Emily gestured to the armchair nearby. “Can you join me for a sec? I want to talk about something.”
Chantelle gave the room a once-over, as if confirming the absence of backup or witnesses, then flopped onto the couch and draped her legs over the armrest. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not unless you plan on putting one of the garden cats in your room again.”
Chantelle snorted, plucked a cookie, and took a tiny, deliberate bite. “So, what is it, Mom?”
Emily hesitated. Her script, rehearsed, felt suddenly overthought. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then reached for the brochure, sliding it forward. “Sarah told me you might have a shot at the Boston Youth Music Conservatory thissummer. Like, a real shot. Roman Westbrook called to say he wants you to come, too.”
She watched for a flicker: delight, pride, even skepticism. Instead, Chantelle’s face went blank, her focus tight on the cookie, which she crumbled between forefinger and thumb until only a powdery residue was left on her palm.
“That’s cool,” Chantelle said, but her voice was flat. She picked at her jeans, creating a new fringe at the seam.
That’s cool?
Emily pressed on. “I know it’s a lot to take in. And it’s only for seven weeks. You’d be in a dorm, but the kids’ wing is supervised. We could visit every weekend. And you’d get to meet other guitar nerds. People who talk about music the way you do.”
Chantelle's mouth tightened at "dorm," but she didn't comment. She rolled the crumbs between her palms, forming them into a little ball, then flicked it toward the window, where it landed in a shaft of light and was instantly claimed by a house ant.
Emily tried a new tack. “Sarah thinks you’re ready for something bigger. Dad and I do, too.” She paused, letting the words settle. “But I want to know what you think.”
This time, Chantelle met her eyes. Her stare was flat, almost defiant.
Emily waited.
Chantelle glanced away first. “Can I see the brochure?”
“Of course.” Emily pushed it over. She watched as Chantelle turned it, inspecting the photos: a courtyard full of kids practicing with sheet music, a rehearsal hall with gleaming floors.
“Everyone looks overly happy,” Chantelle said. “Is that, like, required?”
Emily smiled, unsure if it was a joke or a genuine question. “I think they just tell the photographer to take happy pictures.”
“Huh.”
“Is there something about the program you’re not sure about?” Emily asked.
Chantelle set the brochure down, the front-page curling at the edge. She rested her hands on her knees, then reached for her guitar, which was propped nearby from one of her last lessons teaching Laverne. Chantelle laid the guitar across her lap like a shield.
“I don’t know,” she said. She strummed a chord, soft and unfinished. “I mean, I guess it’d be cool to go. But… I don’t know. What if it sucks?”
“You could always come home. It’s not prison.” Emily smiled, hoping to lighten the mood. “Worst case, you survive a summer in Boston and have a story to tell. Best case, you come back a rock star.”
Chantelle rolled a pick between her fingers, silent.
“I’m not going to make you do it,” Emily said, keeping her voice low. “But if you want to, I’ll make it happen. Scholarships, plane tickets, whatever it takes.”
Chantelle’s hand stilled. “Can I think about it?”
“Absolutely. Do you want to talk about something else?” Emily asked. “Or should I let you get back to your music?”
“Can I have another cookie?”
Emily laughed, and the tension eased by a hair. “Take two.”
Chantelle took another, this time biting a chunk and chewing with noisy intent. “Can I tell you something without you getting mad?”
Emily’s pulse picked up. “Always.”
