Love in B Minor
Page 22
This book is the result of many months of search and doubts. And it wouldn’t be there without the help of my wonderful and talented critique partners. Thank you Riley Edgewood, Katy Upperman and Alison Miller for keeping me in check and for pushing me and for supporting me. You ladies rock. And as always our annual writing’s retreat helped me a whole lot! Thanks also to Cambria and Cristin for your insight and for helping me with that s-alliteration…
And thank you to my copy editor Stephanie Parent , who helps make my words shine.
Tracey gave me puppies on Twitter to motivate me. And all the members of my cozy nook have been extremely supportive and I love hanging out there and I’m grateful for them too.
Thank you to my family. I don’t see you as often as I want but I know you’re there. And I hope you know I’m there too.
Thank you to my friends, near and far. Your support means the world. And thank you for understanding when I’m holed up in my house, not able to move, not able to do anything except write.
And thank you to everyone reading this little book. It means the world.
SNEAK PEEK
A Broken Dreams
Novel
By
Elodie Nowodazkij
CHAPTER 1 – EM
I SHOULD HAVE STAYED at the School of Performing Arts this weekend. I should have spent more time rehearsing for our big end-of-the-year showcase audition. I should have repeated each movement until I reached perfection…
I’m never going to be ready.
My throat tightens. I need more hours, more days, more time.
“Do you want more lasagna?” my grandmother—Nonna—asks. Her gray hair is cut short and even though the lines on her face are getting more pronounced, even though she’s pale and thinner, even though she gets tired more easily, her smile is still the brightest in all of New York. “Or maybe more salad?” She mixes the tomato mozzarella salad again. She grows the basil herself, and believes that she could have an entire menu using only recipes with basil, like pesto steaks, or basil sorbet.
“A bit more salad, please.” I hand her my plate. Nonna’s restaurant is usually bright and full of laughter and people and waiters trying not to run into one another, but tonight it’s only her and me. Nonna opens the restaurant for lunch on Sundays and keeps her evening free.
“There you go.” She sips her water. “Your father was so cute when he was little. That day he brought me a bouquet with roses from our garden, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he shouldn’t have cut them. Instead, I made sure to put one in his baby book,” she says and then inhales deeply as if trying to catch her breath. She smooths the red tablecloth on our small table. She called tonight a “grandmother-granddaughter” date night, setting up candles and even putting some Italian music on in the background.
Even though I should be rehearsing, I couldn’t say no to her. I didn’t want to say no. And not because her lasagna is the best in town.
“I’m talking, I’m talking but I know you have to go,” she says, standing up, holding on to her chair.
“I can stay,” I reply.
“You’re sweet, but you’ve started to fidget on your chair, that means you’re already running late.”
I cringe—I hadn’t noticed I was doing that. “Dinner was really delicious. Thank you.” I gather the plates, but she takes them away from me.
“I’ll take care of that. You go.”
And there’s so much tenderness in the way she looks at me that I want to bottle up the emotion I feel and keep it for when I have a bad day, or for when I see Nick—my forever crush, my brother’s best friend, the guy who broke my heart last summer. I hold her arm and together we walk to the entrance. The restaurant smells of fresh bread mixed with garlic and basil. It smells of my childhood spent in the kitchen with her and Poppa.
When everything was so much easier.
I grab my coat, careful not to knock one of the pictures she has on the walls. Her memory wall, as she calls it. Lots of pictures of Poppa, and my own father, and my entire family, and of Italy. She recently put one up of Mr. Edwards, the man who has been courting her for almost a year now.
“Goodbye, Bellisima,” she says, kissing my cheeks loudly. “Thanks for spending time with your old grandmother.” She winks.
“You’re not old.”
“You’re right. I’m ancient.” She laughs and hugs me again. The perfume Mom gets her every Christmas is another reminder of all the happy times I’ve had with her. She coughs and leans against the wall. “I know you wanted to stay at school this weekend, so thank you again.” And before I can reply, she pushes me out the door. “Now, go. You don’t want to be late.”
“Love you,” I tell her. I put on my coat and my scarf.
“I love you too, Bellisima.” She pauses. “And say hi to Nicholas for me,” she says.
Nicholas. Nick. I force my lips into a smile, I force myself to not think about Nick. I force myself to wave to Nonna. “I’ll see you next week.”
And I glance at her one more time before slowly making my way to the subway. I used to love going back to school on Sundays. I used to wait for Nick at the corner of our street and we’d walk together. We’d talk about our weekend. He’d make me laugh and I’d try to not stare at his lips while he talked about his parents, our last audition, the video game he managed to get his hands on before its release, because he knew I wanted to play it and he knew some guy who could make it happen.
That was before.
Now, I take the subway from Brooklyn, where my family and I moved after Nick’s father fired my dad.
Alone.
Now, I don’t spend every possible second with Nick, I don’t send him random text messages to make him laugh, I don’t smile every time I see him.
