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“Thank you,” I manage to say. My heart is still racing. I knew I played great, but I had what felt like an out-of-body experience while I was up there. Nothing existed but the music and me.
“Will I see you at the party this evening?” Boris asks. “I would love to chat more about your future in music.”
A hand cups my shoulder. “She’ll be there. Thank you, Mr. Bialik.”
“Mr. Bhakta, you were right. She is a delight. Such emotion, such raw talent. And, if you’ll excuse me, Adina, such beauty.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as Arjun’s hand ever so slightly presses tighter on my shoulder.
“Thank you very much,” I say, but the comment, which in the past might have made me glow, irks me tonight. Does my beauty somehow make me more talented? More worthy of being onstage, because I am nice to look at?
“If you’ll excuse us,” Arjun says, steering me away, “her parents are waiting.”
“Absolutely.”
I push out a deep breath when Boris is out of earshot. “This is a little overwhelming.”
“Get used to it,” Arjun says. “You were the highlight of the show. Your parents
have been waiting to congratulate you.”
When I become a soloist, I will always be the highlight of the show. I will be the entire show. So I square my shoulders and lift my head higher. One day I will grow accustomed to this attention, but tonight, combined with Arjun next to me, it’s almost too much.
They’re in a corner of the lobby, Tovah in a loose-fitting gray sack of a dress, Ima in floral-patterned silk, Aba in a suit. Ima’s arm is linked through his.
“So beautiful, Adina’le,” Ima says, patting my arm. She hugs me and says in Hebrew into my ear, “I’m so proud of you.”
I stiffen at her touch. The way she yelled at Tovah and me a few nights ago is still fresh. “Todah, Ima,” I say before I pull away.
Tovah looks up from her phone. Our parents have never let her skip a performance, the same way my presence was always required at her Science Olympiad competitions in middle school.
“Nice job,” she says flatly, like it would kill her to be legitimately happy for me.
“You looked very natural up there,” Aba says. I wonder if he still thinks my music is a waste of time or if my result has erased his wish for me to go to a state school.
Ima tells Arjun, “We can tell working with you has made such a tremendous difference.”
“Adina is gifted. It’s a real pleasure to work with her.”
“Will we see you at home tonight?” Aba asks me.
I shake my head. “There’s a party for the performers at the director’s place. I was hoping I could go?”
Asking permission in front of Arjun makes me feel like a child, but fortunately Aba smiles and says, “Have fun. Home by twelve thirty, okay?”
“Matt,” Ima says. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
We all go quiet. Tovah’s gaze flicks to Arjun, as though trying to ascertain whether he knows what this means, and Arjun is looking at me as though waiting for permission to react. I’d like to melt into the floor, turn my skin into carpet.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” I say. “Not Thanksgiving.”
Ima blinks. “Memory lapse. New Year’s Eve. Of course. No later than two, okay?”
“Okay,” I grit out.
As they turn to walk away, Ima stumbles, low-heeled shoe catching a knot in the carpet. Before Aba can catch her, she topples into a pyramid of empty wineglasses on a nearby table. They crash to the carpet, shattering.
I rush over, Arjun following close behind.
