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songs?”
    “Yeah, for your first CD. We could go to my house. I got a keyboard, some recording stuff.”
    “And let me guess. Your mama ’n’ daddy ain’t home.”
    “Outta town.”
    “Yeah, you’re real slick, Jamal. Take me home.”
    “Can’t blame a brother for tryin’. But I did write the songs. I’m in love with music.”
    “You’re in love with music?”
    “Yeah, everything from Miles Davis to Jay-Z.” I paused. “I love music almost as much as I love you.”
    “You think you’re smooth, huh?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, you ain’t.”

Savannah
    The night of the Christmas concert we were all wearing white choir robes because Mr. Santos said he wanted us to look like angels. What a geek.
    The auditorium was almost full and I searched the faces, looking for my mother and stepfather. I couldn’t find them. They’d be late, as usual, so my mother could make her grand entrance, looking like a Patti LaBelle clone, my stepfather walking behind her with his shaved peanut head.
    Mr. Santos approached the center of the stage and welcomed everyone. “It’s my favorite time of the year,” he said. He picked up his tuning forks and the lights went down.
    Emako stepped forward and began to sing “Joy to the World.”
    She sounded better than Whitney. Even I had to admit it.
    I pictured her on the MTV Music Awards, performing with three thick brown backup singers, another ghetto girl making it big, thanking God and her mama.
    When she finished, the audience gave her a standing ovation. I took a deep breath and swallowed.
    The auditorium door opened and in the darkness I could see my mother and stepfather. She had missed her grand entrance and I felt like laughing. They hurried down the center aisle and found seats. I was glad they had missed Emako’s solo. Now I wouldn’t have to hear it for the next month. “That girl sure can sing.”
    Emako took her place in the chorus and Mr. Santos hit the tuning fork. We began to sing “On the First Day of Christmas.” Applause.
    Then a spiritual, “O Happy Day.” The crowd clapped again and I thought, I could get used to this.
    Many more songs. More applause.
    A solo from Eddie Ortiz, star tenor, “Danny Boy.” Mr. Santos had tears in his eyes.
    We ended with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” The audience was on their feet.
    We were that good.
    My mother waved at me from her seat. I felt so good that I actually smiled at her.
    Then it was over, and after we took our bows, Mr. Santos said, “See you next year, thank you for coming. Happy holidays. Drive safely.”
    As the audience began to rush out, a woman rushed up to Emako and held her tight. I figured it was her mother. They hugged for a long time, like they loved each other or something, and these two little kids were standing around them too. They had to be Emako’s brother and sister. They looked alike. Pretty.
    I scanned the faces for my mother, but I couldn’t find her, and when I looked back toward Emako, Jamal was beside her, holding her hand like she belonged to him, and this short white dude was hovering around them. I heard someone say that he was from Aurora Records. He handed Emako’s mother a card and introduced himself. Then he took Emako’s other hand and shook it. Emako’s face was all lit up and I thought, It’s going to be just that easy for her. Easy like 1 + 1 = 2.
    My stepfather took me by the arm. “Your mother is already in the car.” I followed him to the door, turning around for a last look at the small crowd that had gathered around Emako.
    When we got outside, I got out my cell phone and punched in Gina’s number.
    The phone rang and Gina picked up. “Hello?”
    “Where you at?”
    “At that black-tie thing. Daddy made me.”
    “You are not gonna believe this. I just left our Christmas concert and there’s this little dude here from Aurora Records, all up in Emako’s face like she’s about to walk down the road of fame and fortune.”
    “And . . .