Gina and Destiny looked in the auditorium.
“No play practice today,” Mitchell said. “Jake the Sweeper is painting the walls.”
“Tan,” said Destiny. “Yuck.”
“A lovely color,” Mrs. Farelli said behind them.
Yuck, Gina thought. “Lovely,” she said. Stars were kind.
Mrs. Farelli tilted her head. “I have a dress the same color as the wall. I’ll wear it to Madam Ballantine’s play tomorrow.”
“Lovely,” Gina said again.
“Lovely,” Destiny said at the same time.
Too bad Destiny’s voice was louder than hers.
Gina headed for the music room. She hadn’t been there for a few days. Mr. Sarsaparilla, the music teacher, must miss her. After all, she was going to be an opera singer when she grew up.
She passed the gym. Charlie had a bandage on his nose.
“From your Yellow Wing-O invention?” Gina asked.
Charlie shook his head. “From my Walk-on-a-Rope-O invention.” He looked a little sad. “The rope-o broke-o.”
Gina knew how he felt. Suppose she turned out to be a crybaby alien instead of the star?
Mr. Sarsaparilla was banging on his drums. He was banging a mile a minute. His hair was flying, his feet were jumping.
He was singing something.
Gina tapped her foot.
She began to sing. She sang loudly. Her notes got higher as she went along. It was lovely. “OOH-LA-LA.”
Mr. Sarsaparilla jumped. His drumsticks crashed. “Oh, Yolanda,” he said. “It’s you.”
Gina shook her head.
“I mean Destiny,” he said.
“I’m Gina, the opera singer,” she told him.
He pulled on his long, sweeping mustache. “Right. The loudest singer in the Afternoon Center.”
Gina looked around. No one else was in the music room. Poor Mr. Sarsaparilla was in there all by himself.
“I liked your song,” she said, “about—” She couldn’t remember what it was about.
“It’s called ‘You Can Do Almost Anything,’ ” Mr. Sarsaparilla said.
“Is that true?” Gina said.
Mr. Sarsaparilla banged his drum with his stick. “Yes indeed.”
An idea popped into her head.
She could do something!
She could be the star.
She could help Mr. Sarsaparilla, too.
The audience would be clapping. She could see them!
The meat man at Stop & Shop would give her a slice of bologna.
“The Afternoon Center is putting on a play,” she told Mr. Sarsaparilla.
“Enchanting,” he said.
Sometimes Mr. Sarsaparilla didn’t talk regular English.
“Not one singer in the whole thing,” she said. “It’s about a bunch of robots, and bad guys, and crying aliens.”
“Unfortunate,” said Mr. Sarsaparilla.
Gina pointed to herself. “We could use some opera in there.”
Mr. Sarsaparilla yanked on his mustache again. “I don’t think—” he began.
“And drums,” she said. “Lots of nice banging drums.”
Mr. Sarsaparilla yanked harder. “But I’m the only one who plays the drums.”
“Yes,” Gina said. “It’s lucky. Peter and Mitchell are my friends. They might give you a good part.”
He looked up at the ceiling. “Teaching music is not easy,” he whispered.
Gina smiled. She was so glad she’d thought of this. Mr. Sarsaparilla might never have been a star in his whole life.
She skipped out of the music room. She sang, “You can do almost anything, tra-la.”
She sang it under her breath.
Everyone didn’t have to know about it just yet.
