Page 75 of The Do-Over

Bria hugged me back and, in a tentative whisper, replied, “I hope so. I really hope so.”

TWENTY-NINE

“If you’re looking for a hero,

you’ve already lost your way.”

—MIMI

Lilah cleared her throat and repeated the squawk she’d been perfecting for the last thirty minutes. “Was that better?”

“Sure,” I said and set a tiny chair atop a tiny table. Lilah and I were the last two people at Miss Marge’s this evening. While she practiced, I cleaned up the room.

Lilah frowned. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am. How could I not?” I’d have to be deaf or in another country to not hear her. Despite my attempts to turn Lilah on to some other talent—singing, dancing, stand-up comedy, miming, baton-twirling, anything else, she would not be swayed.

The last few weeks, she’d subjected me to an encyclopedia of chirps, tweets, squawks, screams, grunts, and chortles. The kid was both relentless and cheerful in her mission to share her passion. But I couldn’t help that bit of panic wedged in my heart, the worry she’d be laughed off the stage, the image of her little face crumbled in tears.

“Did you finish my costume? Can I try it on this weekend?”

“That’s the plan.” A couple of weeks ago, Lilah had hit me up with big, pleading eyes to make her talent show costume. Since I couldn’t seem to say no to her, I’d found myself hunched over my old sewing machine, attaching hundreds of feathers onto a custom-made owl costume.

“I can’t wait,” Lilah said.

I could. Every time I thought of Lilah performing in front of what was sure to be a mob of critics, my heart broke a little. A clap of thunder pulled my eyes to the window where an angry rain pounded. That had to be a sign, right?

If Nate was concerned about the impending fiasco of the talent show, he hadn’t shown it. Once or twice I’d almost brought up my concerns to him but caught myself. He hadn’t asked my opinion, and I didn’t want to overstep.

Lilah let loose a loud, high-pitched whistle that made me cringe. “What about that one? Did that sound like a nightingale?”

Then again, maybe I didn’t have much of a choice.

The knock on my door a week later caught me in the middle of belting out show tunes for Sal’s listening pleasure. I scrambled to turn down the music and raced to the door, patting at the fine sheen of sweat on my forehead.

It was Nate. Of course.

“Oh, hey,” I said, wishing I didn’t have on my new pajamas, the ones with the Men of Marvel pictured shirtless across the front. “What’s up?”

Eyes twinkling, Nate flashed a half-smile. “Sounded like a party in here.”

“No, just me and the fish living it up at nine o’clock on a Friday night.” I winced. “I mean, I was cleaning house and then I was going to take a shower and wash my hair and—”

Grinning, he rocked back on his heels. “No explanation needed.”

I blew out a breath. “Did you need something?”

“I was wondering if I could borrow”—he pulled his phone out and squinted down at the screen—“a cup of sugar?”

“Sure.” I hurried into the kitchen, measured out some into a baggie, and handed it over. “I put a little extra in. Just in case.”

After he thanked me, I closed the door and turned the music back up, not as loud as before. Five minutes later, another knock interrupted my touching performance of Bette Midler’s classic “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I think Sal even teared up a little.

“Yes?” I said when I opened the door to Nate again.

“Sorry.” He glanced at his phone and frowned. “Do you have an egg? I have two, but I need three.”

“Yup.” I handed over the egg and watched him walk down the hallway toward his door.