Page 31 of Just Ten Seconds

I rub my forehead. “Oh. Yeah. Bad habit, I suppose.”

“It’s cute,” is all he says as he opens the door and motions for me to enter.

Hiking my bag up my shoulder, I walk up the stairs and smile without making eye contact with him. That doesn’t mean my eyes don’t widen when I brush against him as I walk inside. His hand gently brushes against the small of my back. It’s a kind gesture. A gentlemanly one. But damn if it didn’t make my skin prickle.

Dean closes the door behind himself, and I follow him into the kitchen where he puts the shopping bag in the sink. With the escarole emptied into it, he turns on the water and then struts away toward the staircase.

“Amanda! Mara’s here.”

Amanda comes bustling down the stairs, her brown curls whipping out of her braid. “Hi, Mara! Do you want to come up to my room?”

Dean interjects, “The living room is best. This way, I can pop in from the kitchen and check on you.”

She scrunches her nose in disappointment, lifts her shoulders, and then shrugs it off. “Fine. I can use the area in front of the fireplace as a stage.”

He pats her on the head and motions with a sweeping bow for us to walk past him toward the living room. As I do, he winks, and my shoulders relax for the first time all day.

I follow Amanda into a massive living room with a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, flanked by two massive windows on each side, overlooking the treetops. The coffered ceiling is lined with wood beams, each box accented with a light. Built-in bookcases run along one of the sidewalls, and a gorgeous, metallic mirror is on the opposite one, reflecting the light coming in from the windows.

The furnishings are sparse and neutral-colored. A cream chenille couch sits in the middle of the room, flanked by two accent chairs of olive green and gold. Some books and fake plants are even strategically placed, making it look like a catalog.

It’s interesting because the place isn’t where I’d have pictured Dean living. I’d have imagined a more rustic place. Manly even. This place feels … staged.

Amanda plops down on the couch with one leg under the other. “I know my dad told you how important this is, but I need to explain that this is my life.”

Her tone makes her sound like a preteen. Now, I know why Dean described her as eight going on eighteen.

“Your life?”

“I need to be Ariel.” Her arms go up in prayer with her eyes closed.

Yes, this kid is fit to be an actress.

I take a seat beside her. “Hasn’t anyone ever talked to you about needs and wants?”

Dean’s deep throat-clearing echoes through the cavernous room, making me swivel my head to see him through a cutout in the wall from the kitchen to the living room, looking in on us.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “I want to be Ariel.”

Appeased by this answer, Dean disappears back into the kitchen.

Amanda continues, “They always, always give the leading roles to fifth graders, which is a shame because there could be a third grader who is amazing but they pass her up because of her age.”

“Try being one of fifty Ariels in a casting room in Midtown,” I grumble, not missing the days of cattle call auditions, only to find out your hips are too wide, your voice is too low, or whatever other reason they come up with of why you’re not the perfect fit for the role.

“This is the only time in my elementary school career that they’ll be doing this play. They won’t do it again for another hundred years!”

I sway my head to the side. “Maybe ten, but I see where you’re going.”

“I don’t have years. I have now.”

If this conversation were her audition for the precocious teenager, she’d certainly get the job, and she’s not even a preteen.

“Where’s the sobbing little girl I met? You’re feisty.”

She seems confused. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s better than being a pushover. Trust me,” I muse and then place my hands on my knees, giving her a stern eye. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll show you what I can as far as acting. I can’t teach you how to sing, and, well, Ariel’s role is built on her voice.”