And I hate that it was so gorgeous.”
My eyelashes bat away tears. “Why?”
“Because… I might lose you tothatworld after all.”
“You really think I’m good?” I croak.
“Oh, baby.” She presses me away and holds me at arm’s length. “How can you doubt that you are?”
“Because you’ve never told me before.”
She looks at me long and hard. “I was afraid that if I did, you’d let everything else—school, college, friendships—slip.”
“I would never.”
She bites her lower lip and nods, but her crinkled brow and shiny eyes tell me she’s still worried.
“I promise I won’t.”
Steffi digs a pack of tissues from her black leather vest, then hands one to Mom and another to me.
“Your daddy would’ve been real proud.” Mom sniffles.
I look at her, my heart squeezing. What she’s just said burnishes my fragile ego like a flame warming metal, hardening it into full-body armor.
“It’s for Mona’s contest, isn’t it?” she asks.
That knocks the smile right off my lips.
“That’s what I thought.” Her chest rises with a long breath. “You’re going to enter it whether I give you my blessing or not, aren’t you?”
I don’t say a thing, because I don’t want to tarnish this moment with a lie.
“When’s the deadline?”
“Halloween.”
“I’ll make you a deal. If you still want to participate on October thirty-first, I’ll sign the form.”
Even though she’s probably agreeing because she senses I won’t win, I squeal and throw my arms around her neck and chant, “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.” I say it a hundred times, yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Lynn catches my eye over Mom’s shoulder, and I finally understandwhy she invited her here today—to show her how much heart and work I’ve poured into this song. I mouth a thank-you. She answers me with a gentle nod.
The sound engineer hands me a Sharpie. “You can’t leave before signin’ the couch.”
