Blended, page 13
A saleswoman, who was a middle-aged Black woman, greets us, then hurries to the back when Anastasia gives her a green numbered ticket. The woman returns carrying a long, satiny garment bag on a wooden hanger.
I sit, done with dresses already, in front of a huge mirror and try to smooth strands of flyaway hair while Anastasia tries on her dress. She emerges from the dressing room minutes later and strikes a pose. “What do you think, Isabella?” she asks, her eyes hopeful. The dress is a pale champagne color, a full-length blend of silk and lace. I can’t believe how good she looks.
I break into a grin. “That’s the one,” I tell her. “You look pretty fabulous.” I mean it.
“Are you sure?” she asks, looking at herself from the back.
“Yep!” I say. “Dad’s gonna melt when he sees you walking down the aisle in that.”
“I hoped you’d say that,” she tells me, almost shyly. Then she nods to the saleslady, who disappears back into the dressing room. She returns a moment later with a size-me version of that very same dress, only in coral. It’s . . . gorgeous. I have never owned such a pretty dress.
“It’s the mother-daughter dress,” the saleswoman explains to me. “The trend is for the two most important women in the ceremony to dress alike. What do you think?”
“Mother-daughter?” I echo. I look at Anastasia. I like her a lot. She’s really cool. But I have a mother. I have a sudden urge to run again, out of that shop, down the sidewalk.
Anastasia sees my hesitation, and she quickly interrupts. “If you’d rather pick out something else, there are lots of lovely bridesmaid dresses to choose from. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable—it just looked like it would be gorgeous on you. . . .” The saleslady hurries away.
Well, it does make me feel kinda icky. But I don’t say that. I just have to think about it for a minute.
I stand there, staring at the dress.
“I’ve never had a little girl,” Anastasia says, her bottom lip starting to quiver. But she takes a breath and continues. “I’d be honored if you would be my daughter for this wedding. My daughter, and my maid of honor.”
I reach out and touch the dress.
“Let me go try this on,” I finally say. She sinks into one of the soft leather chairs provided for people who have to sit and approve of others who are trying on clothes.
I have to admit, I look good in the dress. Really good. I smile at the mirror. It fits me perfectly. I walk out and twirl just like Anastasia did in front of the full-length mirror. The pale coral is soft and delicate—I feel like a supermodel or something.
The saleslady, back again, claps and cheers. “You look stunning. But little girlfriend, you’re so pretty you can get away with any color you choose.”
“Uh, thank you,” I murmur. I feel weird. She called me pretty! I’m trying to pretend I’m chill, but then Anastasia gave me a look that might have said she agreed with her.
I think we’re gonna buy this dress.
CHAPTER 60
Dad’s Week
DAD HAS SCHEDULED Madame Rubenstein to come three times a week until the recital, to make sure I’m 100 percent ready.
I’m on the bench, fingers arched “just so,” as Madame Rubenstein says. I wait for her signal to begin. Usually we start with a repetition of basic scales and chords. But today I can see a hint of a smile on her face. I look at her quizzically.
“I have something to share with you,” she says, reaching into her leather bag and pulling out a clunky-looking black machine. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wait.
“In case you’re wondering,” she tells me as she fiddles with the buttons on the machine, “this is a cassette player. Not many people use them much anymore. You young people are into downloads and such. This is an actual recording of a live performance.”
She finds the cord for the cassette player, plugs it in. She then pulls out a small plastic object a little wider than a Post-it note, and she snaps it into the machine. She presses the button marked PLAY and—voilà! (as she would say)—music fills the room. It’s my recital piece, Clementi’s sonatina, but it’s sure not the way it sounds when I play! Every note is pure. Every chord is precise. Every passage is perfect.
“Wow! Who is that?” I exclaim. “That’s really good!”
“His name is Alessandro Deljavan. I met him once in Europe. He is magnificent!”
Then a horrible thought hits me. “Do you expect me to play it like that?” I ask.
