When Stars Align

Thirteen Sicily

Thirteen

Sicily

2018

The doorbell rings once, twice.

“Emmylou?” Sicily yells, staying as still as she can while her cousin’s makeup assistants dust her with powder and apply heat to her hair. Sicily feels a kick in her belly and places her hands there as if trying to reassure both herself and the child inside that everything will go smoothly today. She’s going to be an early-thirties mama—she’s still young. She can muster up all the energy she needs.

Probably.

The doorbell sounds again and Emmylou hollers that she’s coming. Sicily isn’t sure why anyone is ringing it—there have been crews coming in and out of her house all day for the magazine shoot covering Sicily’s lavish baby shower. Emmylou is the official host, coordinating media and family and gifts. She would have provided the venue if Sicily had let her, but although Emmylou and her music producer husband’s house may be the size of the Grand Ole Opry, it’s decorated like she still lives in a double-wide trailer.

Emmylou is ... okay at coordinating things. Sure, she had a typo on the invitations, and she waited too long to book Sicily’s first catering choice. But her heart is in it. And Sicily is grateful for her help now that she’s not speaking to Kendra, whose number has been blocked for a good three years.

She found a chink in Sicily’s armor when the pregnancy was officially announced—DM-ed Hey. Congrats on Sicily’s Twitter—but Sicily didn’t respond. It still hurts too much.

Downstairs, Emmylou has turned up the music a notch too loud for a baby shower. Sicily has held raging parties in this house for album wraps, New Year’s Eve, the Fourth of July, and just for fun, but this feels more stressful and crowded than all of those combined. Carole is somewhere nearby, fretting over everything; there are plenty of Bell cousins as well as Squeak’s mother and sisters, with everyone dressed in faux furs and cashmeres for the Winter Wonderland theme.

There’s clearly some unspoken competition going on.

“Look how cute you are!” Carole had exclaimed to Squeak’s younger sister, Jessie, when they arrived. By the look on Jessie’s face, Sicily immediately knew it had rubbed her the wrong way. Jessie was nineteen and probably going for hot, not cute.

But Squeak’s mother, Eileen, had breezed past it. “And you look so elegant !” she exclaimed to Carole. “This dress—is it a Jessica Howard?”

“Jessica Howard!” Carole laughed aloud, her smile getting tighter. “Oh, you’re a riot. No, dear, this is Alexander Wang.”

“Absolutely gorgeous.” Eileen waved her hand. “I tried on a few Alexander Wang, actually, but in the end I went with Carolina Herrera. Felt a little more sophisticated to me.”

“Well, nothing’s too good for our Sicily. My goodness, Squeak must really bring home the bacon, hmm?” Carole quipped. “I didn’t realize the backup dancers made enough for a Carolina Herrera ...”

And so it went on. There were similar tussles at the gift table, with Squeak’s older sister Raquel clearing space for her enormous box, and Sicily’s cousin Stephany making a show of placing an even larger gift bag next to it. Everyone stepped in front of each other to display their best sides to the cameras, obviously posing but trying to make it look as casual and oh-I-didn’t-see-you-there as possible.

Sicily wishes she had never agreed to it.

The makeup team finally releases her with one final touch-up, and she heads downstairs, careful not to trip on her long red velvet gown—à la Mariah Carey—that shows off her significant belly bump and is paired with a furry white shawl. She groans inwardly to see that the doorbell ringer was Jaime, Hugo’s flawless wife, who’s arrived with Noah.

“Hey, bugaboo!” Sicily cries, forgetting her caution and hurrying the rest of the way down the stairs. Noah smiles but looks a little beside himself in the sea of chattering women and magazine staff. He’s unbelievably handsome and adorable in a white polo with a smart forest-green suit jacket.

After the horrible smoke of the court case and the institutionalization and conservatorship had cleared, Hugo had called Sicily and invited her over for a long talk.

She’d been stunned by the contact. They hadn’t spoken to each other directly since before the court case—first they communicated through lawyers, and then Jaime or Emmylou acted as intermediaries—and it took some gentle prodding on his part to convince her to stay for a cup of coffee one of the weekends she dropped off Noah.

She sat on a barstool in the vast expanse of his kitchen as he bustled around, surprisingly domestic, working a coffeepot and adding sugar, cream, and a touch of almond syrup. He still remembered her order.

