“Better.” I can’t hide the sound of excitement in my voice, and my gaze wanders automatically to Dad’s Grammy on themantelpiece, glowing golden in the soft light of the floor lamp, as if the miniature gramophone is trying to tell me something. Dad won the award five years ago for “Mockingbird.” For my song. Since then, I’ve been searching the internet for cover versions.
Dad walks around the sofa and sits down next to me. He’s come straight from some gala with Mom and is still wearing his suit, but at least he loosens his tie before putting on the headphones. I press play again and hand him my phone.
My heart is beating way too fast, and I watch every movement of his face, every twitch of his mouth and eyebrows and the flicker of his dark eyes as he listens.
“Liam? Did you—” Mom’s voice breaks off at the same time as the click of her high heels on the wooden floor.
I turn to look and see her standing in the doorway, a bemused smile on her face. Her blond hair falls in a cascade of soft waves over her shoulders. She’s wearing a gorgeous midnight-blue evening gown, and the grace she exudes, even standing still, fills me with wonder. She’s beautiful. A dancer through and through, even though her career was over before I was even born.
I can try as hard as I want; I’ll never be like her.The thought flashes through my mind before I can help it. I’ve never been able to just ignore it, but I push it aside resolutely. This isn’t about ballet right now. It’s not about Mom. It’s not about me, either. It’s just about the song.
“I should have known you’d be in here,” Mom says, walking over to us. She points to my phone as she sits down next to me and kicks off her killer heels. “What are you listening to?”
“Mockingbird,” I reply, glancing at Dad. His eyes are closed, and there’s a deep crease between his eyebrows. He’s totally focused,and I shift nervously on the sofa cushions because it’s been ages since I’ve seen him like this when he’s listening to a cover. Two years, to be precise.
Mom laughs softly, her light-gray eyes gleaming. “Why am I even asking?”
“No clue.” I grin at her, and she reaches out to brush a strand of dark hair behind my ear.
“Weren’t you going to have Hailey over tonight? I thought you wanted to do a girls’ night while you had the place to yourself.”
I shrug. Sure, we wanted to take advantage of the fact that my parents weren’t home. But sometimes there are more important things. At least for my best friend. “She canceled. The guy she likes finally asked her out, and I didn’t want to get in her way.”
“That was sweet of you.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s me.”
But that’s not the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. Hailey was the one who decided that nothing would get in her way tonight, not even me. But Mom doesn’t have to know that.
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Have you been listening to music all evening, then?”
“More or less.” I shrug. “I also started watching a new show.”
She stretches. “Sounds like a relaxing evening.”
“Yes, I—” I break off as Dad takes off the headphones. “Well?” I demand. “What do you think?”
“You’re right. That’s good. Really good!” He breaks into a wide smile, and I squeal with excitement.
“Does that mean you’re going to show it to Alan?”
“That means I’ll see what the guys have to offer, andthenI’lltalk to Alan.” He passes back my phone and stands up. “But first, I need to get out of this suit.”
Grinning, I press the phone to my chest, my heart beating like crazy. “Thanks, Dad!”
I blow him a kiss and nestle deeper into the sofa cushions as he leaves the living room. He really liked it. And he’s going to check out the band. It’s silly how happy that makes me.
“Sweetheart, we need to talk about the audition again,” Mom says. Her words bring the tingle of happiness in my stomach to an abrupt halt. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”
I turn to face her. “Why should I? I’m not going to get in anyway. I’m not good enough, Mom, and you know that as well as I do.”
“That’s not true. You’ve got talent, Rayne.” There’s an undertone of hope in her voice, and I hate to disappoint her.
“I don’t. I may not be a complete disaster, but I’m not good enough for the New England School of Ballet.”
She sighs. “What can I do to convince you otherwise? You’re good enough. Good enough for anything you want to do.”
“Mom, please,” I say, feeling awful. We’ve talked about this so many times, and the result is always the same.
