Page 72 of The Do-Over

“How about I comb Lilah’s hair?” I said.

Nate tugged his phone out of his pocket, glanced at it. “Fine. I have to go. But”—he pointed a finger at Lilah—“we aren’t done with this. Your attitude…”

“I’ll be good, I promise. Please, I really want to be in the talent show. You already signed the forms.”

“Just remember that I can un-sign them. Got it?”

Lilah nodded meekly, her eyes large and liquid-filled. “I got it.”

“Be good.” He pulled her close and planted a kiss on her forehead, his voice gruff. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Nate hitched up his backpack and turned to me. He hesitated, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “Thanks, again.”

“No problem.”

In the living room, Lilah was pawing through my nail polish stash. She bounced on the balls of her feet and held up a vibrant purple.

“No nails until we get through your hair.” I found a bottle of leave-in conditioner and sat on the couch. She settled on the floor between my feet.

“So, a talent show?” I asked, spritzing on conditioner.

Lilah nodded. “Uh-huh. For the end of the year. The day before school gets out, in front of the whole school.”

“What are you going to do?” I winced as the comb encountered a particularly nasty knot.

“Guess.”

“Spontaneous napping?”

“No,” she said with a giggle.

“You’re teaching an earthworm circus tricks?”

A gap-toothed smile was my answer.

“I have no idea.”

“Bird calls.”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Bird calls.” Hopping to her feet, she cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a nasal, loud honk. “That’s the snow goose. Pretty good, right? I’ve been practicing.”

My mouth hung open in either disbelief or horror—it was hard to differentiate between the two. Before I could form words, Lilah let out another call, this one in three parts.

“That’s a whippoorwill. Do you hear it?” She repeated the sound. “It says its name—whip-poor-will.”

She could not do this in front of the entire school. The other kids would tear her apart. How had Nate said yes to this? Didn’t he know how mean kids could be? How mean adults could be? I couldn’t even imagine my mother’s reaction if I’d tried to do anything like this when I had been a kid.

There’d been one time when Mom had insisted I take dance lessons. I’d been six years old and even then, I’d known tutus and high kicks were not my thing. Thirty seconds into the first recital, it had all gone horribly wrong. I’d tripped and fallen flat on my face. While I lay there, too afraid to cry, Miss Alicia, the dance instructor, stood backstage and whisper-yelled to the other girls to keep dancing. I blinked up at the hot stage lights, fighting tears, while eight other girls in leotards and too much make-up twirled and leaped around my body to a jazzy pop song.

Afterward, all I wanted to do was cry on my mother’s shoulder, or receive a pat on the back, something to let me know she didn’t believe I was a complete failure. Instead, she sighed and took my hand. When we got in the car, I kicked off the black dance shoes and picked at the hole I now had in my tights.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” I whispered.

She started the car without replying. When we were almost home, she finally spoke, her voice low. “There’s always next time. Next time will be better.”