“Signor Deljavan pours himself into the music itself. That’s all I ask you to do. Feel it. Breathe it.”
I think I get what she is trying to tell me. The rest of the lesson goes really well. I’m betting both Mom and Dad will record my performance on their phones.
I wonder what it will sound like when I listen to it.
CHAPTER 61
Mom’s Week
OMG! I’M TRYING not to stress out! Pianopalooza is next week! I’ll be at Dad’s, but I practice madly at Mom’s as well—that Casio is sounding really good!
It starts at 5:00 p.m., but all participants have to be there early—by 3:00 at the latest.
It’s supposed to last two hours. Ha, ha—all four parents have to stay in the same room for 120 minutes. See one another’s faces. Breathe one another’s air.
Ha! I love it.
I know that Darren will break his neck to get a seat in the very first row so he can cheer me on. Love that, too! I think I’m gonna like having a big brother!
I keep thinking—an awful lot of really beautiful music will be played at that recital. And I keep hoping that maybe some of that pretty will rub off on my parents—maybe make them continue to be nice to each other for a little while.
Yeah, melodies and harmony. Nice.
CHAPTER 62
Mom’s Week
MY CASIO IS doing it’s job—take that, Madame Rubenstein!
I discovered a way to listen to the recording of the piece and play at the same time. Measure by measure. Note for note. When I do it right, it’s so good it scares me. I’m one with that Clementi dude. I think he’d be proud of me.
Mom just grins as I play. She’s happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. She’s no longer working double shifts, and she’s getting a lot more rest. At the same time she’s, like, supercharged, washing windows and ironing sheets. Who irons sheets? Gee! But I gotta give her credit, she’s not letting all her wedding stuff get in the way of my concert. She listens to me practice, reminds me to sit up straight and bend my fingers “just so.” I don’t tell her, but that really makes me feel good deep inside.
CHAPTER 63
Exchange Day
AT THE MALL today I’m sitting with Mom, waiting for Dad and Anastasia. As I watch for them, who do I see but Clint Hammond and a woman that I guess is his mother, strolling past the Apple Store. He sees me, waves, and walks toward us.
I channel my inner calm.
“Hey,” he says, giving me a nod. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’ much,” I say, nodding back.
“Uh, this is my mother,” he says.
“Glad to meet you, Mrs. Hammond,” I say. I even offer my hand—I know how to be polite to grown-ups!
“And this is my mother,” I add, tapping my mom’s forearm. Mom’s not working today, so she’s wearing a pair of black leggings and a white T-shirt decorated with shiny purple hearts. The slogan today says, “Happier than a unicorn eating cake on a rainbow.”
The two moms greet each other and—holy moly—they really hit it off. Mom’s telling Clint’s mother, whose name is Sarah, about some new athletic clothing store opening up next week. And Clint’s mom, it seems, is excited about the slime store—something about a birthday present for her niece. They’re chatting about T-shirts and slime stuff and legging designers. I had no idea such a job even existed! Mom would be great at that!
While they babble on, I notice Clint’s holding a LEGO bag.
“What’d you get?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I picked up a special order from the LEGO store.”
“LEGOs? Aren’t those for five-year-olds?” I blurt out before I think. Argh!
Clint’s eyes flicker as sunlight from the skylight hits his hair just then—it looks almost golden for a second. Shining. I can’t believe I just said such a thoughtless thing, and my brain is scrambling to make up for it.
But he tells me, “I go to LEGO competitions around the country. Around the world, actually.” He gets an excited look on his face. “I’ve been to London and Madrid.”
“Competitions? For LEGOs?” I ask, stunned.
“Yeah. We have teams, and we race to see who can assemble the best robotic LEGO creation in the allotted time. It’s serious fun.”
“Wow! I had no idea. You must have to be a fast thinker, to come up with inventions like that.”
“I guess,” he says, kinda grinning, but kinda shyly, too.