It was a strange feeling to be served by the man she’d viewed as her mortal enemy for more than ten years. Sicily felt her adrenaline starting and her muscles tensing as if bracing for a fight.

When he’d poured his own cup, he sat across from her at the long marble island and cleared his throat.

“I want to start by acknowledging how much you love Noah. Probably more than I could ever understand.”

She gave a short nod. With that, at least, she could agree.

“This one is going to be harder to believe.” He wore a small, wry smile. “But I also love Noah. From the very first moment I held him, I knew I was a goner.”

Sicily had once hoped it would be true—and, of course, she wanted to believe that she was sending Noah to a loving home whenever her time was up—but it was somehow hard to hear from Hugo.

“Covet has seemed like a more appropriate word in the last few years,” she said quietly. “Covet, not love.”

Hugo sighed. “That’s fair. How could you not feel that way? I—took him from you, I suppose. By force, it must feel.”

Sicily had nodded.

“I didn’t want that.” Hugo started speaking more quickly. “This is what I want to make clear: I wanted both of us to be in his life, and if I wanted to take him from anybody, it was your family—not you. You’re his mother.” He paused, looked at her earnestly. “And over the years, I’ve realized how disgracefully I’ve treated the mother of my child. The most important person in Noah’s life.”

Sicily said nothing, but took a sip from her mug.

“I’ve made mistakes, I dragged your name through the mud, I hurt you. And Noah, for putting him through all that,” he went on. “I did it for Noah, to get him out of that toxic environment your dad and uncle had built. I think you see it now for what it is.”

Sicily stared into her coffee for a long moment. Then she said, “I do. And if nothing else, I’m glad you got Noah out of there.”

Hugo pressed his lips into a line. “I’m glad you both got out. I wish I’d handled it better. It didn’t have to come to all that.”

“It was always going to be ugly. It was so ugly.”

“It was.” Hugo sipped his coffee and was quiet, as if remembering. “But I want us to be together on this. I want to make things right.”

Sicily didn’t make any promises to him after that conversation. And it took a long time for her to trust his words—years. But gradually, she realized how happy Noah was with Hugo. He looked up to his dad. Hugo wasn’t the absent parent Sicily was sure he’d be, but an actual father who knew how to parent with discipline and love.

So they’d found a new path forward.

“Hey, Mom,” Noah says, accepting her hug stiffly. The teenager is coming—she can hear it in his voice.

“Sicily!” Jaime trills, going in for a hug when Noah is released. “You are positively glowing .”

“Thanks for coming, Jaime.” Sicily smiles.

Jaime tosses her blown-out hair over her perfectly bronzed shoulder, exposed by the off-the-shoulder skintight dress that displays her slim and toned figure. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it. I am just so thrilled for you. And I’m going to try to keep it together, because you’re just—so beautiful—”

She places both hands on Sicily’s belly, gazing at it tenderly, and Sicily resists the urge to either roll her eyes or step back.

“And it really is a miracle, you know? Every woman should be able to experience the miracle of birth, if they want it. You and Squeak, you are blessed, you know.”

Sicily wills Jaime not to bring it up. She is not about to bring this up right here, right now, at a baby shower, right?

Wrong. “I wish Hugo and I could be so lucky. It is hard on us,” Jaime goes on.

“You’re struggling to conceive?” Raquel has drifted into the conversation. “Oh god, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yes. But—” Jaime puts up both her hands. “This is Sicily’s day. We don’t have to get into that.”

Sicily nods her head graciously. “The open bar is over there, and you can put gifts on the table—”

“That’s so tough, though.” Raquel is holding a glass of wine and doesn’t seem to have heard Jaime or Sicily. “I can’t tell you how many times my husband and I tried before our first kid.”

“I wish it was a matter of time or effort.” Jaime shakes her head. “But the doctors say it’s just not in the cards for me.”

“You’ve tried IVF?” One of Sicily’s cousins has sidled up to the conversation.

Jaime gives a deep, full-body sigh. “IVF, IUI, you name it—we’ve tried everything. I’ve been poked and prodded until I’ve felt like a pincushion. I just—”

She touches her fingers elegantly to the bridge of her nose, and Sicily, again, wills what’s about to happen next not to happen.

But Jaime begins to cry. “It’s just really hard—and to see all the baby stuff—and all your friends having babies—”

Someone’s aunt is there at Jaime’s shoulder, comforting her.

