At the funeral, a rabbi had prayed in a funny language, and someone explained to Nola that her mother had converted from being Jewish to something whose name she forgot. It was supposed to be about everyone loving everyone else. Except that Mom hadn’t loved Jenna, so what good did it do to always talk about loving everyone else in the world? Nola shoved away the thought. She’d never think anything bad about her mother because she now knew that bad was “not good” only until worse things happened.

Beverly Cutter lived on a quiet block off of Main Street, in a house filled with tasseled fabrics, walls of photographs, and knickknacks on every surface. After Nola's parents’ death, Ms. Cutter had searched the cottage for letters or documents that mentioned any kin other than the great-great-uncle. When she found none, and Jenna remained in the custody of the state, Ms. Cutter became Nola's legal guardian, which was like a godmother, and Nola could now call her Beverly. On Christmas Eve, when Beverly’s daughter was visiting from college and was playing with Jenna and the dog in the kitchen, Nola sunk in an upholstered chair by the fireplace.

Beverly put a glass of eggnog in her hand. “I have wonderful news,” she said. “I went to see your great-uncle, and he’s agreed to pay for voice lessons in New York City.”

Nola gulped.

“Look, you have a gift.” Beverly put her arms around Nola's shoulders. “Two gifts, really. One is your voice, the other is your energy. Most people absorb energy from others; only a few blessed ones exude it. That’s what gives you stage presence. Don’t waste it. Learn how to use it.”

“New York City? How will I get there?”

“Fourteen is old enough to take the train into the city by yourself. And it will be worth it. Trust me on this one.”

“It costs ten dollars for a round trip alone,” Nola said.

“It’s been taken care of.”

Nola's allowance had been barely enough to purchase tampons and shampoos. Certainly not a pair of Jordache jeans, which she was dying for. She had wanted so much to take an after-school job to earn more. Now there would be no free time.

She couldn’t let Beverly think she wasn’t grateful. “Okay,” she said in a small voice. “But it’s so far.”

“Two hours each way. You’ll make better use of the trip by adding on a ballet class at one of the schools near Lincoln Center.” To Nola's unasked question she added, “The dance classes at school are not professional enough for you.”