Daria’s hotel is all shiny and gold, with elaborately framed mirrors in the lobby. If you ask me it’s a little overdone, but I’m not complaining. I get the key from the front desk, and when I get inside the suite, I text Richard from the phone he gave me:
Everything’s fine. I only got molested once on the train.
He texts back a minute later.
Ha-ha. Tell the wunderkind hello.
The shower has three heads and it frightens me when they all come on. I can’t help but think about Oliver, and how I will finally see him again tonight. We are next-door neighbors, and I came to Paris to make that happen—weird. I remind myself I need to ask him what Tile was talking about regarding Dad, something that has been gnawing at me.
I put on mascara, a tiny bit of lip stuff, and my favorite jean jacket. I get there late because of the traffic. I should’ve taken the Métro, but Richard made me promise to only take cabs. The first soloist, a Korean piano player who looks like he’s around ten, finishes when I arrive. The crowd goes insane, of course; at age ten the kid is playing Chopin better than Chopin, basically. The next two pieces are beautiful but sad, which is a theme I’m getting a lot of lately. There are only men in the standing room, and I realize they probably don’t sell it to women or girls, that’s why the mean guy didn’t offer. Skater Boy knew I could rough it out. So glad he had my back.
When Oliver comes on, I feel like some stupid character in a romantic comedy. My breath catches and I put my hand over my open mouth. He’s in a dark blue suit, and his hair is the same, which is so cool. I was hoping he’d show it off and not tone it down. He looks nervous, and before he starts, his eyes scan the crowd as if searching for something. His father?
He starts out a little tentative, but then completely gets lost in the piece, as does the audience. There were no programs left for standing room, but as he finishes, I notice a stray one on the floor. I grab it and open it up to his bio. I read what it says at the bottom and my breath catches again, except this time I actually gasp.
This performance is dedicated to a girl named Fifteen.
I try to hold myself up on one of the supporting beams. Did he know I was going to be here? I am so proud of him that my anger goes away for all three songs. The crowd goes even wilder than they did with the Korean boy. I clap so hard my hands hurt a little. I don’t listen to the last piece, because suddenly I need air.
I get outside and now there’s a different kind of night energy, like anything is possible. I text Richard:
He dedicated the performance to me!!
He texts back:
As he rightly should!
The big doors burst open and the crowd starts piling out. How I’m ever going to find him is beyond me. I decide to wander around to the side of the building. Sure enough, there’s what looks like a stage door. I feel like a groupie, or one of those paparazzi who wait outside the restaurant when my dad has dinner with someone famous. After what seems like an hour, Oliver comes out with a man I recognize from the picture on his stairway. His father.
“Fifteen!” He pushes his cello case into his father’s arms and runs over to me. “You came!”
His father looks completely annoyed. I suddenly don’t know what to say. Oliver motions for him to leave us alone for a minute.
“Thanks for the dedication,” I manage to say.
He blushes, and I have to say, he’s more adorable than ever.
“I miss you. And now that the show’s over, I don’t have him on my back. You don’t even know. It’s like someone lifted a pile of cement off me. That’s why I … Oh man, Fifteen, I have so much I want to say to you.…” He looks back at his father, who seems to be sending an angry text. “When are you going back to New York?”
“In a week or so.”
“We’re going to London tomorrow, to look at schools,” he says.
“A little early for that, huh?”
He whispers so his dad can’t hear: “The only thing that matters for him is my cello and my grades. The pressure is beyond.”
“Speaking of pressure, something I need to ask you. Tile said that you know something about—”
“Your dad. Yes, you know, that kid gets things out of you. It’s nothing, really, but I did want to tell you and never felt it was the right time.”
“Well?”
“About, I don’t know, two, three years ago? I saw him kissing someone outside your house, and the only reason it stuck with me was that it was an actress, someone my mother recognized.”
“He kisses actresses all the time.”
“Yes, but I think it may have been more than a regular kiss. The point is, maybe your dad isn’t perfect either.”
I look up at the edge of the building where the paint is peeling. Imperfections. No, my dad isn’t perfect, but he is the only dad I’ve ever wanted, and I feel a desire to stick up for him somehow.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
The stage door bursts open and out comes the violin kid with an entourage. We scoot out of the way.
“Look, I said it was probably nothing, I just felt you should know, with everything that’s been going on with you.”
He looks tentative but sincere. Even though I’m wondering why I had to hear this through Tile first, it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m standing next to Oliver in Paris. After a long, stretched moment in time, his father whistles for him.
“What, you’re a dog now?”
“Basically. Okay, Fifteen, see you on CPW? I will explain everything.”
“Yeah.”
He swoops down real close, stops, and, noticing that his father isn’t watching, gives me a soft kiss. I boil over with emotion, and my face feels so hot there’s probably smoke coming out of my ears.
As I watch them walk away, Skater Boy appears out of nowhere and says, “Yes. Music Man is good looks. But what about me?”
I laugh.
“You’re cute, but you try too hard. And the hair is too much.”
He acts out getting an arrow stuck in his heart and says, “Ouch.”
“But thanks for the help before, really. You rock.”
I head toward the cab line and Skater Boy yells, “Yes, but do I roll?”