I have to read it, though, so I go on:
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Fwd: Interest in meeting regarding Saturday concert
Kallisto, I wondered why I haven’t heard back from you all week. Then I thought: you had no idea I was at the concert, I’ve never emailed you before, and you must have been wary of receiving a strange email. I’m forwarding my original email below just in case you didn’t see it.
I spoke to the lead organiser for the night and he had great things to say about you, not just about this year’s concert, but about your previous involvement and your history playing the violin. Your story intrigued me and so I Googled you, which brought me to the contact form on your blog/site.
I won’t pester you again, but I’ve also attached two documents about Summertym Entertainment and Feel It. In any case, please call or email me so we can chat if you’re still interested.
Geoffrey.
In my panic I do the only thing I can. I turn to the twins and ask for their opinion.
“So cool, Kalli!” Seth cries. “Are you famous?”
“Not yet,” I say. “It might never even turn into music on the radio and at the shops.”
Tristan sticks his head in front of Seth and taps my thigh as I sit on my feet. “But why?”
“Well, it’s lots of hard work, for one. There are lots of people like me trying to make their music sound good and sell. Maybe this Geoffrey man and I might not agree. Lots of reasons. But most of all, it’s lots of work. I could be on a ‘tour’ which means I go on a special holiday around the world to play and talk about my songs. I might not get home until really late some nights and I could be away for days, all the time for meetings and to record playing the violin.”
“We don’t care!” Seth says on behalf of them both. “Mummy is getting medicine to feel better, and your friend can stay here if you need to play violin.”
“Hey, guys,” I say. I grab each of them around the waist and scoop them close. I look between them, see their eyes wide and their lips trembling. “Won’t you miss me? Do you want me to do this?”
“Kalli!” Tristan, croons. “We want a big famous sister.”
“Yeah!”
I lean Tristan against one side of my ribs, rest Seth on my other and I plop my chin on top of his head, smelling his strawberry shampoo. I know these boys get excited about everything and anything, but they’re babies, dependent on me completely. I did not, even with them in a giddy mood like now, expect them to be okay with this. Maybe they don’t get it.
“But, I could be away for days, maybe a whole wee—”
“I’m not dumb! You said that!”
I bite my lip, suppressing a giggle. Okay, so maybe I’m the dumb one for underestimating them. They may not have a clue, but they want this, whatever “this” it is they understand.
I don’t have to reject the contract if my brothers, my two biggest loves in the world, are rooting for me. In fact, I feel like I can do this, be someone, leave that skank Kalli Perkins behind. In fact, I believe all that needs to be done is to speak to Geoffrey, read the terms of the contract, possibly find an agent and sign.
I just hope things will be that simple.
• • •
When Aunty Nicole comes over to see Mum for the first time in twelve years, it’s oddly like they were just chatting yesterday. I was seven the last time I was “allowed” to see her, and I remember patches of this and that. The way I’d smell berries every time she entered a room. Her knock pattern when she arrived at our house.
I’d warned Mum about Aunty Nicole and I. I know, terribly anticlimactic since I’ve hidden seeing her for years only to admit it once I don’t need to hide anything. But it’ll come out, since I can’t act as if I don’t know her, and the less stressors for Mum, the better.
As I open the front door Nicole is there, holding a big bag of Mars bars, and saying before the door fully opens, “She still likes these right?”
I smile and kiss her cheek. “Hey. And yes. She’ll love that you brought something regardless.”
Nicole gives an unsure, wobbly smile and steps past me. Just the look on her face tells me she’s thought and overthought her entrance, and this wasn’t one of them. It’s a cutthroat tense silence as she walks down the hall, and I follow behind her.
Until Mum steps into our view from the kitchen.
“Nic!”
“Oh my God, Mary?”
My aunty’s tone is more of a statement than a question. As if she’s exclaiming it, yet is so surprised she’s unsure. Heck, I would be too after twelve years.