“What’s meant to happen will happen. It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”

The other women murmur noises of sympathy. Sicily purses her lips and beckons to Noah. “Does Jaime have a gift, hun? You want to put it over on the table? Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”

The doorbell rings again, and Sicily turns toward it, irritated. But then, like something out of a dream, in walks Miranda.

Sicily isn’t sure how she makes it so quickly through the crowded room, but suddenly she’s at Miranda’s side, in her embrace—one real friend in this house of people who are just here for publicity.

“Oh god. I’m so glad you came,” Sicily says, squeezing Miranda tight. But when she pulls back, she sees that Miranda looks stricken.

“I am ... way underdressed,” Miranda says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She’s wearing jeans and a Christmas sweater with a snowman on it. The invitation did say “Creative Black Tie” in a slightly smaller font than “Winter Wonderland,” but Sicily doesn’t want to make her feel bad.

“No, you’re fine!” Sicily says. “You’re totally fine. No one’s going to notice.”

Miranda tucks her hair behind her ears and looks nervously at the photographers roaming the event, one of whom is getting close to where they stand.

“C’mere, come on,” Sicily says, taking her hand. “Can you help me with the food in the kitchen?”

There are no photographers there; very few people at all, actually, since the catering staff is out serving food. Miranda seems to relax instantly.

“I feel so stupid,” she says, running her hands through her hair. “I mean, you’re pop royalty. Of course it would be a huge event.”

Sicily smiles wryly, getting a glass of water from the fridge. “ Was pop royalty.”

Miranda shakes her head. “Still are. I’m sure you only pay attention to the bad press, because that’s all we ever focus on, right? But I see the headlines, the social buzz. People were really excited about the Second Chances tour. All your fans from the old days, grown up with you. It was sweet.”

Sicily smiles. “The tour did its job, I guess. Then I sort of nose-dived again.” She pats her belly.

“But you’ll get back up there.”

Sicily glances at her and nods. Miranda has a serious, almost challenging expression on her face. Sicily wants to say And so will you —the phrase is hanging in the air between them, practically audible. But that would mean acknowledging that Miranda is not currently “up there.” And Sicily knows that Miranda will retort immediately, saying what they’re both thinking—that maybe she won’t. Not everyone gets second chances.

Sicily is already worried about Miranda. She was surprised to feel how much weight she’d lost when they hugged, her frame now more angular and wiry, her bone structure more prominent, changing the apple-cheeked face that Sicily knew and loved. Miranda has been lying low for the past few months, refusing to go out or see anyone. Sicily knows she had to give up the Malibu house. From what little Miranda has told her and Germaine, Sicily gathers that she’s living in a rental in Tarzana now. She has not spoken Bobbie’s name in months.

So instead, Sicily says, “Can I get you something to drink? We literally have everything—rosé, stout, milk, kombucha, apple juice ...”

Miranda finally cracks a smile. “You know, apple juice actually sounds super good right now.”

Sicily opens the large stainless-steel fridge and displays the shelves like she’s on Wheel of Fortune . “If you would believe it, we even have the super-cute little Martinelli’s jars.”

“I would expect nothing less from the rising queen of pop royalty.”

Sicily smiles indulgently and hands her the bottle, but she wishes Miranda would stop saying that. “Anything to eat? Please, I’m going to be drowning in leftovers.”

Miranda shakes her head as she pops open the cap. But she says, “I do actually have some news.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “My agent talked me into doing a reality show.”

Sicily raises her eyebrows. “That sounds ... interesting. What’s it called?”

“ Crashed and Burned . They put a bunch of former child stars together in this fancy house and see what kind of drama comes out of it. It’s brand new. Should be fun.” Miranda takes a swig of juice and laughs.

“Yeah, wow,” Sicily says, laughing along with her. “I’ve always wanted to know what reality TV is really like behind the cameras, seriously. Maybe it’ll actually be very chill?”

“I think so. Have some catfights, make up some fake gossip ... Should be easy money.”

“Totally.” Sicily nods, hesitates. She has to ask. She would be a bad friend if she didn’t. “Were you ... Are you still doing the sessions with that therapist?”

Miranda shrugs. “Yeah, but I don’t know. I’m not really into it. Makes me feel like—somebody’s neurotic mother.”

