Free A Little Too Much by Lisa Desrochers Page A

to make my life better would be to score me a part on Broadway.”
    His eyebrows go up. “Broadway . . . ?”
    I twirl my straw in my tea. “I’m hoping to score a part in a musical. I have an amazing voice.”
    A smile twitches his lips and a little of the tension that’s always there runs out of his shoulders. “I remember.”
    I just stare at him as it all comes flooding back.
    It was only a week after Lorenzo and Alessandro had shown up at the group home. We were all in the basement “rec room” where there was a radio and a TV with a broken Xbox. I was curled up on a sticky overstuffed chair and Lorenzo and Eric were sprawled on the sagging couch getting stoned. Two girls, Hannah and Trish, who were like sixteen I think, had smeared on heavy makeup with tons of eye shadow and liner and were doing a fashion show. They’d cranked the radio and were shimmying around to Beyonce’s “Naughty Girl,” stripping off clothes they’d bought at the Salvation Army store until they were all the way down to tiny bikinis. Lorenzo and Eric were watching and catcalling. I remember Alessandro sitting on the floor in the corner. He was doodling something on a pad of paper, but he was also watching.
    The black one . . . Trish, I think . . . or maybe it was Hannah, told me to go put on my bikini, but I didn’t have one so I just shook my head.
    “Dumb bitch,” she said, turning to the boys and grinding her hips in a circle.
    “No guts no glory,” the other one said as she slid onto Eric’s lap.
    I had guts, I just didn’t have a bikini, so I stood up and started belting out “Naughty Girl” with Beyonce like my life depended on it.
    Looking back, it was pretty bad, but later that day, when were eating dinner, Alessandro slipped into the seat next to me, which he’d never done before. “You have a good voice,” he’d murmured, without looking at me.
    They were the first words he ever said to me.
    I look down at the table, pulling a napkin from the dispenser for something to do, pissed that he can make me feel this stupid with just two words. “Yeah, well . . . I’m better now.”
    “You were exceptional then, so I can only imagine.”
    I don’t know if he’s messing with me or not, but all of a sudden, I wish I hadn’t come here. I’ve spent the last week and a half pretending like his showing up out of nowhere didn’t shake me to my core—like it didn’t mater. I wish I could just forget that he ever came back. But I can’t.
    Our waiter is back with the antipasto and two plates, which he puts at the edge of our table. “Your pie will be up in a few.” He tips his head at my glass. “More tea?”
    “Yeah, sure,” I tell him, then watch as he goes to the counter for a pitcher. He’s back a moment later with a smile, filling my glass.
    “I’m glad you know what you want and that you’re chasing your dream,” Alessandro says as the waiter retreats again, pulling my attention back to him.
    I run a finger down a rivulet of sweat on my glass. “Problem is, it’s running way the hell faster than I am at the moment.”
    The waiter scoots up to our table a few minutes later with a wire rack and a pizza tin, which he sets in the middle of the table. “Anything else I can get you?”
    Alessandro lifts a questioning brow at me.
    “No, thanks,” I answer, and the waiter shuffles off to clear the next table.
    “But you’re getting auditions,” Alessandro says, spinning the tin so the spatula handle is facing me. “With all the aspiring actresses in the city, I’d think that wouldn’t be an easy feat.”
    I shrug. “Only because of American Idol . I made it to Hollywood Week.”
    He lifts an eyebrow at me. “I know.”
    I squint at him. “You didn’t . . . ?”
    He shrugs. “I didn’t see it real time, but I told you, I Googled you. The first search results for you are YouTube clips from American Idol .”
    Why does it embarrass me that he’s seen that? I scoop a slice of pizza onto my