Her face told me what she thought of that idea. “Never mind. I don’t want an alias that bad.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
“I’m Grace. It’s on my birth certificate.”
Her near perfect moniker tumbled through my brain. Not only did her temperament fit the refinement, but it spoke to the musical side of me too.
“Like a grace note,” I said.
“Wait.” Her mouth dropped open. “You know what that is?”
“Uh, yeah. Did you not hear me playing? I use them all the time.”
“It’s just really weird you’d say that because I’m actually named after a grace note. My mom’s a music teacher. It wasn’t until I was older that I found out what it meant—an added note that’s not actually part of the song. So, evidently, Mom envisioned me as a sad, two-sentence side character and not the star of my own show. Not cool.”
Her wide eyes shone with amusement. I hung on Grace’s every word, mesmerized by the way she lit up in her retelling.
“Obviously, I wasn’t entirely thrilled when I found out. To try and convince me that a grace note was actually a good thing, my brother played two versions of the same song. The first he performed strictly as it was written. Bor…ring. The second was performed with added grace notes. I don’t think I need to tell you which one sounded better.”
“No, ma’am, you do not.”
I could almost picture that heartfelt scene in front of me: her brother taking the time to make her understand and feel better. It was like something out of a television show. Normally, I hated hearing warm and fuzzy stories of the privileged growing up in loving homes, but for whatever reason, Grace seemed worthy of an ideal life.
“The way I see it”—I stopped talking momentarily to perform a ten-second drum solo on the concrete—“you can never have enough grace.”
“No, I don’t believe you can,” she agreed, beaming. “Can I sit?”
I squinted up at her, genuinely curious. “Now, why would you want to sit here?”
“Well, I asked the ukulele guy around the corner, but he turned me down.”
“Fucking Ronald.” I palmed my forehead. “He makes us all look bad.”
Grace didn’t wait for my approval; she dropped down onto the concrete beside me and pointed at my hands. “Can I borrow your sticks?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’d rather I didn’t?” she mimicked, seeming suddenly very comfortable in my presence.
“You heard me.” I tapped a stick on her leg, getting somewhat more comfortable myself. “I’d honestly rather share a Q-tip with you than hand over my sticks.”
She laughed, pushing against my shoulder. “Come on. What do you think I’m going to do with them? Break them over my knee? I just want to look.”
“Then look,” I said, holding them up to her eyes.
Her lips formed the most perfect pout, slaying me with cuteness. “Please.”
I could not withstand such manipulation, especially when that little crease formed on the bridge of her nose. She was deceptively pretty, and it weakened me. Reluctantly, I handed them over.
“Thank you,” she said. Such manners.
Grace turned my sticks in her hands before testing out her grip. I swallowed hard. She was holding them like she was about to dive into a steak dinner. I had no choice but to correct her.
“Don’t tighten your grip. That requires more energy, and the sticks won’t rebound like you want. Like this…” I said, reaching over and placing the sticks into position on her lithe hands. Gently, I folded each of her lean fingers inward to hold them in place. Her head dipped as she followed my instructions, enticing one long curl to untuck from behind her ear and spring to life like a gleeful music note.
Common sense escaped me—completely. I swept the strand back, returning it to the obedient others who had remained tucked in place. She seemed as surprised as I was, shyly looking up at me from the shade of her lashes. I swallowed hard. The freshness of her. Such innocence. Even as a young child, I didn’t remember ever being so shiny and new.
The slightest tremor rippled over her skin as her eyes connected to mine, and like she’d done numerous times already, her gaze burrowed into my soul. We both hung there in that pulsing limbo. Grace’s chest rose and fell in time with my drumming heartbeat, and I resisted the urge to pull her to me and kiss those glossy lips. But I didn’t have the nerve. The risk of rejection was too high. That was until she tilted her head to one side in what looked like an open invitation. No way could I be reading her cues right. And even if I was, I’d be a fool to act on them. The optics alone of a sweaty street kid macking it out with a certified American Girl doll was sure to lead to a citywide pitchforking.