“I play the piano,” I tell him, suddenly feeling kinda shy myself. “I have a competition coming up in a few weeks.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he says. “You any good?”
“Not too shabby,” I admit.
Clint looks over at our mothers, who are still going on like they’ve known each other for years.
“Your mom’s really pretty,” he says.
“Thanks. It’s weird to think of her as pretty—she’s just Mom, you know?”
He nods. “You look a lot like her,” he adds.
Huh? That’s cool—no one ever says I look like my mom.
But then he goes and says, “I had no idea your mother was white. That’s how you get your good looks, I guess.”
“Wait.” At first I’m not sure what he means. Then it hits me. “What?”
He doesn’t stop there. “Mixed kids are always pretty,” he adds, pushing his bangs to the side.
My face is going hot. It dawns on me that he hasn’t got the foggiest notion of what he just said. So I decide to tell him.
“So . . . you’re saying that the pretty part of me came from my mom, and if I weren’t pretty, then that would have come from my dad?”
“Uh, that’s not what I meant . . . that’s not . . . ,” he stammers.
His mother is waving bye to Mom and giving Clint the time-to-leave nod. He can’t seem to look at me and ends up loping away without even saying good-bye. Then he’s gone.
I stare after him, feeling so sad. He didn’t have a clue. He had no idea how much that hurt. Not a clue.
CHAPTER 64
Dad’s Week
PIANOPALOOZA IS TOMORROW! I’ve been practicing all week, so I’m not going to stress myself about it. What I’m more worried about is the giant zit on my forehead. I’ve never had a zit before! It’s huge, like maybe ten inches across. Well, maybe not that big. Maybe five inches. Maybe one. I stare into the mirror. It’s actually just a speck. But it feels huge. It glares at me.
“What am I gonna do?” I yelp to Anastasia, who comes running into my bathroom. “I might as well have a neon sign on my forehead!”
She does not laugh at me. I give her points for that.
“I know that tiny little bump feels like a mountain to you—” she starts to say.
“I just want the recital to be perfect!” I interrupt. “But now this!” I start to pick at it.
“Don’t mess with it,” she warns. “You don’t want to invite its friends to show up.”
“You mean there might be more of them coming?”
“Hmm. I think I might have something that can help.” She hurries out while the thing continues to grow on my face. It’ll be the size of Ohio in a minute. Maybe the whole continent by bedtime!
Anastasia returns with a small brown bottle. “Darren uses this,” she explains. “It’s called Lucky Tiger—sounds like just what we need, a bit of luck and a dab of cream. Let’s just put a little bit of this on.” She lets me sniff it when she unscrews the cap. Nice—kinda citrus smelling.
She put a teeny amount on her fingertip, then gently touches it to my face. It feels cool and slightly tingly.
I turn back to the mirror. The red bump is covered with a small dab of white cream. Now, this is a look. Not!
“You think this will work?” I ask worriedly.
“It always worked for me,” she replies.
“You used to get zits?” I ask her.
“I still do,” she tells me. “All faces get irritated from time to time.”
“Whoa. That’s a bummer!”
“But you teenagers usually get more blemishes because your skin is changing, just like the rest of your body.”
Did she just call me a teenager? Well slay me! But I just say, “Thanks for letting me use it.”
“Any time,” she says.
She opens a compact with a little mirror and pats a bit of her makeup on my face. Yep, not the kid stuff I used to pretend with, but seriously expensive adult woman makeup! Cool!
Then she gives me a hug, a real hug, kinda like a mom-would-give-a-daughter hug. And okay. Fine. It feels pretty good.
CHAPTER 65
Dad’s Week
I WAKE UP early—can’t even hear the birds yet! And my heart is beating like it did the day I accidentally drank a double-espresso Caramel Frappuccino from Starbucks. I told the lady “heavy on the whipped cream.” I think she heard “heavy on the caffeine,” and she gave me a double espresso. I didn’t figure it out until three in the morning, when I woke Mom to tell her I thought I was having a heart attack.
