his position at the piano, and along with the other musicians, I put my head down, trying to concentrate on the opening notes of the next piece. Paolo belongs
to Alessandra; they are so obviously in love that you often have to look away in the face of such fierce devotion. Everyone in the troupe knows that, and to even think anything different will cause an unimaginable amount of trouble
.
Veronique is looking at me with concern. “Is everything okay? You look pale.”
I blink and look around the room. The bright lights of the stage are gone, replaced by the colored shades of the Tiffany lamps my mom loves so much. “Sure,” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be. “Just a little dizzy. I think it’s the jet lag still.”
She looks relieved. “You’re probably right. Whenever I go to Italy with Giacomo it takes days to get back on the right schedule.” She glances at her delicate gold watch. “It’s getting late anyway. I should get going. We’re still on for Thursday, right?”
“Right,” I say, hoping that she doesn’t notice how much my hand is shaking as I put the bow back in its case.
I help Mom clear the dining room table after dinner, even though it’s just the two of us. No matter how many of us are home, she insists on setting the table and sitting down to a meal every night. I wonder if she’ll still do that when it’s just her in a few years. The thought of her sitting down here alone while Dad sits upstairs by himself is vaguely depressing.
“I’m going up to see Dad,” I say once the dishwasher is loaded. I’d almost forgotten about my promise to look at the photos.
“Okay,” she calls from the laundry room. “Did you finish your homework?”
“I did some in school.”
“How about your practice time? We can’t have you falling behind just because you went on vacation. Herr Steinberg mentioned that the little red-headed girl is just itching to challenge you for first chair.”
“I’ll do another hour before bed,” I call back. “I won’t be long.”
Dad has the classical music station blasting as I walk up the stairs. I find him at the computer, a half-eaten burrito on a plate next to him, along with some chocolate-chip cookies from my favorite bakery in the Mission.
“Hey, there’s my girl,” he says, turning around and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “There are some great shots from the trip. Want to see?”
“Sure,” I say, grabbing a cookie. I always forget to take pictures, and Kat’s camera is filled with the ones I took of her and various guards and Beefeaters. I know she took a couple of Owen in front of the Crown Jewels building, and I kick myself for not having her sneak a picture of Griffon. Despite the pang I get in my chest whenever I think of him, his image is already fading in my memory, and I’m not sure if I’d even recognize him again. Not that it matters.
Dad, on the other hand, takes pictures like he’s terrified of short-term memory loss. Every moment has to be documented so that nothing is forgotten. “There’s you and your sister on the plane, all sleepy,” he says as the slide show starts on the computer.
I wince at the huge image of myself with my hair sticking out of a messy bun and bags under my eyes. “It was like three o’clock in the morning, our time,” I say defensively. I’ll have to sneak in later and delete all the unflattering shots.
“Oh, you look beautiful, as always. Look, here’s one of that place we ate dinner that first night. The one in the theater district.”
Dad has a comment for every photo. The doorman at our hotel, a series of big red buses, us in front of the nearest tube station. “These are from the walk we took to Piccadilly Circus that evening, remember? Here’s the two of you in front of that statue.”
I glance at the photo of me and Kat on the cement steps, but something in the background makes me gasp. “Wait, stop.” I look closer, a chill running up my spine. “When did
to Alessandra; they are so obviously in love that you often have to look away in the face of such fierce devotion. Everyone in the troupe knows that, and to even think anything different will cause an unimaginable amount of trouble
.
Veronique is looking at me with concern. “Is everything okay? You look pale.”
I blink and look around the room. The bright lights of the stage are gone, replaced by the colored shades of the Tiffany lamps my mom loves so much. “Sure,” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be. “Just a little dizzy. I think it’s the jet lag still.”
She looks relieved. “You’re probably right. Whenever I go to Italy with Giacomo it takes days to get back on the right schedule.” She glances at her delicate gold watch. “It’s getting late anyway. I should get going. We’re still on for Thursday, right?”
“Right,” I say, hoping that she doesn’t notice how much my hand is shaking as I put the bow back in its case.
I help Mom clear the dining room table after dinner, even though it’s just the two of us. No matter how many of us are home, she insists on setting the table and sitting down to a meal every night. I wonder if she’ll still do that when it’s just her in a few years. The thought of her sitting down here alone while Dad sits upstairs by himself is vaguely depressing.
“I’m going up to see Dad,” I say once the dishwasher is loaded. I’d almost forgotten about my promise to look at the photos.
“Okay,” she calls from the laundry room. “Did you finish your homework?”
“I did some in school.”
“How about your practice time? We can’t have you falling behind just because you went on vacation. Herr Steinberg mentioned that the little red-headed girl is just itching to challenge you for first chair.”
“I’ll do another hour before bed,” I call back. “I won’t be long.”
Dad has the classical music station blasting as I walk up the stairs. I find him at the computer, a half-eaten burrito on a plate next to him, along with some chocolate-chip cookies from my favorite bakery in the Mission.
“Hey, there’s my girl,” he says, turning around and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “There are some great shots from the trip. Want to see?”
“Sure,” I say, grabbing a cookie. I always forget to take pictures, and Kat’s camera is filled with the ones I took of her and various guards and Beefeaters. I know she took a couple of Owen in front of the Crown Jewels building, and I kick myself for not having her sneak a picture of Griffon. Despite the pang I get in my chest whenever I think of him, his image is already fading in my memory, and I’m not sure if I’d even recognize him again. Not that it matters.
Dad, on the other hand, takes pictures like he’s terrified of short-term memory loss. Every moment has to be documented so that nothing is forgotten. “There’s you and your sister on the plane, all sleepy,” he says as the slide show starts on the computer.
I wince at the huge image of myself with my hair sticking out of a messy bun and bags under my eyes. “It was like three o’clock in the morning, our time,” I say defensively. I’ll have to sneak in later and delete all the unflattering shots.
“Oh, you look beautiful, as always. Look, here’s one of that place we ate dinner that first night. The one in the theater district.”
Dad has a comment for every photo. The doorman at our hotel, a series of big red buses, us in front of the nearest tube station. “These are from the walk we took to Piccadilly Circus that evening, remember? Here’s the two of you in front of that statue.”
I glance at the photo of me and Kat on the cement steps, but something in the background makes me gasp. “Wait, stop.” I look closer, a chill running up my spine. “When did
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