Chapter 39 - The Part He Chose
The school performance required singers, narrators, scenery painters, and children capable of remembering where the props belonged.
Nico chose sound effects.
Noah chose narration.
I learned both decisions at dinner.
“Are you sure you don’t want a speaking part?” I asked Nico.
Lena looked at me.
Too late.
Nico’s fork stopped.
“I picked what I wanted.”
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
He pushed a pea across his plate.
I put down my glass.
“I made it sound like there was a better choice. I’m sorry.”
He said nothing.
Noah cleared his throat.
“I have seventeen lines.”
“Excellent,” Lena said. “What’s the story?”
By dessert, we knew there would be a storm, a missing boat, and a lighthouse that appeared to require more cardboard than the school possessed.
At the workshop that Saturday, Daniel helped Nico build a simple effects board from materials the teacher had approved.
A sheet of metal made thunder.
Rice inside a sealed container made rain.
Two wooden blocks became footsteps.
Nico tested each sound with the concentration of someone conducting important research.
Ava watched from the next bench.
“Can I try?”
He passed her the rain.
She shook it too hard.
“That’s hail,” he said.
“Useful distinction.”
He smiled.
Later, I found Noah sitting outside the workshop with his script.
He had not turned a page.
“Rehearsing?”
He shook his head.
“Thinking about quitting.”
“Why?”
“If I’m good, Nico might feel bad.”
I sat beside him.
There it was again.
Two boys trying to make themselves smaller in alternating directions.
“Have you asked him?”
“No.”
“Let’s start there.”
Their conversation took place in the car.
Noah stared through the window while he explained.
Nico listened.
Then he looked offended.
“I want the narrator to be good.”
Noah turned.
“You do?”
“Otherwise nobody will know when the storm happens.”
“That’s the reason?”
“It’s a good reason.”
For a moment, they stared at each other.
Then both laughed.
On the evening of the performance, Noah forgot a sentence.
The pause lasted perhaps three seconds.
It felt longer.
From beside the stage came one soft wooden knock.
A cue.
Noah looked toward his brother.
Then he found his place.
When the storm arrived, Nico lifted the metal sheet.
The thunder rolled across the hall.
Children in the front row gasped.
Behind the curtain, my son grinned.
I applauded both boys until my palms hurt.
Afterward, Nico asked what I thought.
“The storm was excellent.”
“And Noah?”
“He was excellent too.”
May you like
Nico nodded with satisfaction.
For once, neither answer seemed to subtract from the other.
