The Short Stranger from My Cookie
On our way home, Mom tunes in to her favorite classical station and explains to Nev how she designs each house while listening to a specific composer.
“Which one’s inspiring our house?” Nev asks.
“Debussy.”
Nev sits on the edge of the backseat. “I don’t know him.”
Mom slaps a palm against her chest. “What?”
“I… uh, don’t listen to classical music, Jade.”
“Hang out with us a few more weekends, and you’ll be well-versed in everything instrumental,” I tell her.
“Do you like classical music, Angie?” Nev asks.
“She hates it.” Mom says this with a smile. “I drive her crazy with it.”
Which is true. Thedriving-me-crazypart. I don’tactuallyhate classical music. If I did, I wouldn’t play it for fun on our baby grand. “I’d rather listen to music with words. I think voices are the most special instruments.”
Even if you don’t agree with me, Mom.
Even if you don’t think my voice is all that special.
My heart sways with the insecurities that tarnished most of my morning. Stupid, stupid insecurities.
“I agree with Angie. I mean”—Nev points to the radio—“it’s pretty,but it’s not as pretty as a song,” she adds, as the purple notes slink around us like yards of chiffon.
Can she, too, perceive the thick dark-violet spool of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 3? Lots of people on forums claim music shows itself to them in color.
Mom’s smile stretches, dimpling her cheeks. Sometimes I wish I’d inherited her cheek dimples instead of my father’s chin one. “Gang up on me, why don’t you?”
Nev flushes.
“Maybe when we’re old, we’ll get your fascination,” I say.
“Old? Old! Oh, you’re going to pay for that.” She reaches over the center console and tickles me until I’m bent double.
I bat her hand away, trying to catch my breath. She used to tickle me all the time when I was a kid. Did Dad ever tickle me? I don’t dare ask, because talking about him will sour her mood, and I like to see Mom happy. It reassures me that all is right in the universe.
Once we’re home, Mom heads down to start on dinner. She’s making lasagna from scratch. I tug Nev into the living room and turn on the TV. As we watch a series about witchy sisters, she tucks her long hair behind her ears and pulls her knees against her. Unlike Ten and Mona, and Jeff for that matter, Nev’s face is heart-shaped.
“You should wear your hair up,” I say.
Her entire body turns as rigid as the marble console in the foyer. “Uh. I… Uh. My cheeks are so round.”
I frown. “No, they’re not.”
“Carrie says my head looks like a bowling ball,” she adds.
“Who’s Carrie?”
“The daughter of Dad’s best friend. She’s a year older than me, but everyone thinks she’s sixteen.”
“Well, Carrie’s an idiot. Your head doesnotlook like a bowling ball.”
Her forehead pleats as though she’s unsure whether to take my word or Carrie’s.
