His lips gathered in a show of sympathy. “Sorry. How tough. You must miss her a lot.”

“My father’s dead too. The same accident.” She raised her gaze. Suddenly it was easy to talk. He was so worldly and solid, as if the ground held to his feet for support. “She was a singer. He played lead guitar for several bands. They met at Woodstock.” A smile crept into her voice. “When I was ten, they put me on stage at an anti-nukes rally. I also got to hear U2 playing on their first American tour.”

“I’m surprised no one signed you then.” He ordered her a huge dish of ice cream, with oodles of whipped cream dotted with strawberries like roses cast on snow by a good fairy. She offered to split it with him but he said he would live vicariously through her because he was on a perpetual diet. Again he let out a laugh full of gaiety. Only someone who grew up with loving parents could laugh like this, she thought.

Mr. D’s hands made motions in the air. “I want you to picture what I saw when you sang the anthem. Everyone froze. No one scratched, drank Coke, roamed up and down the bleachers, or did any of the things people do when they’re itchy for a game to begin.” He pushed his plate away and placed his elbows on the table. “I’m telling you all this not because I want to fill your head with illusions of grandeur, but because I want you to know your strengths as I see them.”

The coolness of the ice cream hurt her sinuses. She sat on her hands to stop their shaking.

He continued, “I want to make sure you understand that it nevertheless takes a miracle to turn talent into success. Fabulous voices are a dime a dozen. I‘m on the lookout for star material: charisma with the right mix of temperament, style, discipline and motivation.” He leaned forward as if to tell her a secret. His aftershave smelled of leather and wood. “Talent alone can be more a curse than a gift. It gives many performers just enough hope to waste money and years getting nowhere.”

Nola brought her hands out of their hiding and poked at the melting ice cream. What about looks? She was no Olivia Newton-John. Mr. D. was speaking to the wrong person. She touched her nose. Its tip was still bulbous. Her fingers brushed over her cheek. It was as flat and hollow as always. The glimpse of her dull brown hair that fell on her chest told her the crimp had gone limp.

Mr. D. leaned back again. He looked as though he were smiling even when he wasn’t. “Tell me about school. What are your favorite subjects?”