I gotta wash my hair. And take a shower. Maybe two—just to make sure. Am I out of Whoosh? I hope not. I peer into the mirror. The zit, miraculously, just as Anastasia predicted, seems to be gone.
Just as I’m thinking this is the start of a perfect day, everything goes wacko. I wander into the kitchen for juice and toast.
“I have meetings at the office all day, Isabella,” Dad tells me as he grabs a granola bar from the cupboard.
“On a Saturday? How come you have to do this today?”
“New clients. Big emergency. But don’t worry—I’ll have them out the door well before the recital.”
“Promise?” I stare him down.
“Absolutely promise! Pinkie swear!” He offers me the little finger of his left hand. I lift up mine and our pinkies touch. It’s been a long time since we did this. “I will be there by four, when the doors open.”
“Okay. You know where to park?”
“I’ve got you, baby girl.” He gives me a quick kiss on my ear. “I will be there—with bells on! Anastasia will get you there by three, okay?”
He’s out the door before I can answer.
Like she’s the next actor in a scene of a play, Anastasia bustles into the kitchen not a minute after Dad leaves. She’s wearing a dark-gray suit and fluffy house slippers. After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she sits down and checks her iPad, then frowns. She looks up at me.
“Excited about the recital today?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. “Yep. Really, really.” Am I sensing a “but” coming from her?
“You’ve been practicing your fingers off—I’ve been so impressed.”
“Thanks.” I gulp down the rest of my orange juice.
“Your new shoes fit well?” Anastasia asks. She’s quick-slurping her coffee.
“Perfectly!” I tell her. “Boy, they really have that shine working! Almost as shiny as the bangle Madame Rubenstein gave me. I’m going to wear that, too. Maybe it will bring me good luck.”
“You don’t need luck, honey. You are prepared and perfect!”
Darren slides into the room next, still damp from the shower. He’s wearing way too much musk cologne. So Darren.
“You trying to fumigate the place?” I fake choke and wave my hands to clear the air.
“Just wanna be fresh for the ladies!” he says, grabbing the last doughnut.
“Darren, would you be able to drive Isabella to the recital?” Anastasia asks then. “I just found out that I have an early showing of one of the houses I designed this afternoon, for one of my biggest clients. I’ll meet you at the university by four.”
“Sure, Mom,” he says. “Not a problem. I like hanging out with our very own piano prodigy.”
I give him a poke on the shoulder.
“Love you, Isabella!” Anastasia calls as she slides off her slippers and slips on her heels. She tucks her iPad in her briefcase and hurries out the door. “See you at four o’clock,” she calls out. “Promise.”
“Love you, too,” I respond automatically. Then it strikes me that I’ve actually never said that to her. I think about it. I guess I really have come to love her. I see Anastasia bite down on a huge smile as she closes the front door. Ha—playing it cool!
I gather the kitchen dishes, put them in the sink, and wipe the table and countertops with some lemon-smelling spray stuff. As I wash and rinse, Darren dries.
“So, you gonna practice all day?” he asks as he puts the dishes in the cupboard.
“No, I don’t think so. It’s in my head. It’s in my heart. When I sit down to play, it will pour out of me. That’s the plan, at any rate.”
“That’s kinda how I feel before a basketball game. I feel it, you know? It’s in me, waiting to burst out.”
Fifi wanders into the kitchen, her polished nails—silver today—clicking against the tiled floor. She stops by my chair, then scooches back on her hind legs and reaches out to me. She never comes to me! I touch her head tentatively. Her fur is so silky. Then she click-click-clicks away.
“Even the psycho dog is on your side today,” Darren observes.
I shrug, but yeah, it is kinda amazing.
“So when are your mother and John Mark getting to the recital hall?” Darren asks.
“Oh, they’ll be the first ones there, for sure. They both took the day off, just so they can be super early. Mom wants to grab a front-row seat. She’s so excited! She told me she’s been charging her phone all night so she has enough juice to record me while I’m playing.”