Sicily knows she was going to say Bobbie. “Yeah, but it’s good, right? To have someone to talk things through with? I mean, you can always talk to me and G,” she says. “But I’m about as qualified to give life advice as you are to be a godmother.”

She winks at the last part, and Miranda snorts. “Yeah, I know. I know.”

“I was just wondering if you’d be able to continue those sessions while you’re shooting the show, I guess.”

Miranda takes another drink and re-caps the juice. “Nah, probably not. She thinks it’s bad for me to pick up new projects, and it’s like—okay? So what am I supposed to do? If I’m going to have a therapist, it needs to be someone supportive.”

Sicily nods. She’s not surprised that Miranda’s therapist thinks it’s unhealthy for her to stay in show business—it probably is. But where is Miranda’s safety net if she drops out of the industry? What kind of skill set could she apply to a regular job? This is the only life she knows, and that goes for Sicily, too. Maybe Germaine.

Sicily would give her a job, any job, if she knew Miranda wouldn’t be too proud to take it. Germaine would do the same. Doesn’t Miranda know that? Doesn’t she remember the promises they made to each other?

She glances at Miranda’s fingernails, plain and short. Sicily’s are covered in bright-red acrylics; it’s been a long time since she’s done them herself. But they used to have a ritual, the three of them, at the end of every Kidz Klub season: when filming wrapped, they all gathered in the wood-paneled basement of the house Bobbie rented in Burbank, as close to the studio as she could afford, and paint their nails. The producers of the show forbade nail paint of any kind—all the kids were supposed to look as clean and uniform as possible.

So the very same night they had their last studio audience, Sicily, Germaine, and Miranda would pull out the bins and bins of the Sally Hansen bottles they’d bought with their show money and paint every nail a different color. Their hands flashed the rainbow until August. Plus, it helped Germaine to stop chewing on hers.

It’s the summer before the final season that Sicily is thinking of now, when they’d all learned that the show would be wrapping.

It was a weird time for Sicily. At fifteen years old, she knew it was time to grow up, but she wasn’t sure how. Kidz Klub was for—well, kids—and she was still mostly treated as one in her pigtails and Blast Off! Network T-shirt, even though her chest was filling out quicker than everyone else’s. And people had noticed.

But she didn’t want to grow up. She’d sort of convinced herself that the show would just turn into her career; she didn’t know what she was supposed to do when it ended. And she was afraid of losing touch with Miranda and Germaine, whom she really looked up to—even though Miranda was younger. They seemed so wise. They knew so much about the world, and perhaps more importantly, about sex, of which Sicily had had only one very troubling experience. Another mistake on her part—hadn’t her parents warned her to be chaste before marriage? But there had been a boy, and Sicily was infatuated, and she ruined it. Ruined everything.

She wasn’t ready to talk about that. It made her want to hide her chest even more.

But she could paint her nails. That still made her feel good.

“What are we going to do ?” Sicily had said, for the hundredth time, as she struggled to operate the little nailbrush with her left hand.

“Something better than this song-and-dance crap,” Miranda said, painting her thumb lime green. “My mom has connections. She said she’s going to get me an agent.”

“I told you, Sis, you’ll be drowning in offers.” Germaine swiped a coat of turquoise confidently along the nail of her index finger. “I’ve already had a talent scout reach out from Unlimited.”

“Unlimited? Are you serious?” Sicily’s jaw dropped. It was the most exclusive dance studio in town. Dancers from that studio traveled all over the world with the hottest artists. “Will your parents let you?”

G snorted, switching to magenta. “Who cares what they think? I’m a working woman now. They’ll have to drag me back to New York. Oh shit,” she said, as the nail polish tipped onto the old shag rug.

“It’s fine,” Miranda said, brushing the thick carpet fibers this way and that to hide the stain. “My mom won’t care.”

Miranda’s mom was cool—she didn’t care about anything. In fact, Sicily wasn’t even sure where she was that afternoon, or whether they were in the house alone. Bobbie had left them a pile of chips and Go-Gurts and Fruit by the Foot and Dr Pepper on the kitchen table with a note that said Congratulations!! with hearts under the exclamation points, but they hadn’t seen evidence of her beyond that. Miranda said she was out for drinks, maybe with the very agent she’d been talking about.

