The food here is really just for the main lineup, but I think there might be vending machines downstairs or it's fine, Amara said. She wasn't going to fight for a sandwich. Not in front of everyone. Chelsea seemed relieved. Great.
Okay, so just make yourself comfortable. Anywhere is fine. Anywhere that wasn't the couch. Anywhere that wasn't near the food. Anywhere that kept her separate.
Amara walked to the far wall and leaned against it, sliding down until she sat on the floor. She pulled her backpack into her lap. Everything she owned fit inside it. She unzipped the top just enough to check that the envelope was still there. It was.
She zipped it back up. Across the room, Madison whispered something to the boy next to her. They both glanced at Amara, then looked away quickly. A man in an expensive suit entered the lounge. Madison's father.
He carried two Starbucks cups and handed one to his daughter. "Thanks, Daddy." Madison took a sip, then frowned. "Why is she here?" Her father followed her gaze. When he saw Amara, his expression didn't change much, just a small tightening around his mouth. He leaned down and said something too quiet for Amara to hear.
But Amara had gotten good at reading lips. She's here to show contrast, sweetie, so people like you shine brighter. Madison nodded slowly like that made perfect sense. Amara's jaw tightened. She looked down at her guitar case, running her finger along the duct tape patch near the handle.
Her grandmother's voice came back to her, clear as if she were sitting right beside her. When they try to shrink you, baby, you grow twice as big. Amara closed her eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet. Not yet.
The noise of the lounge faded. Amara wasn't in that cold, bright room anymore. She was 10 years old, sitting on a piano bench that was too tall for her feet to touch the ground. The apartment in Harlem was small one-bedroom, a kitchen where the faucet dripped no matter how tight you turned it, and a living room barely big enough for the upright piano her grandmother refused to get rid of. "Again," Loretta Hayes said.
Amara's small fingers found the keys. She played the opening of Amazing Grace, but her grandmother stopped her after four bars. You're playing the notes. I need you to play the song. Loretta sat down beside her, her hands weathered strong, always warm, covering Amara's.
Music isn't just sound, baby. It's a language. And like any language, it can say things words can't. "Like what?" "Like I'm here. Like I matter.