Page 48 of Nikola
“Papa!” I stomped my foot, appalled. He knew how much the Nikolaevs meant to me—of all people, he should understand that I wouldn’t be here without them.
“Dante, that was uncalled for,” Mama scolded him while Sasha smiled, eating his turkey and pretending like no insults were thrown his way.
“Skye, how about you play for us?” Isabella shot me a pleading look while she signed with inexperienced hands. “Or maybe a duet?” Her eyes jumped between Mama and me.
Sasha laughed, pouring himself another drink. “Skye is the best player on this planet. No offense to Mrs. Leone.”
He shot a challenging look at Papa, but his and Mama’s eyes were locked on me, softened and full of unconditional love. “My daughter and wife are the best pianists I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing.”
“How about it, Mama?”
We moved to the library where a black Steinway D piano sat and sank down on the black leather bench, our fingers gliding reverently over the smooth white and black keys.
A shared glance later and we started playing, our fingers moving in sync. Mama’s recent favorite was “Clair de Lune” by Debussy, the vibrations seemingly soft and peaceful. Our fingers moved across the keys in harmony, the smooth surface comforting.
Despite her deafness, music was Mama’s passion. I loved it, but not as much as she did. Music tended to make me sad, the rare time I regretted my disability. But none of us Leones were into self-pity, and I certainly wouldn’t start now.
I flicked her a look and her expression transformed to one of euphoria. Sasha was so wrong, because my mama was one of the greatest pianists the world had ever seen.
It spurred frustration in me at not being able to hear the melody. As my fingers chased the notes, in a slow, then erratic tempo, a haunted and frightful feeling awakened in my chest.
Will Nikola ever want me?
Maybe he found me lacking. Maybe, maybe, maybe. There were so many possibilities whirling in my head while emotions twisted in my chest.
I didn’t know how long we played, turmoil, defiance, and adrenaline bubbling beneath my skin and pouring into the keys as notes danced in front of my eyes.
Mama’s hand came to rest on my forearm and my fingers fell on top of the keys. The piano cried out under my fingertips with an angry vibration I felt inside me.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Papa took a step toward us, but Mama gave him a subtle shake of her head and he joined the Nikolaevs at the bar in the library. It was everyone’s favorite spot.
“What’s the matter?” Mama signed, studying every inch of my face. I forced my feelings deep down, hiding them behind an invisible cloak.
“Nothing. I just don’t feel like playing anymore.” It was the closest to the truth I dared to get. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” She wrapped her arms around my body, then pecked my cheek. She shifted slightly, then signed, “I think you prefer to play for smaller groups, and that’s perfectly fine.”
Mama knew me even better than I knew myself. Yes, I studied music, but unlike my mama, I didn’t want to be a professional pianist. I only liked to play it for my parents and when I was alone with Sasha and Branka. Today was the first time I’d ever played in front of the entire Nikolaev family, and it became painfully evident that I wouldn’t follow my mama’s footsteps.
“Are you disappointed, Mama?”
“Never. I just want you to do what makes you happy. That’s all Papa and I want for you. Happiness and love. Everything else is just needless noise.”
She wrapped me in her arms and I buried my face in her chest, inhaling her comforting scent. Family was everything to me, and this one made me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. I vaguely remembered the loneliness of not having anyone, and it made me appreciate mine, along with the Nikolaevs, even more.
We joined the family in the library, but it wasn’t long until I excused myself, kissing my parents good night, then Sasha and Branka. I slipped through the corridor, studying the paintings. Aivazovsky. Repin. Malevich. Only to finish it with Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Monet, and an extended family portrait which included fifteen-year-old me.
My steps faltered as I studied our smiling faces. Unlike the others, I wasn’t smiling at the lens but at Nikola. The awed expression I wore had everything to do with the events that took place earlier in the day, before the photo was taken. I remembered it perfectly, even five years later.
Marietta and I were doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. The boys—Kostya and Nikola—gave us privacy, disappearing into the game store.
The mall was crowded, people rushing to get their Christmas shopping done. But I stood frozen with shock, oblivious to everything and everyone but the group in front of me.
My skin stretched and the anger burned bright as I watched the boy and a group of girls snicker. Some of them pointed judgmental fingers at me. Others laughed with superior expressions on their faces.
The boy who had asked me out merely ten minutes ago took the cake though.
The boy—Martin—went to school with Marietta. We’d crossed paths every time I visited New Orleans over the last few months, only to lead to this very point that left me confused.