Now, I avoid him as much as possible and lie to his face about dating some guy I met at my Nonna’s restaurant.
I readjust my bag on my shoulder and look up at the gray sky. New York has had its share of snow and winter and icy sidewalks but it seems we’re in for another round, even though we’re already in March. There’s a small coffee shop nestled between bigger buildings one block before the subway. It’s crowded and I’m tempted to push the door and get in line. Hide in there and forget about real life. Forget about school.
But instead of entering the coffee shop, I march straight ahead. I pass a group of students who are talking about an epic party they went to yesterday, and I barely avoid a couple whose PDA is so over the top I can almost hear my brother telling them to get a room. I settle in an empty seat in the subway.
And my mind wanders to the same game it always plays. If the third person to enter the car is a woman, I’m going to talk to Nick. Really talk to him. I’ll come clean about not seeing anyone.
The first person who enters the subway is a woman with hair to her shoulders and a big smile that shows a gap in her middle teeth, and she’s holding the hand of another woman with dark hair, who’s the second person to enter the car. She gives her girlfriend a kiss on the lips, before whispering something into her ear. They both start giggling. The third person to enter the car is a guy. The guy’s not wearing a coat despite the freezing temperatures. His Hugo Boss shirt is tight around his muscles and his jeans must cost more than an entire semester at the School of Performing Arts. Based on the price of his outfit, he’s not jacketless because he can’t afford one; it’s a fashion statement. A fashion statement that could freeze him to death.
Maybe I could count the couple as only one person and if the next passenger is a woman, then I would talk to Nick. A group of guys enter the subway.
I sink into my seat.
The universe has spoken—I won’t talk to Nick today.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket and I slide it out. A text from my brother—not Nick.
Sorry I couldn’t make it home this weekend, this experiment is killing me. Literally, it could kill me. Playing with virus is dangerous.
> I crack a smile. Roberto can be a tad dramatic, but he’s also a genius in physics and medicine and whatever else he touches. He’s going to graduate from college two years early and save the world.
I type back: Be careful.
Always
I settle into my seat again, trying very hard to not remember what Roberto told me about the amount of viruses and bacteria and all that jazz crowding public transportation. A guy sitting two benches down is eating chicken tenders, and the scent surrounds me. I’m not hungry—not after eating lasagna with Nonna, but the smell reminds me of carefree evenings on the rooftop of Nick’s house two years ago during Thanksgiving break. That’s when our families still got along, and that’s when we decided we didn’t want to simply sit at their fancy table with their fancy meals and their fancy friends. We ordered KFC and climbed on the roof and talked all night. The three of us: Roberto, Nick and me.
A little girl with straight black hair and eyes slanting upwards enters the car with her mom. She has a big smile on her face and points to the seat in front of me. “Can we sit, Mommy?” Her mom nods.
They sit in front of me and the little girl snuggles up to her mom. Their purple jackets look similar with a snowman on the front pocket. The girl glances around and then she stands up to touch my bag.
“Lola,” her mom calls and she sits back down, still staring at my bag.
Her face lights up and her grin turns wider. She reminds me of the kids on the poster for the Buddy Walk that was organized two weeks ago in the city to raise awareness about Down syndrome.
“Are you a ballerina?” she asks slowly with a laugh in her voice, her finger pointing to the pictures on my bag: ballet pointes and a dancer in a tutu.
“Yes, I am,” I reply—trying to ignore the feeling in my gut that comes with the words. I don't know what it is, but it's unwelcome. I miss the joy that used to light my chest when I'd speak about dancing.
“I have Down syndrome,” she says—very matter-of-fact, and before I can react she continues, “But I’m going to be a basketball player.” Her mom kisses the top of her head.
“She’s an amazing basketball player already.” The mom winks. “But she also wants to be an ice skater and a lacrosse player and a gymnast, depending on what she sees on TV.” She laughs. And a smile dances on my lips. They look so happy.
“I’m sure you’ll be great,” I tell her. She nods firmly as I wave goodbye. "This is my stop."
She waves back at me. “You’re going to be great too!” And her vote of confidence means more to me than the latest “you can do it” speech I got from one of my teachers. Maybe because she seemed to believe it, while my teacher had a pity look on her face, the one that says, “I’m obligated to give you a pep talk, but in reality, you kind of suck.”
The auditions are in three days. Three. Days.
I know I can do it. I know I have what it takes.
Note to self: work harder.
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About the author
Elodie Nowodazkij was raised in a tiny village in France, where she could always be found a book in hand. At nineteen, she moved to the US, where she learned she'd never lose her French accent. Now she lives in Maryland with her husband, their dog and their cat.
She's also a serial smiley user.
Visit Elodie online at:
www.elodienowodazkij.com
www.facebook.com/elodienowodazkij
twitter.com/ENowodazkij