Nola smiled, but when his pale blue eyes kept studying her, she worried that he was counting the pimples that resisted any of the dozen creams she had tried. But he went on to say how impressed he was with the ladylike way she cut up her hamburger with a knife and used her fork to pick up the French fries. She wasn’t about to tell him that never touching her food with her fingers was a survival skill at Mini-Nazi’s home.

In the booth behind her, the jukebox changed from “Broken Wings” to “When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Going.” She tapped her foot to the music and felt the dangling ribbons in her barrette swinging. Mr. D. ordered her a second hamburger and said that he liked people who ate with zest. “Hunger for life, enjoyment of simple pleasures, tell me about an artist’s innate enthusiasm,” he explained. “No star can fake it for a lifetime.”

Something giggled inside Nola at the word “star.” He spoke as if she could become one, and it amazed, thrilled and frightened her.

He was really nice, though, and big brotherly. He was strongly built, though not tall, and had a commanding presence even in the confines of their booth. Each feature on his face was right, yet the combination was merely pleasant, and in their animation, the features moved in and out of position. The only oddity about him was the port-wine stain that bled from his shirt collar to his jaw. She liked this. The old man’s deformities and Jenna’s reconstructions made people with imperfections easier to trust. But what Nola liked the most about Mr. D. was his laughter, like coins tossed in the air and then tumbling all around her.

“I can’t get over what you looked like on that huge football field with the microphone in your hand. You were this waif, but then a miracle happened. A transformation.” He laughed again, then shook his head as if the wonder of what he had heard still rang in his ears. “I can’t get over your command of your audience. Few seasoned artists possess such a gift.”

Nola’s feet tingled. She wanted to jump and dance in the aisle or something. Here she was, filled with music that shaped her days and at night flooded her with dreams of Sting, George Michael and David Bowie. She would die now if she got another chance to meet Bono; at ten, she had been too stupid to appreciate his kiss. And now, Mr. D., who knew everything about the entertainment world, was praising her!

“Thanks,” she said quietly, and he commented on her poise. “It’s extraordinary for a sixteen-year-old. Is your mother like this, too?”

“She’s dead.” Nola looked at her plate. Her voice teacher hadn’t warned Mr. D. that she was a walking disaster. Mr. D. would change his mind once he knew.