Page 7 of Orlando

I stop dead in my tracks when I walk into the house. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be home, so when I hear the tune of the piano and my mom singing from the living room, I pause a moment to listen. My mother has the most angelic voice I’ve ever heard. I’ve always loved hearing her sing.

I drop my bag onto the floor and head into the living room. Mom looks up but doesn’t stop, nodding me over as she slides along the bench seat. I sit next to her, shake out my hands, and pick up the song with her. This is one we’ve played together before. I join in and sing along to “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack. It’s a song my mom has sang to me for as long as I can remember. The lyrics are not lost on me either, even after hearing them a million times.

When the tune comes to an end and the sound of the piano leaves the room, Mom turns to me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I don’t make eye contact. I’ve never been good at lying to her. Some things mothers really don’t need to know about though. Like the fact that I’ve got a raging fucking boner for a ghost.

“Don’t bullshit me, Orlando. You’re skipping school right now, so something must be wrong. Or you’re just an idiot and think you can get by on your good looks. To hell with education, right?” she says.

“Worked for Pops.” I smile. “He got you, didn’t he?”

Mom laughs. “Your father graduated college, Orlando. How do you expect to getintocollege if you’re skipping classes in high school?”

“It’s two classes, Mom. Really not a big deal.”

“What happened?” she presses.

I run a hand through my hair, racking my brain for something I can tell her to get her to drop it.

“It’s a girl,” Mom states a little too excitedly.

“More like a ghost,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I need a shower.”

“Orlando, don’t you dare move a muscle. Who is she? What’s her name? What do her parents do? Where did you meet her? Oh god, she’s not a groupie, is she? Please tell me you haven’t gone and fallen for a groupie,” Mom rambles on.

“She’s not a groupie, Ma. I have standards,” I say. “She’s just a girl I used to know. She moved away and now she’s back.” I shrug. “Not a big deal.”

“What’s her name?”

“Aleeka.”

“When you say you used to know her, howwelldid you know her?” Mom asks.

“Oh god, we’re not having that conversation,” I groan.

“Does this girl know you like her?” Mom presses again.

“I don’t like her.” My face scrunches up.

“You sure about that? Boys usually don’t get worked up over girls they don’t like.” There’s a little humor in her tone.

“I don’t like her,” I repeat, hoping it sinks in. For both my mom and me.

“Whatever you say,” Mom hums. “Go shower. We have to go to your grandparents for dinner tonight.”

“Why?” I ask. It’s not weird for us to go to my grandparents for dinner, but that usually happens on Sundays, not in the middle of the week.

“Nonna requested we all go there.” Mom shrugs.

I lean over and kiss her cheek before escaping her interrogation. Once I’m in my bedroom, I throw myself down on my bed and pull my laptop out of my bag. Then I do the one thing I haven’t done in months. Open social media and stalk Aleeka Bateman.

“What do you mean there’s nothing?” Dante asks me after I explain that Aleeka has zero social media presence since she left New York.

“Exactly that. Her last post was from fifteen months ago.” I shrug. “It’s like she died, or just didn’t live.”

---