I peek out from behind the curtains. The act before us, a mother-and-daughter cooking demonstration, is almost done, and I smile at the adorable toddler with brownie batter on her nose. The mom shows the audience their bowl full of batter, then whips a towel off the top of an already-baked pan of chocolate deliciousness.
“And this is what they look like baked!”
“They’re super yummy!” The little girl grabs the microphone from her mom. Her mom looks at her expectantly, like she’s cueing her next line. “Oh!” The girl’s eyes widen. “And you can buy them after the show.”
The audience claps and cheers as I close the curtain and move backstage. The auditorium is almost completely filled, but instead of making me nervous, like I’d anticipated a few minutes ago, the sight of all of those smiling faces out there excites me. They’re not going to be rating how fast I run or how many balls I catch. (How many notes I hit, more likely.) Well, the judges may be, but the audience won’t.
Winning the talent show doesn’t matter to me anymore, anyway. What matters is having fun with my best friend and doing something I love. Enjoying life instead of competing for it.
“Are you ready?” I whisper to Claudia.
“Ready.” Her eyes shine as bright as the rhinestones on our shirts. Libby’s shirt is a little big on Claudia, so she tied it in this cool knot-thingie at her waist.
I squeeze her hand. “I’m glad we’re doing this together.”
“Me too.” Claudia squeezes back. “And it’s okay with me that you’re not doing softball, you know. In case you’re worried about that.”
I nod. “A little bit, I guess. But I know we’ll always find time to hang out, even if we’re not on the field together.”
“Absolutely. I’m going to do rec league again in the fall.”
“Cool.” So will I.
The mother-and-daughter act finally exit on the other side of the stage, and I peek into the audience again. I can just see Dad in the front row, next to Claudia’s brother and parents.
“Oh!” I peek back at Claudia. “Your mom and dad are sitting together!”
Claudia smiles. “Yeah.” She shrugs. “They don’t fight as much now that they’re living apart. We all even had dinner together last night. It was weird. I keep hoping that they’ll get back together.”
“Will they?” I try to see if her parents are holding hands or kissing or anything.
“Nah.” Claudia shakes her head. “I asked and they said no. That it was sweet of me to hope, but that this is the way our life is now.”
This is the way life is now.
Like Mom not being in the audience, no matter how many times I peek out to see if she’s shown up. Because I know she’s still in rehab. I know she won’t be coming home for a few more weeks. But just because Mom’s not here—just because Claudia’s parents are getting a divorce—doesn’t mean they love us any less.
“Up next is a song-and-dance act from Veronica Conway and … oh, it looks like we have a substitution.” On stage, Mrs. Pfeiffer shuffles her notecards, almost dropping one. “I sure hope they’re more coordinated than I am.”
I roll my eyes. Adult jokes are the weirdest.
“Veronica Conway and Claudia Munichiello!” Mrs. Pfeiffer slides into the wings on the other side of the stage as applause fills the auditorium.
I look at Claudia as the music begins.
She nods, and we dance onto the stage.
I check the time on my phone and try not to stare out the window again. Or tap my foot. Or stare around at the empty room. Dad had a meeting for his job (his one job—he quit working at the hardware store after Family Day), so he had to drop me off at the town hall early. Which is why I’m sitting alone on the stage, in a rickety old folding chair, right over the spot where Claudia and I did our talent show routine just a few days ago.
Tonight I’m not here to perform, though. I’m here for the support group that I finally agreed to go to. I’m still afraid to talk to everyone about my “problems,” but Libby assured me that they’d all understand, just like she does.
“Here I am!” Libby rushes through the doors, and they slam behind her, echoing through the large room. During the talent show, this room was filled with people—people who all stood and cheered as Claudia and I sang the last note of our song in unison. My heart pounded as I stared out at the audience, my heart beating not with anxiety but with exhilaration.
There were a few babies crying, but there was no coach comparing me to my teammates or tallying up how many balls I caught. There was just applause. Applause and a shiny third place ribbon. (Claudia and I are going to share it, moving it from my room to Claudia’s room every other week.)
It’s not first place, but it’s still something.
And I think I would have still been happy with no ribbon at all.
“It’s okay.” I get up from my seat and give Libby a hug. She’s explained how the support group will work about a billion times already, but I still want to hear it again. “Are there going to be a lot of people here?”
“It depends on the week.” Libby sits on the edge of the stage, her feet swinging back and forth, and I join her. She’s a lot more comfortable up here when all eyes aren’t on her. I feel the opposite, though. A big crowd is one thing—all the people kind of blur together underneath the spotlights—but a small group like this is something else entirely. Everyone will be able to see me, just like I can see them. I won’t be able to blend in.
I won’t be able to hide.
Then I remember what I’ve learned over the past month—that hiding has never solved anything. That honesty and openness are what got me here, to a place where I have awesome friends, a supportive dad, and a mom who will be coming home soon.
“Will they expect me to talk?” I swing my feet, too. Bump bump bump go my heels against the stage. “Do I have to tell everyone everything?” There are limits to honesty, after all. Especially with strangers.
“You can share whatever you want,” Libby reassures me. “You do have to introduce yourself, though. So we don’t end up calling you Mystery Woman Number One or something like that.”
“Jane Smith,” I suggest.
“Princess Marzipan of Sparkleville!”
I giggle as the door to the auditorium bangs open and two kids drift down the aisle. I look at them closely, weirdly afraid that I know them from school. They don’t look familiar, though. And what would be the big deal if I did know them, anyway? They’re here, just like I am.
“Everyone has problems,” Libby says softly, as if she knows what I’m worried about. “But talking can help.”
A few more kids straggle in. I think I recognize one girl from the lunchroom. She gives me a small smile, and I wiggle my fingers at her.
“Okay, kids, let’s get this meeting started!” A tall woman wearing jeans and a tank top pulls a few more chairs into the circle, then waves her arms at us.
I start to look at Libby—for permission? Guidance?—then realize that I can’t just follow her around all afternoon. If I want these people to help me, then I have to move into the circle myself. I have to ask for help.
Just like Mom did.
Just like we all have to do sometimes.
So I listen. When we go around to introduce ourselves, I tell the others about myself. About Mom and Dad and my friends and softball. About singing and school and how, finally, I’m maybe—just maybe—learning where I belong.