Light From Uncommon Stars(52)

“I’m sor—”

Shizuka put her finger to her lips.

“Katrina, I understand. It’s not that simple. So, just imagine, what would you sing, if you could?”

Katrina closed her eyes and thought of every song she wanted to sing, as a child, at karaoke—every “Happy Birthday” that she could not join in, every “America the Beautiful” in which she could not participate. She thought of Christmas, wishing she could do more than mouth “O Holy Night.”

“Now, pick up Aubergine and your bow. Do not open your eyes.”

“Miss Satomi?”

“You are holding a violin, but you are not holding a violin. You are simply in your body. Forget vibrato, glissando, crescendo, diminuendo. Forget sautillé and ricochet. Just be there, in your body.”

Katrina nodded. Aubergine’s newfound lightness made it easier to forget she was there.

Yes, Leopold Auer was right. But Leopold Auer had never been conditioned so completely to despise his own voice.

Shizuka hit middle C.

“… ah-Ah-AH-AH-AH-Ah-ah…”

Then the D.

“… ah-Ah-AH-AH-AH-Ah-ah…”

Then the E.

“… ah-Ah-AH-AH-AH-Ah-ah!”

And besides, there was more than one way to sing.





17


“Captain,” Markus Tran said, “statistically speaking, there is no way our customers should be detecting any repeat donuts. Perhaps the problem lies with the replicators, or with carbohydrate modeling, or even the emitters.”

“Emitters? Mother, if there is a problem with the emitters, that would also affect the space-time filaments. I suggest a level-four diagnostic,” Shirley said.

Lan nodded. “Make it so. We can afford neither defective space-time filaments, nor any further drops in donut sales.”

Edwin frowned. He knew that a level-four diagnostic, whatever it was, was not going to work. But what could he do? Unlike his sister, he had little aptitude for technology. As such, most of the crew thought he was useless.

Then Edwin noticed Aunty Floresta. She motioned to him and retreated to the kitchen. Edwin nodded and followed.

Once in the kitchen, she gave him a donut.

“Here, eat. What do you think?”

“Um. It’s okay.”

“Really?”

Aunty Floresta watched his reaction carefully.

“Get your coat,” she finally said.

Edwin and Aunty Floresta got to the stop just as the bus arrived. From there, the bus rumbled north, then east.

Edwin did not often leave the store, and when he did, he was usually with his mother in an automobile. The bus was completely different. Its rhythm had less to do with the red and green lights and more to do with people leaving and getting on. Sometimes there was a cart with groceries or a mother pushing a stroller.

So many different people! And Aunty Floresta seemed to know all of them. Edwin had never heard Aunty Floresta speak so much. Someone would get on the bus, Aunty Floresta would wave, and there would be more talk and laughter. Edwin could use Spanish, English, and Cantonese to take donut orders, but his great aunt was having real conversations.

After more than a few stops, they got off the bus. Aunty Floresta checked an address, then led them to a Mexican bakery with the usual cookies and cakes, multicolored pan dulce.

But Edwin scratched his head. With all the cakes and sweets on display, why was he smelling bread?

Then Aunty beelined to a shelf full of warm bolillos. Other women were filling their bags with the rolls, but she was able to get a half dozen.

Floresta also bought two hot chocolates and gestured to a table. Edwin walked over and sat down just as a young white man with a beard and a piece of pan dulce rushed to take it.

“Oh, for crying out—you’re not really going to take that table when I wanted it, are you?”

Edwin was about to get up and apologize when Aunty Floresta put his hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t say sorry. He’s not our customer.” She glared at the man, who muttered something about Asians, then backed off.

“Now, let’s try this,” Aunty Floresta said happily.

First, they sipped the hot chocolate. There was cane sugar, honey, milk, cinnamon, almond, and yes, a small amount of nutmeg.

Then Aunty reached into the bag and pulled out one of the bolillo rolls. She broke it in half and gave one piece to Edwin.

It was a little like the French baguettes used to make Vietnamese sandwiches. But where those were almost dainty, these were big, and chewy, and hearty. This was bread that a family could say grace to. This was bread that, after working hard all morning, you found waiting in your lunchbox, sliced in half and stuffed with meat and beans and cotija cheese.

“You like?” Aunty asked.

Edwin nodded. He tore off some crust, then dipped it into his hot chocolate.

By the time they returned to Starrgate, two hours had passed, yet no one had noticed their absence. Lan was still discussing the level-four diagnostic with Shirley, while Markus had moved to monitoring the replicator.

Windee was at her computer, methodically plotting schematics for the stargate. Edwin split a bolillo—it was still warm—then gave half to his twin sister. She paused and took a bite.

“It’s bread.”

“I know! Bread!” Edwin said excitedly.