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way I can say it. Just sucky. I looked right at her and I said, “You don’t want me to have this record, and you’re selling my
dad’s
records too? That’s not fair. I never get to have anything. Not Even A
Dad
.”
    Sucky.
    I had never mentioned my dad to my mom. I knew I shouldn’t, and I knew it would just hurt her. I had never really even called him “my” dad before. I never met him or couldn’t remember him if I did. But I knew it was a mean and rotten thing to say, and I said it anyway just to get what I wanted. I knew how much she missed him, I guess, or was upset he wasn’t around. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. I did a sucky, mean, and totally selfish thing. My mom never tells that part of the story. It would embarrass me or hurt my feelings, like I did to her that day, and she’s too nice to do that. My mom is too nice for a lot. I wish I was.
    When something really hurts Mom, it almost knocks her out. Her eyes get real big, like she’s trying to see everything around her to figure out how it happened. She never expects it. And she looks around, trying to find out what it is and why it happened. She’s a good person and she didn’t—doesn’t—deserve that. It’s hard for her to figure out, but usually the thing she is looking for is right in front of her.
    Like me.
    And my mom just said, “Fine. But you will listen to the whole thing tonight and nothing else.”
    â€œFine,” I said.
    â€œFine,” she said.
    Mom sold all of Dad’s records for forty-six dollars.
Aida
was six. We didn’t talk most of the walk back.
Aida
sat alone in the schlepper.
    When we got home, Nanny immediately asked her usual roster of questions, but we didn’t answer, we just walked right past her. We were both still pretty upset. Mom walked me upstairs to the living room and sat me down in front of the record player, right above the empty shelf where Dad’s records had been. She took out the first record of
Aida
and put it on. She handed me the book that was in the record too, but I didn’t look through it yet. I just wanted to listen. I sat in front of the record player with my arms crossed, and the music started.
    Once the needle touched down on the record, I never moved. The music was Gigantic. It’s the only way I can say it. Gigantic. I had never heard anything so big in my whole life.
    â€œWhat’s this, now?” yelled Nanny from downstairs in the kitchen.
    â€œ
Aida.
Davis is a very big opera fan,” Mom said, trying to get me to sort of say something back. But I didn’t. Nanny and Mom talked and talked about me and the opera and everything, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t. There wasn’t anything else in the world except
Aida
.
    The
violins
, in big stretches of music. And the violas and the cellos too. Strings in big waves, just moving all around me. Then the whole orchestra. Drums and trumpets and flutes. Huger and huger and huger until it stops and goes soft again. So soft, almost like all those instruments are whispering together at the same time, keeping the secret of what comes next. And then it builds again, stronger like fists, stronger until horns are hurling at you. It was the biggest thing I’d ever heard, and nobody sang a note yet! Not one word of Italian or anything else, but I didn’t care. I wanted this and only this.
    And then Radames, he’s the prince in
Aida
, sings in this deep big voice, almost as big as the band sounds. And the chorus comes in, so many voices, so many people andinstruments and everything. How could all this be here? And there were still two other records.
    Nanny tried to talk to me the whole time. But Jock just batted her away.
    â€œDo you like this?” Nanny yelled.
    â€œLeave the kid alone, he likes it,” Jock said back, fussing with his TV.
    â€œWhat are they saying?” Nanny tried.
    â€œHow does he know? Let