At least it sounded like Germaine’s and Miranda’s home bases would still be in LA. But Sicily didn’t know what the end of the show meant for her; her mom and dad had been deep in discussion about the announcement the night before. She’d heard her father make a call to Uncle Henry, asking his advice.

“I hope I get to stay here, too,” Sicily murmured. She was never able to get the polish on straight; even as she spoke, her left hand trembled and veered across her cuticles. She couldn’t do it as well as G and Miranda.

“Come here,” Miranda had said, taking hold of Sicily’s right hand and adding a careful coat of sunflower yellow to her ring finger. “You’re going to make it bigger than all of us, obviously. Have you heard yourself sing?”

“You won’t be here, because you’ll be all over the world giving concerts every night, you beautiful idiot,” Germaine added, taking her other hand. “Stop worrying!”

“And even if for some bizarro reason you don’t get hired—” Miranda continued.

“Not possible!” G cut in.

“I’ll get you a job on all my movies.”

“And I’ll make you head of operations at my dance studio,” Germaine said.

Sicily laughed. The nails they painted are perfect: shiny and smooth.

“Okay, deal,” she said. “And I’ll do the same for you.”

Now Sicily wishes she could. She wants to take Miranda’s hand and squeeze it, ask if she wants Sicily to paint her nails for her, returning the favor eighteen years later. The party outside doesn’t matter. She needs to know Miranda’s okay.

But Miranda shoves her hands in the pockets of her jeans.

“It’ll be good, though,” she goes on. “They actually have counselors and stuff on the show; we’re supposed to work through our ‘past’ with them, or whatever. Those people will understand the industry better than some lady in an Encino office park.”

“Nice. That sounds like an amazing opportunity, Miranda.” Sicily comes over and gives her a hug. “You’re going to have to tell me all about it. I bet they take your phone away during filming, you think? But afterward—even if you’ve signed an NDA.”

“A piece of paper won’t stop me.” Miranda smiles.

“When do you start?”

Miranda talks about the production timeline, what she’s allowed to bring, the other stars they’ve gotten so far, and Sicily nods along supportively. But it all sounds awful. Crashed and Burned ? If the name itself is any indicator of how the producers will treat their cast, it’s going to be downright exploitative.

But Miranda needs the money and the work, and Sicily understands—that’s the reason there’s a stupid photo shoot at this baby shower. Without the financial stability of the Vegas residency, Sicily needs money, too.

“They got Dora Sanchez?” Sicily exclaims as Miranda recaps the rumors she’s heard about the cast. “I totally forgot about her. I thought she was—”

Suddenly Sicily notices that the sounds of the party outside the kitchen door have gone eerily quiet. Above the much more muted chatter rises an exchange of loud voices.

“What’s going on out there?” Miranda says.

Sicily hurries back out into the living room just in time to hear her mother say in a sarcastic voice, “Oh, Squeak would just love that, wouldn’t he?”

Eileen is opposite her, shoulders squared and face angry. “Just what are you implying?”

“Mom.” Sicily hurries her way over; most of the guests have turned to watch this confrontation. “What is going on?”

Carole folds her arms. “All I said was that I don’t understand why Squeak’s family seem to want the two of you to rush into marriage.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” Eileen’s nostrils flare. “It’s what’s right for the baby. The child should have some security in life, two parents who love each other and who make a public commitment to each other.”

“Eileen, I can assure you that Squeak and I are very much in love,” Sicily says, holding up her hands.

“Marriage is all well and good,” Carole says. “Especially for wallets, when Squeak is elevated from the minor role of backup dancer–baby daddy to the husband of an international pop star!”

Angry exclamations burst out from Squeak’s family. Eileen gasps and clutches her chest.

“Mom, stop it ,” Sicily hisses. “Apologize.”

But Eileen has a few words of her own. “How dare you. When I’m the one who has so many reservations about my son’s involvement with your daughter and your batshit family. Tacky court battles, your public fighting—not to mention her”—she glares at Sicily, saying the next phrase almost under her breath like they’re dirty words—“mental health problems. How am I going to get through each day knowing that I could get a call that she’s absconded into the desert with my grandchild?”

“You watch your mouth!” Carole cries, but there are murmurs of assent. Next to Eileen, Jaime crosses her arms and nods slightly, looking concerned.

Emmylou jumps into the fray. “You’re just jealous because you want everything she has!”

“Oh? And what’s that?” Raquel snaps. “A dying career and a desperation to stay relevant?”

