As we linger just off the set, a woman approaches us and ruffles my hair. “Lexington Hall,” she says, greeting me with a wide grin. “Aren’t you the cutest thing I’ve ever seen?”
My cheeks flush warm.
Mom looks up, smiling brightly. “Thank you.”
“He’s so handsome.” The woman’s eyes flick over me, from my mop of sunny hair to my freshly polished shoes. “Just beautiful.”
I wrinkle my nose.
Beautiful.
What a funny thing to say. That’s what strange men say to my mom when she wears pretty dresses and puts curls in her hair.
When the lady disappears with a clipboard in hand, I turn back to my mother. A sharp stab of anxiety eats at my stomach.
I don’t know any of these people.
They’re all strangers.
Mom’s eyes shrink to nothing but long, black eyelashes. “Everything okay?”
I’m embarrassed when tears begin to sprout. I don’t let them fall though—I never cry. Even when I fall off my bike or skin my knee in the driveway, or that one time when I rammed into a utility pole while trying out my new Rollerblades. That hurt.
But this doesn’t hurt, so I don’t know why my eyes feel so itchy.
Mom swallows, her pretty face twisting with the same emotions pressing down on my chest. She takes my hands again. “I promise I’ll visit you. I have my own TV show I’m working on, so Bianca will act as your guardian on set.”
“What if I get lonely?” It’s a weird thought because there are so many people here, more than I’ve ever seen in one small place before. But I think I’ll miss seeing my mom all the time. I’ll miss her songs and lullabies.
She smiles, pinching my clammy fingers. “You have that cell phone I gave you. Call me if you get lonely.”
“Will you sing to me?”
“Of course.”
My nerves scatter when she tugs me into a firm hug. I close my eyes as her breath brushes the side of my neck, billowing my shaggy hair. We stay like that for a while, for a stopped moment in time as people whoosh past us and noises ring out with loud clatters. But I don’t really notice the things around me. All I feel are my mother’s arms, holding me tight.
And then her voice fills my ears.
A song.
My favorite song.
“Don’t Dream It’s Over” by a band about a house. She sings it to me every night when my mind is alive with scripts and ink and I struggle to make my way to peaceful dreams.
I feel like I’m back home, tucked inside my bed.
I feel warm.
I feel…
Safe.
“Do you feel better now?” she whispers when the song is over.
“A little. But what if I forget my lines, or what if the director doesn’t like me?”
Inching up, she pecks a kiss to my hairline. “Don’t worry about that. Bianca will be here every day. She’ll take good care of you, okay?”
