Free Spark by Holly Schindler Page B

puckered for a kiss. Emma drops the wrench and snatches up the magazine, curling it into a roll and returning it to her back pocket, her face as red as a hot barbecue coal.
    George laughs softly. He’s seen Emma’s magazine. “Oh, I’m so glad that’s the only thought you ever give to romance.” As though his daughter should forever remain above silly fantasies of love.
    But does anyone, really? Sitting there in the theater, with the Avery’s heart thumping in my ears, I can feel Emma’s long-held wish to star in her own Love Fiction Monthly issue. Romance wasn’t something the first female valedictorian of Verona High could study for. It was something that could only be experienced firsthand. And with no man in her life, the only way for Emma to feel love was vicariously. Her face betrays her attempt to disguise her thoughts. She aches to know what it’s like to be kissed. To hold a man’s hand.
    â€œGot another job for you,” George announces.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Emma asks, shoving the magazine farther down into her large back pocket.
    â€œGeraldine quit.”
    â€œQui—quit? But—she—” Emma takes a step forward, accidentally slipping her right toe into the giant cuff of her left pant leg. She tips forward, tumbling straight for the skin-shredding gravel at the front of the car.
    George’s hands break her fall. In a swift motion, he straightens her up.
    â€œYou’d think you’d done that before,” Emma mutters sarcastically, pushing her glasses up her nose again.
    I’d been waiting for some sign of Emma’s awkward ways. Mom often told me that the bat-blind thing had been known for her clumsiness, her unsteady feet. Little Dahlia had seen it with her own eyes, and knew it had been legendary at Verona High, the stuff of well-meaning jokes. She can fall around corners, that Emma Hastings. Apparently, it was no exaggeration.
    â€œThe musical,” George reminds Emma. “Geraldine quit. That means you’re up, understudy. Finally, I get you on the stage. I never thought it would happen.”
    â€œGeraldine’s engaged, isn’t she?” Emma asks in a disciplined tone while rubbing her greasy hands with a likewise greasy rag.
    George’s mustache droops as he detects something decidedly unhappy in her voice. “You want the part—don’t you?”
    â€œOf course!” But she screeches her answer—it’s overeager, a little too willing. It sounds as though she’s far more interested in pleasing her father than she is in being the star of his musical.
    â€œRehearsals in two,” George announces. Emma gasps, letting her eyes travel over his clothing. And she grimaces, realizing that he should never have had to make this announcement. He’s already dressed for rehearsals, in a three-piece suit, the shine of pomade in his mustache, the glisten of polish on his watch fob.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me sooner?” Emma glances down at her baggy coveralls. She rubs her greasy hands even harder. “I should clean up. Change.”
    â€œNo need for all that,” George tells her. “Everyone’s starting to arrive.”
    Emma whimpers pitifully as her father drags her downthe front walk. They stand at the door, greeting the Verona players.
    On the far side of the square, Emma sees them: Nick and Dahlia. “Who—” she starts.
    â€œI sent Dahlia to the station to get our new piano player,” George answers.
    â€œYou did what? Sent a little girl to get him? And he’s coming now? Today? And I look like this?”
    â€œOh, Emma. Don’t make a fuss.”
    â€œDon’t you think a professional musician expects to be treated as a professional?” That time, her voice borders on sounding like a growl.
    â€œNo need to make this a bigger deal than it is.”
    Emma pushes her glasses back up onto her face, leaving a smear of