It is spiraling out of Sicily’s control. As she looks helplessly around the room, she sees two people make their exit: Miranda, out the front door, and Noah, into the backyard. The two people she needs here more than anyone.

Sicily ducks down and hurries after Noah as the fight turns into an uproar.

After a moment of hunting, she spots him sitting in the mouth of the tube slide on the enormous swing set she bought just for him. This has been his spot at her house to sit whenever he’s upset, which is ... a lot, unfortunately. His knees are tucked up, arms around them, legs getting too long to fit comfortably in the slide anymore. Sicily hitches up her dress and squats down next to him. He doesn’t look at her.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m sorry you had to hear those mean things. Your grandmas are just ... dealing with some big emotions.”

“Squeak’s mom isn’t my grandma,” he says flatly.

“Well, that’s true. But Squeak is going to be part of the family, and I hope—”

Noah turns and glares at her. “Didn’t you have enough family? Wasn’t Dad enough?”

Sicily feels the familiar pit open up in her stomach; it grows every time she knows Noah is mad at her. The whole world could hate Sicily and she wouldn’t give a damn as long as she and Noah were okay. But knowing he’s unhappy—because of her—is the feeling she hates most.

“Your dad and I have a lot of love for each other,” she tries. “But he’s in love with Jaime, who also loves you very much. And I’m in love with Squeak—I need someone, too, you know.”

“Is that why you sleep with a ton of guys and get pregnant all the time?”

Sicily feels like he’s punched her in the chest. “ Noah! I do not do that. Where is this coming from?”

“It’s embarrassing, Mom!” he says, fully angry now. “It’s all anyone ever says about you!”

“That’s so—I don’t even—” She shakes her head and rubs her hands over her eyes, surely smudging any professionally applied makeup there.

Noah turns away from her, leaning against the wall of the slide. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Please, Noah. It’s not like that. This is only the second baby I’ve had, and I’ll love you both equally—no one could ever replace—”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” Noah yells, his voice reverberating off the slide.

Sicily’s heart sinks to her toes.

“Okay,” she says. “I’d ... better go check on things inside anyway.”

She stalks numbly back across the yard, unsuccessfully fighting away tears.

Nothing has improved inside. Sicily hunts down the magazine editor, disliking the way she’s talking intently to the photographer and pointing out people around the room—primarily, those who are most embroiled in the fight.

“Hey,” Sicily says to her. “I think the party’s over. Can your people wrap up here and head out?”

“For sure, in a few minutes,” the editor says cagily. “We’re just getting some final shots.”

She side-eyes Sicily, steps away, and starts texting furiously on her phone. Sicily rubs her temples, knowing that this whole debacle will be up on TMZ before the cupcakes are even eaten. She’s making her way back up the stairs to try to appeal to the stylist to gather the team and leave when the door opens again and a late guest enters the party.

“What the hell is going on here?” Sicily’s father shouts over the din.

Sicily freezes; the angry party guests fall quiet. Carole, relaxing the finger she was jabbing at Squeak’s aunt, looks from Sicily to Day to Sicily.

“Surprise!” Carole says, voice faltering.

“Mom,” Sicily says, the word sounding unnaturally loud. She hasn’t spoken to her father in almost six years. “What is this?”

“Sicily, honey—I wanted—I just wanted you to have a chance to reconcile with your daddy,” Carole stammers. “I thought he could come and see you on your big day.”

Scrambling for context, Day glances from his wife to his daughter and folds his hands penitently in front of him. He looks very pitiful.

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart,” he says quietly.

It’s too much—Sicily can’t deal with this. All eyes are on her, including the photographers’ and the editors’. They’re eating it up. But she doesn’t want to see her father. She just wants this baby shower from hell to be over.

So Sicily lets her eyes go wide, and she clutches her stomach. “Oh—oh god—”

She grasps the stair rail and sinks to her knees. The crowd murmurs in concern.

“Sicily!” Carole cries. “Honey, what is it? It’s not your water, is it?”

“I don’t know—it’s terrible cramping. All this stress—” She begins to cry, looking around wildly. “Can someone help me? My baby—”

“Call 911!” Eileen shouts to no one in particular.

When the ambulance doors close and Carole is distracted with interrogating the EMT, Sicily allows herself a long exhale and a very small smile.

Her great talent may be singing, but she can still act when she wants to.